I’ve built myself a little quiet life since retiring and going on disability in 2022. It exists on a shoestring with my days spent doing crosswords while listening to music and enjoying various drinks. It’s what I’ve begun to refer to as a still life. Much like many a famous painting hanging on the wall of a museum, my life could be viewed as a quiet thing of beauty if I allowed myself the grace. Instead, I agonize over it and pressure myself to somehow try harder to get moving somehow. Move where? Your guess is as good as mine.

Old Beth, who wasn’t disabled moved around quite a lot. Out in the world. Seeing and being seen. Working hard and playing just as hard. To be honest, it was exhausting. Back then, I craved the quiet. I treasured alone time, staying in my cozy house snuggling with my four cats streaming great shows or immersing myself in a great book. I used to publish a list of the books I’d read each year that numbered in the high 70s. Now I can barely get through ten because I tend to fall asleep minutes after opening my Kindle to read. I read in my sleep chair at night because it’s the place where it’s most comfortable. You can see my conundrum.

Now that I have the quiet life I used to crave I do nothing but beat myself up for being still and quiet. My brain won’t allow itself to slow down kindly. My brain goes on a spinning journey of derision and judgement. “Write something!” it screams at me. Writing is hard for me now because my left hand turns into a claw on any keyboard. Tapping with one hand on the keyboard is slow going. Somewhat painful. Definitely tedious. But writing is my passion. I tell myself it’s worth a little pain. It’s worth the extra effort. And yet… I struggle to bust out a post every two weeks or so. Old Me used to manage a post a week. Old Me had an active community of followers who interacted with each post and with each other. I no longer have the money for paid ads that support my writing. Alas! That’s how communities are built in this age of paid media dominance. Organic views are almost a thing of the past. A still life requires external interaction to be vibrant. I lack the ability to build a paid community so I am forced to change the way I look at having a still life.

This new still life is about internal satisfaction and self-care. External validation needs to take a back seat. This still life is about allowing for self-care and rest. Kindness to my hurting body that searches for tiny pockets of comfort that are elusive and ever harder to find. This MS that ravages my body so relentlessly tries to steal any hope I have of embracing this still life I am creating for myself. It threatens to take over with its daunting pain that stillness also produces.

There’s the rub, right? Like many things in this new disabled life I’m trying to build for myself irony rules. That which I am given, a life of stillness to enjoy is also the thing that causes me pain. Working on acceptance of that irony is what I am faced with now. Like this famous still-life of asparagus by Edouard Manet, I have to embrace the beauty that exists in my version of a still life in spite of this relentless disease. I can’t allow the disease to win