I already missed a day. It reinforces the underachiever label I have given myself. So much potential, so little accomplished. Can't even write 50 words a day 6 days in a row. Haven't even checked out an online yoga class or set up my own Zoom account. Yesterday my friend V asked about my projects - she is working on a script, a book of short stories, future art projects. I responded, "being in the present moment." That's really all I can commit to.
How many couples, living together, verge of breakup, anger and misunderstanding their norm, are now home alone, full-time? How many mothers and fathers are juggling home school, unemployment, virtual playdates, adolescent angst, their own anxiety, sleepless nights, dwindling bank accounts, credit card debt? How many of my students want to have a purpose, a reason to get up every morning now that sports, music, arts, grades are suspended?
My friend D who works for Amazon is quarantined on Maui, indefinitely he says. Until it's safe to come home. My Spanish friend O is now a refugee on a small island in rural Philippines. He says they will deport him back to Spain if they find him. If the virus had happened just a few weeks later I would be hiding out in Costa Rica.
My old instinct to run away is growing stronger each day. I want to get in my car and drive. And drive. Away from domesticity - cleaning gutters, pulling weeds, folding laundry. And my quarantine partners, the intimacy and distancing, the mood swings and fear. But I am a different woman now; I won't abandon them in exchange for further isolation, loneliness, perceived freedom.
335,997 infected; 14,641 dead; 98,333 recovered.
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