The cold underneath the fingertips, turning them blue. Heavy breeze coming in through the window and settling along the wood floor. She pulls her sweater across her chest and licks her chapped lips, curling her toes against the threadbare rug, wondering where spring is and all of its promises. There are a few, sprinkled in the parks of white and pink cherry blossoms, yellow and purple crocuses, white and egg yolk daffodils. She breathes in through her nose, drinking back the last of the winter colds she hopes to have before she can take off her wool socks and put them away for the season. 

It’s been a long weekend, one where she spent most of her time curled up in bed reading books and listening to the hum of the world outside the cracked window. The sun sprinkled in among the clouds, loud laughter coming from the bar next door and across the street where friends gathered for a brisk run through the neighborhoods and across the greenways. While she read, she thought of all the things she could be doing but instead was still wearing the same pajamas from the week before. The ones she sweated through in the night, the ones that needed to be washed. 

It is hard for her to rest, to do very little. She tries, but she kept flipping open her computer and pushing through the emails she knows she has, the readings she needs to complete, the tasks from the previous week with a looming deadline. The days pass and she does more than she thought she would, rest only in that she moves her body less, but her mind is at work. 

But now Monday appears at her window and calls to her. Her nose filled with sickness, but not as much as it was over the weekend, the tickling at the back of her throat only noticeable before she drank an entire glass of water. She wondered if she can push herself today: to work out, to sweat, to get done the eight things on her list. Getting away from the productivity and more towards the quality of the work. It was a hard distinction but an important one. Measuring up to what feels good rather than how much can be accomplished. 

Sitting at the edge of the velvet green couch, warm tea cup in hand, staring out into the gray sky across the horizon where the world is already spinning in many forms. The cranes across the street picking up and putting down equipment, tools, materials. She slows her breath for long enough to close her eyes. Moving her tongue across the back of her teeth, tapping her fingertips against one another and rubbing them to feel the sensation of being alive. Of being at home in her body. Perhaps she won’t get everything done today, but at least the most important things could be ticked off. The things that require a lot more attention and love. For her to get back to where she wanted to be, she listens to what matters most to her: the decision to do her best in the moment. And to give herself the rest she knows she needs to feel better.