Almost immediately after my Aunt Marian's funeral I came down with a bad chest cold -- bronchitis, even; heavy chest congestion, uncontrollable coughing, fever and general misery. I developed an annoying canker sore on my tongue; more evidence that my immune system was shot.
About two days into this latest episode of life drama I woke up on the sofa, where I'd exiled myself for the night, coughing...and felt a familiar twinge in my abdomen.
"Damn you, Aunt Flo!" I muttered, truding to the bathroom. "Of all the times to come around!"
The good news is: I'm feeling quite a bit better today, after some enforced rest by Fellow Traveler.
I don't want to get too cosmic about this, nor do I want to engage in TMI by enumerating all my various physical symptoms and changes over the last week. But it's as if I'm detoxing. In some strange way I feel as if my body let down its guard temporarily precisely to get all of the accumulated "ick" of anger and anxiety out of me. It's as if it's even oozing out of my pores. Something is being purged, and this is a positive thing.
It would be really interesting right now to have a shaman as a next-door neighbor. I think s/he'd tell me that something necessary and good was going on.