Oh.
Oh my.
It’s been months, hasn’t it? That’s what the little calendar in the corner of my screen says, anyway.
I hesitate to joke about the passage of time, because it’s all been joked about before. How time has broken through its dam and rushed by in an awful, un-swimmable torrent, and yet has also stayed absolutely still. For a while, it felt like the winter was just being extended: a little more indoors alone time while the weather gradually warmed. But then winter continued… No events to serve as waypoints, no sunny gatherings of friends and strangers, no 5Ks or concerts or festivals. The days were hot and bright and empty.
This morning, I stood on my back step while the dogs did their business and watched the steam of my breath rise toward the yellowing leaves of the walnut trees that tower over my house, and I realized with more horror than usual that the cold days are returning.
Hot winter is over, and I dread the arrival of true winter.
Normally, this is the part of my blog entry where I say more silly stuff about my struggles, and then flip my anxieties into sappy optimism. But this time, that feels dirty. In the face of profound injustice and worldwide suffering, what can I even say? “We’ll get through this! Spirits up! Be kind!” But you’ve heard that all before, and in the midst of such pain, those platitudes feel hollow and insulting.
This has been a summer of immense loss. I have been fortunate. I have lived, and my family has lived. Over a million people around the world have not, and I know personally of one such loss and its devastating impact on my most cherished friends. Again: what do I say to that? What do I do except scrounge up frail phrases of comfort, and show up when I can?
I lie awake in bed thinking about that death, because the scale of it doesn’t fit in my brain. I can’t hold the horror of it all at once. My heart - practiced at shattering and reforming - is a whirling assembly of broken glass, never able to fully reshape between blows, and I’ve been lucky. It’s my loved ones who are suffering the most, one catastrophe after another, all within a series of global catastrophes. If I can barely conceptualize all of these atrocities, how could I possibly comprehend the vastness of their agony?
And then I think of my other friends, and of the strange new patterns their lives have taken on. I get to sit behind a desk in a small, minimally-trafficked office all day while another dear friend works two public-facing jobs. Not only is she more exposed to Covid risk factors, but she has to act as an enforcer of the new rules of public interaction. The daily onslaught of ignorance she must endure boils my blood, and yet again… What do I say?
There are also the friends who are now working indefinitely from home, a combined blessing and curse. I have not had to contend with that special kind of loneliness so far, or at least, not to the same degree.
There’s another friend who comes to mind as well, someone I met and became close with while indulging in my “let’s write stories about aliens” coping mechanism over the summer. They’re an aspiring marine biologist whose plans to move out of an unsafe home environment and enroll in relevant programs are on hold while the economy wobbles and the pandemic rages.
How do you plan for the future when the only consistent feature of the present has been inconsistency?
I don’t have an answer for that. I don’t have that uplifting twist that I usually do in my blog entries. All I really have is this suggestion: Focus on your survival, and be as kind as you can. Kind to yourself, and kind to others. This moment is not forever, despite how it may feel. Now is a time for gentleness and endurance.
If you have the means, maybe you can offer kindness in the form of donations to these folks:
Charities promoting black health, education, rights, and community development
Nonprofits providing relief and recovery to communities affected by the pandemic
The ACLU (particularly important in the face of voter suppression)
I want so badly to end this entry with sparkles and rainbows, but that still doesn’t feel right. Not against the backdrop of all this horror. I don’t want to downplay the terrible weight of this year, and all the pain that’s come with it. But I do want to offer a little sliver of hope.
I’m still here. And if you’re reading this, then you’re still here too. And there are still bright days, and bonfires, and yellow leaves. There are families walking their dogs and waving from the other side of the street. There are trips to the woods and picnics to be packed. There are warm blankets and purring cats. There are people raising their voices in opposition of evil.
If all you can do right now is survive, that’s more than enough. I’ll be doing my best to survive right along with you.