How does one express the undertow of a span of time when references aren’t tangible; when letters just won’t fall into words that shape the emotional underbelly of the thing.
I made this picture at the beginning of 2020 as a comment on the struggles of the prior year and stepping into the light of the unknown ahead. Looking at it a year later, it feels like a premonition for all that arose in a few months time.
While I’d attempted a daily journal, it quickly dissolved into repetitive nonsense. It seems so trivial - as if my own little perspective had any merit. I guess I had certain aspirations that were quickly abandoned; instead, I spent an awful lot of time in my head trying to make sense of a million and one things at once.
I didn’t feel “connected” and ached for the sort of community that played out…the nightly applause, the acts of kindness, of care, of giving. It feels like I didn’t show up and was instead swallowed up into a petty drama of aging, of weight, of tight clothes, of longing for a desire to find a rhythm, a project, something meaningful.
That didn’t really happen.
What did instead was an escape into work.
I was fortunate to remain employed; and not just in a job, but one I truly love. In that area I’ve frankly thrived. It’s where I’ve poured everything missing. I’ve lived for the meetings/calls, for seeing colleagues and clients faces. I’ve been truly gifted with kind spirited clients who’s grace remains inspiring. I’ve contributed, mentored and for the first time really felt a part of. I guess it’s the bright space that filled the void.
And in warmer months, those days biking to the bluff for yoga, the backyard dinners with a friend, the one visit with parents, the calls with family and friends helped time feel more bearable and march on.
Yet a year later, there’s no denying the sadness… the unsettledness that’s landed. The endless tears that won’t stop. I’ve been told I’m empathic. Super sensitive. Tuned in. And what i feel is honestly a collective grief for all that’s been stolen unnecessarily. It didn’t have to be that way. And for that, I feel a rage of unforgiveness.
I’m anxious for what’s next… loathing the desperation that’s settled under my skin as suddenly the world is tilted. The pandemic forced a stillness I can’t outrun or deny. It’s thrust a middle agedness into my head that I can’t shake. Kudos to those who step gratefully into this time. I’m frankly terrified of it and would do anything to reach my younger wild carefree confident self.
So there are issues. Plenty of them. And at odds with them all is the duality of these as luxury problems. I’ve not lost anyone I love. I’m employed. I have a dwelling I still appreciate and the kindest of landlord friends, a lovely warm furry friend, food, water, power.
Just writing this is grounding and puts the noise in its place; reminds me to get up, face the world, do my best, look for the good, accept sometimes the darkness emerges but to know there’s a crack to let the lightness in.
