I’m spending my days in a reclining chair, that icon of masculine hibernation, recuperating from surgery. I eat and sleep here, kept company by fourteen perfectly framed Douglas Fir trees visible through the window.

I have dragged myself out of bed most mornings of my life, so it is ironic that, now that I do not need to be anywhere, I wake up early. After a lifetime of awakening to the sounds and smells of household activity, I begin each day alone. With nothing external demanding my attention, I stay with myself throughout the day. This is exactly how it feels: I am staying with myself.

In my other life, I am a conduit, conveying other people’s desires. I pass along information, color and tone, apologies, enthusiasm, affirmation, excuses, dismay. I am a finely calibrated communications satellite, sorting, sending and receiving a tangle of signals from remote locations. I am good at this. Now, like the silence of deep space, I hear nothing.

It is the most restful experience I have ever known.

Perhaps this is why I do not want to sit on my front porch, although I filled it with pots of fucshia and heliotrope and begonia in anticipation of my confinement. But it faces the street, and although it is a quiet street with kind neighbors, I shrink from anything that directs me outward, preferring the company of trees, with their deep roots and their ability to stand for something, year after year.

If I am sleepy, I close my eyes. If I am thirsty, I drink. If I am hungry, I ask for something to eat. I do not have to bargain with desire.

I knew I would be tired, and thought I would want to read light books during my convalescence. Instead, I discover that time is serious business; I am appalled at the notion of breezing through on a wave of entertainment and distraction. Instead, I am so aware of time’s finite nature it is all I can do not to panic. I want to massage it, stretch it like taffy. It is all I have. I didn’t know before.

Last week, my energy was so low I considered each movement in advance, weighing what it would cost. As I grew stronger, I vowed to observe which of my activities gave and which took away from my overall vitality. So far, I have learned that art projects, even on the computer, give. Writing gives. Phone calls with some people give, with others, take away. Reading takes away, except the beautifully written stories that give. Ditto movies. Television is a gamble, giving and taking away so fast you can hardly keep up.

A friend of mine wrote about surgery, “they wheel you in and you come out different” and at the time I thought about the physical difference of having a new body part, the liberation of having faced my fears of the procedure and the way all painful experiences change us, if we let them. But so far, what’s different is the overwhelming gift of time; of staying with myself and having no desire to be anywhere else.