I’ve been isolating for a solid year. Yes, a whole year in the house mainly because of a congenital disability that impacts my mobility and respiratory muscles and mostly spent in the same space – my bedroom. And usually the same daily routine of wake-up, stretch, restroom, return, mosey over to the window and gulp some fresh air, neaten bed, plop back on top, plug up phones and PC and distract self with music, news, and musings. On occasion, days might be flavored with speaking opps, interviews, consults about advocacy work, and my own scribblings when stirred. That’s been the composition of the year spent tucked away indoors to limit exposure and snatch back semblances of self I still recognize while other parts ebb away.
Waiting for the tide to turn, when we’re on the other side of this atrocity and claim dominion on more safety and less social distancing. When we feel far less dispirited and depressed from being forced in because past leadership remained willfully obtuse and unprepared for the onslaught. The death toll is not only staggering, sobering, but unconscionable and shameful. Heartbreaking.
So as I sit tight and type and fight moody blues and mindfully choose happier tunes to hitch my wagging ass to, I find ways to be grateful. I’ve started in-home physical therapy to keep the parts from getting too rusty. My cheeks have become way too comfortable in these warm sheets while clicking too many open tabs and links. And I think way too much in depth about random things that fish out old files that need purging. I do not need more mindspace for data; I need to declutter so my mindscape will matter on these lofty sojourns so I can learn without getting lost in some muck.
More than midway through March and the need to do some spring cleaning grows, throw out thangs that have lost their shelf life and meaning. Their spark snuffed like a small flame between fingertips or buried and stuffed in the back of closets and drawers and never got the spotlight, nod, or applause. The dream faded or deferred of being used, worn, seen, denied of it’s luster and sheen as part of some fantasized mise en scène. No playbill nor premier date seared in memory.
Indiscriminate thoughts abound and self-inventory startles loose more repressed files, in the stillness sits a gift as you become aware of every synapse and restless step. Thoughts sound loud and don’t get lost in the din and bang of the day. Memories that were tucked away keep surfacing and I wonder why they weren’t fully absorbed and processed. Perhaps there wasn’t spare time nor interest then and movement sans reflection meant survival and a sharpened skill.
Exhaling, pondering the fullness of days when fully-vaccinated and this one gray strand on right side of my head that screams “I exist” in pool of dark messy tresses that can’t be bothered to gather. Some strands standing in defiance of order and not ready to be tamed and styled without abandon. This is what the world feels like in my right now.
