I have been sick with the flu for eighteen years now, the last six days of which were mostly spent in bed, which may account for what you’re about to read, but then again, it may not. I’m beginning to think that my fever may have actually cleared my head more than it shrouded it. This may not be such a wonderful thing.

I’ve long been in the habit of drawing insight from the natural world. Taoism teaches that everything is one; therefore, you can take just about any experience from the natural world and apply it to where you find yourself in order to gain some insight, or direction, or perhaps even a bit of wisdom.

Melancholy is a temperament. It means mournful, soberly thoughtful, pensive. If it were a crayon, melancholy would be Cornflower Blue rather than Midnight or Pitch Black. Melancholy is the condition of being exquisitely sensitive.

Compromised adrenals are the result of stress. Now, it would appear to any on-looker that I have one of the most peaceful, stress-free lives going. But, as the old adage goes, appearances can be deceiving. To look only at external circumstances and not take into account the internal life — the life of the mind, the achings of the heart, the longings of the spirit — is to leave out most of the pieces of the puzzle.