Writing about Illness through Plants

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Who knew that you could just throw this stuff out there into the world? For years I have called myself a writer that doesn’t write and I suppose that’s simply because I have been very, very ill. Concentration isn’t one of my strong points now, unless I am in a grocery store line trying not to collapse, but on the whole, I no longer read ten books at once like I used to not too long ago. When I was diagnosed first with hereditary angioedema, a blood disease with no decent treatment, that was when I knew that life would change. Now that I have many other medical problems and medical mysteries that go with them, the only sure thing I can count on, and do, is my garden and the seed germination that occurs all winter long in my basement. I will never be able to have children, and that if fine with me, because somehow growing plants all winter long fills something inside of me in a way that nothing else can. I don’t want to use the word faith lightly, but the cycle that goes on now year after year in my basement under some cheap florescent tube lights and a shelf made out of scraps really brightens my days. My hope is that I will be able to write about all of this and not necessarily about the constant pains and worries. Writing was always a dream of mine, but I never would have guessed that so much illness would have brought me back to it. I suppose though, that it is my love of the natural world more than anything that brings me here and it is the thing that brightens the path I am on.

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