It rather resembles a glint in the earth, a bit of mica on the rock that catches the sun just so. I’m always trying to turn to that sun, to be adrift in the snow-shine, to find the aspect that stuns me into a reverence I know I can’t control. I will not say that this is the gift of illness, because I do not think illness is a gift. It is not anything so tangible and fixed. But this may be illness’s reality, its weather, the way swaying underfoot is a quality of sea travel one only knows in full by stepping back, once more, on firm land.
