Chicken soup on Ash Wednesday

It’s a day of fasting, and I’m eating my mother’s homemade chicken soup.  No, I haven’t gone all mavericky.  The sad truth is that I’m sick with something that feels an awful lot like the flu.  It really stinks.  I’m feeling better than I did Monday afternoon, when I had chills that literally made my teeth chatter, but I’m not out of the woods yet.   So this post will be short, possibly rambling, and probably not up to my usual standards.

But then — this is a day of letting go, right?  It’s a day of reminding ourselves of our own mortality.   It’s a day of reminding ourselves that we like to think we have everything all tidy and in control, and yet we really don’t.  That’s all an illusion.  In a weird way, being sick on Ash Wednesday is a great way to really feel the true meaning of the day.  It’s especially true when you are a teacher, and you end up having to scramble to create sub plans that are a far cry from what you’d planned to do.   So much for the longterm lesson planning, which will now have to be revised when I get back to school (whenever that is — hopefully soon).

So even though I’m eating meat today, I think I’m observing Ash Wednesday in a particularly potent way.  Go figure.