Have you ever had days when you couldn’t get out of bed or do anything productive? Doesn’t it feel like they last forever? No matter how positively you think or speak to yourself, those days linger, refusing to pass.
Six months ago, after a setback in my health, I felt discouraged and unmotivated to pursue anything new. My body was fatigued and defeated. I tried every tool I had learned over the years—techniques that usually lifted my spirits—but nothing seemed to work. The simple truth? I didn’t feel well, period!
You see, I am what some would call a “professional student.” Even now, in my sixties, I love learning new skills, reading the latest self-discovery books, and continuously improving myself. I make it a priority to move my body daily, doing my best to keep it healthy. But when my body doesn’t cooperate, I have no choice but to manage my symptoms and wait for time to heal them. Honestly, out of thirty days in a month, I’m lucky if I get one good week.
I have learned to call those good days my open windows—windows of opportunity to engage in positive and normal activities for my body and mind.
On my not-so-good days, I do my best to count my blessings, using them as a distraction from the negativity that illness can bring. I remind myself how wonderful it is that I can still breathe on my own, walk without assistance, and eat independently. I stay close to my spiritual practices, which keep me grounded. My mantra music (Kirtan) is another way I cleanse my mind of negative thoughts that tend to appear when I’m down. It’s easy to spiral into darkness when pain and fatigue take over—a deep well where no one can see you, not even those closest to you. It feels as though you are underground, unheard, and alone until your body begins to recover, even if just temporarily.
Yes, I call them not-so-good days because, in reality, bad days don’t exist. It is only by comparison that we categorize them. I choose to see those days as windows closing. When they shut, I no longer experienced the normalcy of my life. But that doesn’t mean they’re closed forever. They will open again, allowing me to see the light—I just have to be patient with my body.
Have you ever looked at a house and wondered why it has so many windows? Even a house needs open windows to let in fresh air and release what no longer serves it. These windows allow light to shine in, bringing hope and renewal. They offer a clear view—perspectives that the house needs to understand its surroundings. One window might open to the main road, where the hustle and bustle of the neighborhood create a lively picture. The back windows may reveal a serene backyard, where calmness resides. Each side window presents a different perspective on life’s unfolding story. Together, all windows are necessary, creating a panoramic view of existence.
I am that house—filled with memories, lessons, and wisdom gathered over the years. When I was younger, I had a fresh paint and a stronger foundation. Now, with time, signs of aging have appeared—cracks, rust, and wear. Yet within my walls, I remain resilient, standing tall despite the passage of time, eager to see the world through all my windows.
Today, the sun is shining, and my windows are wide open! No aches, no pain. I remind myself that I still have time to learn, to grow, and to welcome new experiences.
Good days and not-so-good days will come and go. Windows will open and close according to the laws of the Universe and the path I have chosen. I trust that I will continue managing my symptoms with kindness and patience.
After all, this is my only house—with so many windows open to me. I feel blessed to have them: to spend time with my granddaughter, to walk by the ocean and witness life’s marvels, and to share moments with family and friends who mean the world to me. My house and its windows are here to stay, and I plan to open them—one by one—to live a full and meaningful life.
Nameste
Shab
