Here we are. Whatever “this” is. Again.
I used to write everyday. It was easy to do. The words appeared as instant imaginary impulses- piled one on top of another – in my lively, colorful, experience-laden brain. I’d rush home, or sit in my favorite red vinyl booth, and gush about toys I saw in display windows, the statue at a local park, or a meditation garden. Breezes were easy to see. Lives scurried about … intermingling. I could see they were laughing. Unmasked.
And that’s the “thing”. They were laughing. I could see the smiles. So much of this experience is gone … for now. It’s hard to write every day.
Now, I see masks hiding the smiles of those few who are out and about. Hometowners going about their essential best … scurrying they are not. Shoulders telling the real story. They droop atop torsos that are, as well, plodding along … belted to waists barely able to withstand another day attached to legs so tired from the grind of restlessness.
Everyone is so “thing-ed” out. As am I. Experiences are hard to uncover … to see. To, well, experience right now.
The stuckiness of all this, as a writer of what I see, “all I see is bad news”. Even my “imagineer’s workshop”, upon which I so heavily rely, has been hijacked by social distancing, #IsolationIssues, fear, unease, politics, unemployment, PPP, EIDL, masks, google hangout video necessities, pharmacy changes, and daily mis-information from social media. The wheels of my sleep/wake cycle fell off weeks ago and I find concentrating on anything other than doing the dishes every freakin’ hour, recording a piano piece, and checking in on my dad to be about my limit.
This wasn’t the case such a short time ago. I can’t blame my age, although it would be a easy target. It’s, of course, the virus. The stupid virus. The uncaring, ridiculous coronavirus. The whatever “this” is.
It’s the one thing that took away experiences of daily living that feed my writer’s soul.
I need to believe in the hope of our human spirit. In the belief of a common goal. A desire to beat this pandemic with one big, shared, world-wide breath of compassion for the families of the lost, a push toward three C’s in our body politic (Civility, Compromise & Credibility), renewed zeal for mother earth and the incredible resources she provides, less concern for self and more for other’s needs, and a cure-certain for this horrible, “whatever” virus … and all the ugliness associated with it.
These breaks of days aren’t the end of life, for sure. Nothing has stopped. The legs that are weary will dance again. Shoulders will be proud and carry great burdens with honor in the near future as life returns to a new normal once we figure all this out. Together.
And, in the end – when there is an end – we will meet there together. Together is a place, regardless of where we are in our indifference now, where we will be … unmasked with visible smiles.
This is what I hope for and what I’d like to be writing about again. I want my words to have legs more times than ever before.