Last summer, I started a "series" on COVID 19. It was supposed to be a "10 Things" format...I made it all the way to Number 7 and...dropped the thread. I'm not sure why, but I have a pretty good idea.
I have written in journals since I was in high school. I have a stack of them mouldering away in a closet somewhere. For the past 17 1/2 years, I've kept my journal in this closet called "Coming to Terms." My angst, my anger, my sadness, my loneliness...all the desperate emotions that are part of being human (and more a part of some lives than of others)...are recorded, mostly in places where no eyes but mine will ever see them. In fact, "Coming to Terms" qualifies as that now, doesn't it?
But the unifying thread through all my writing is angst. As a general rule, when I'm happy or positive or content, I don't write. I don't have to.
So, beyond all reason, and contrary to what the entire rest of the world had been going through from March 2020 through March 2021, I was...happy. I had my husband--my best friend--as a constant companion, for the first time in more than half our marriage. I had my pod of sisters and spouses, meeting outdoors for "wine" a couple of times a week...for them, it was to alleviate boredom; for me, it was cement, patching together the fractured relationships that had sent me to 20 years exile in Scappoose.
My writing languished for months. One would think all the horrible things going on in the world daily, from COVID to Trump to the Big Lie to the January 6 Insurrection to daily mass shootings and back to COVID again, would have had me banging away on the keyboard morning and night. But I was so content, so warm and cozy in my little COVID bubble, that I just couldn't muster the deep, burning angst necessary to ignite my creative fire. The only thing that darkened my “lockdown” days was the loss of my four sweet boys in less than 2 years. Those events tore me up, but only enough to write about them, specifically. Not enough to jump-start my writing about anything else. Because I was more content, felt more loved and connected to one special human being than I had in many, many years. It was a powerful drug, stronger than any anti-depressant on the market.
But here I am now, crawling out of my cozy nest box and firing up the keyboard once again.
Why?
Because the nest box is empty and lonely, now.
We've been vaccinated. We're all setting our sights on getting back to "normal."
For me, that means the husband has gone back to work and left me to once again get my own life. And my family has gone back to our dysfunctional, "no one can hurt you like family" ways.
"Sheltering in place" is officially over. Time to get back to life as it was, or something as closely approximating that as possible.
Yay.
