It seems hard to think what it is I should be writing about. There are so many things happening in my life, in our life, yet time seems to have almost stopped. A few times I have taken the train from California to Missouri. One particular time I woke up in the middle of the night and noticed the train had stopped. I couldn’t see much out the window, but I could see some flashing lights- was it ahead of the train, or behind the train? I couldn’t tell which direction we were traveling. Eventually, I saw lights began to move by us, we were passing a town, and I wondered how long we had been moving, and how fast, and how could I not know. I can experience this feeling now, in a different way, but much the same.
The hours are turning into days, the days into weeks, the weeks into months and soon it will be years. What is this virus and how is it changing our world? I seem to be in many different places all at once, with time being obsolete. In one world my life is incredible. I’m uncertain how much “quarantine” has really changed my daily routine, but I am aware my routine has changed immensely since Bob has been home with me. We have had so much more time! We have both delved into our passion- and that is our creative sides. We are creating more than ever. I have been working a lot on knitting. I am mainly knitting stuffed animals for our baby- I’ve made bunnies and I’m working on my second octopus. I have a pattern mapped out for our babies birth record that I will hand embroider. I have added to my baby doll body collection that hangs over our porch and soon I’ll add the heads to join the others on the ceiling in our library bedroom.
Bob and I have spent much of our days cooking together. Something we have been called to re-recognize as an important way for us to bond together and feel connected to each other, to the Earth, and to Spirit. I made bread that we turned into French toast on Friday morning with syrup Bob cooked up from our leftover berries this last summer. We made pizza with our sourdough, and the sauce from our canned crushed tomatoes from last summer and dehydrated zucchini. We made granola, egg sandwiches, chocolate cupcakes, sourdough pancakes, delicious soups, smoothies, salads…I mean its pretty intense how good we eat.
We have spent an enormous amount of time rearranging, organizing, and what I would call nesting- however my mom sent me a picture the other day and she too was testing every pen and marker in the house and tossing any that didn’t work. So is this quarantine, or are we just nesting? Every day we check the news and watch the numbers rise…how many more people will become infected? How many more people will die? When will I be ripped out of this Utopian world of love, art and family and experience the suffering of this sickness. Sometimes when the internet doesn’t work, or I don’t hear back from someone I love, I get paranoid- is this a shutdown? Has everything gone haywire? Will this be like the horror movies? There becomes a fear in me that I try not to let take over. Last night while laying in bed I had to discuss a plan with Bob that I have been thinking about…if and when the time comes that one of us has to die, it must be me. Of course, he didn’t agree but I wanted him to know why I thought this way. He is stronger than I am, he is warmer (he thought I meant emotionally but I meant physically-but after thinking about it, he’s both) he is just as, if not more, sensitive and nurturing, he has the ability to stay calm, he is more prepared, he knows more, he’s more mentally and emotionally fit. He would be a way better single parent than I. Is this the fear of the virus speaking, or is this just what parents think about? Will I get a phone call about someone I love dying from this? What are they doing with the bodies of the people who die from it? Can they have a funeral? Do they have to be cremated? Are they kept for science?
But then, here I am again. Swirled back into my beautiful life…Sitting in front of the wood stove, knitting a stuffed animal while my husband tickles my feet and reads poetry to me and our baby.
Doesn’t happiness mean: wanting what you have?