I can’t breathe. It’s not the virus that is plaguing the globe, it’s the one that always lies dormant within me. The one that is so much a part of me that I always know how to respond. I know the right medicine and the approximate dosages depending on the severity of the inflammation. I know how to treat this affliction, but all of the remedies are just out of reach.
I am paralyzed by the paths that lie in front of me. None of them seem to go far enough. None of them go past my front door.
Computer? Too much information from one side and not enough connection on the other. Where are my students? Where are my friends? Where is my family?
Movement? Rain is coming, followed by a threatening return to winter. The house is too small for yoga and the treadmill’s location in the dark basement has the potential to add to my already dark cloud.
Books are scattered everywhere and each holds the promise to a new, unchartered world. But I have to read differently. I have to read just for me, not for my reluctant reader or my voracious reader…there is no one to share this world with when I come out on the other side.
Writing is all I have. It is all I am, some days. The words in my notebooks and, now, on the computer, are all I can hold on to right now. And even those are elusive and temporary, lost in the waking house around me and the immediate needs of those I love requiring me to continue to breathe, despite it all.