While doctors are scratching their heads over what exactly is wrong with me and what to do about it, I am living with constant pain of varying intensity. The uncertainty about what is causing it and what to do or avoid to help myself get better, or at least no worse, is the most trying part of this whole thing.

The illusion of certainty, the idea that life is predictable and we have a certain amount of control over it, has been demolished quite effectively. I can't tell from one day to the next how I will feel. At the same time, I am denied a lot of the comforts that would normally help me deal with that uncertainty, like cake, or a plate of fish and chips, or a glass of alcohol. I am being challenged to let go of some non-food related comforts too, and to taste all the flavours of life as they come to me, undiluted. I am being asked to stay awake and aware.

And because of the pain and uncertainty, I am learning something that I don't think I would have otherwise. I am learning to be gentle to myself.

I have so often wished to feel more connected to the magic of life. To taste its flavours and feel its textures deeply and truly. I would do my mediation practice and really feel that magic of connection. And then I would promptly lose it. And I would beat myself up about it. Or I would set myself the very serious task of being present and aware and I'd make a strained effort to do so. An effort I can feel in my body.

It's strange how people's brains work. Well, how my brain works, anyway. Now that I'm ill, it seems obvious to me that I need to be gentle to myself. You don't shout at someone who is ill and in pain, do you? You don't ask them to work hard and put in lots of effort. You just let them rest and allow them to do what they feel able. And you gently encourage them to do some things you believe will help them.

And then small miracles happen. When I am gentle to myself, and lovingly turn myself towards the here and now without strain or effort, I find that feeling of connection that I have so long yearned for. The other day, I found myself praying with the food I was cooking, just some words of gratitude. That's something I've hardly ever managed before. And it's wonderful.

Strain and effort are still my default habits. After this many years, I wouldn't be surprised if they always will be. But right now I have an opportunity, however uncomfortable, to learn a new way. To remember the love of the ancestors, and to be kind and gentle to myself. When I do so, the world in all its richness opens to me. I breathe it all in. And, however much I would like this illness to go away, I am grateful.