I stopped counting days.
There was a time in late May and early July when the country erupted and I lost the thread on C-19. It felt small when compared to a larger story of police brutality, racial justice, looting, burning cities, a fascist dictatorship. Yes, the virus was there in the conversation, but it was drowned out by the chanting, looting mobs.
And so this is. It is now, a country still burning with discontent. Tear gas. The outrage, as I see it, is righteous and justified.
Funding for my job has been secured through at least the end of the year and I’m thankful for that. I do feel gratitude.
But my penchant for feeling has become dulled. I feel less. I’m tired, irritable. Can I admit that on the internet? That I’m ground down? I used to sparkle. I’m not sparkly. I feel like my social currency has dwindled. I don’t enjoy my own company… and that’s new.
I stopped counting the days because there was and is no end date in sight. There is talk of a vaccine. No one knows when. Nobody I know has the virus. I know of people who know people who have had it. No creative gigs, no arts festivals, no live music.
And I don’t want to define now by what it’s not.
What is it? What is now?
In the days to come, I want to answer that question. I need to know for myself how to live these days. How to thrive.
I hope to keep my eyes open, patiently, to find a way through.