Pandemic Diaries: March-April

March 2020

It feels like a bad sci-fi movie with religious overtones. Kinda like that show The Leftovers. 

Which one of us will be taken next?

April 2020

Life is a temporary arrangement. There is no binding contract. We are not owed a thing. There's no one we can sue. 

It helps to say thank you.

4.3.20

Every morning I wake up to a new day. It’s as simple as that. I have no idea what to expect. I am now permanently living in the places that I am most scared of. Uncertainty, fragility, impermanence, grief and loss have manifested themselves as the pillars of my existence. Of all of our existence. It’s one big fucking lesson in Existentialism. Or Buddhism. I can kill myself. I can shut down. I can try to avoid and distract. I can argue, lament, pontify, be right. Or I can sit and feel it. Feel it all and give it space to be. Put my puny whiny little self aside and make way for what’s real. And show compassion for my puny whiny little self, and all the other puny whiny terrified little selves on this planet. Show up with loving kindness and care for self and others. We are all in this together. Life lesson on steroids. Patience, compassion, kindness with self and others is what’s on the menu. All you can eat. Unlimited refills. We need it.

4.19.20

I’m crying for broken dreams and fading friendships. I’m crying for missed opportunities and hugs I never gave. I’m crying for days-gone-by. I’m crying for softball games and red dirt and my daughter’s helmet with the smiley face on it. I’m crying for uncertainty and loss and the frailty of human life. I’m crying for sickness and death. I’m crying for everything I have done wrong. I’m crying for goodbyes I cannot say. I’m crying for hellos that will never be. I’m crying for the days of happy babies and dirty diapers. I’m crying for missed milestones. I’m crying for crushed hopes. I’m crying for my unkindness. I’m crying for everyone I’ve lost and everyone I will lose. I’m crying for lost innocence. I’m crying for my jaded selfish heart. I’m crying for all the times I’ve decided not to cry. I’m crying for sweet memories of laughter and joy. I’m crying for guilt, guilt, guilt. I’m crying for the things I haven’t said, and for the things I have said. I’m crying for my apathy. I’m crying for my cynicism. I’m crying for my better-than-thou-holier-than-thou. I’m crying for all the lies I've told. I’m crying for places I never visited and places I will never visit again. I’m crying for long summers, swimming-pools and beaches. I’m crying for the snow. I’m crying for the squirrel I ran over by accident. I’m crying for all my cats who have died. I’m crying for the inevitability of death. I’m crying for my father’s sadness. I’m crying for my mother’s strength. I’m crying for all the ways I have failed my daughter. I’m crying for my daughter’s freckles, and her long blonde hair. I’m crying for the County Fair, and cotton candy on a stick. I’m crying for scraped knees. I’m crying for all the places I’ve called home. I’m crying for all the people I’ve never met. I’m crying for all the books I’ve never written. I’m crying for the toys I gave away. I’m crying for the toys I’ve lost. I’m crying for the languages I never learned. I’m crying for all that was lost in the fires. I’m crying for flowers not planted. I’m crying for fear and loneliness. I’m crying for blue skies. I’m crying for starry desert nights. I’m crying for all the last times. I’m crying for the sun. I’m crying for poppies. I’m crying for the old world. I’m crying for who I used to be. I’m crying for who I will never be. I’m crying for sleep. I’m crying for love. I’m crying for the ring my mother lost in the sink. I'm crying for all the songs I've forgotten.

More than anything, I’m crying for the red plastic shovel I buried on a beach on the Baltic Sea nearly fifty years ago.

Perhaps a little child is playing with it now, digging up treasure I will never see.

4.20.20

Every day breaks me down to the core. I’m shattered into a million pieces. Small shards of me, sticking out awkwardly into space. Every night I am reconstituted, although a bit of me seems to get lost every time, so nothing quite fits right anymore. I am a puzzle with missing pieces. Every morning, I gather myself together, bruised, limping, hungover and broken. I pick up what’s left of me, and I surrender. I surrender myself to the day. I make an offering. I offer myself up to what is real. I renounce all illusion of control. I am utterly powerless. I am here. Now. Nothing more to it.