I have to admit I am writing this entry—not because I feel the winds of creativity calling or sweeping over me during this pandemic. I am not writing because of any heightened artistic energy arriving with the first signs of community spread.
I have heard of so much bread and art being made and I truly am happy for those who have produced more of either—or both! Kudos and air kisses to you my friend. I want that to be me. In fact, sometimes I wonder if I’m a total slacker that any extra pockets of time have not been spent “producing” more of [insert something delicious or artistic here].
For me, it has been quite the opposite. For my metaphor I rely on television—I’m visual. For those familiar with Stranger Things, I am Seven (or Eleven?—it’s Eleven) after she has made something move with her mind. Instead of my nose bleeding and eating every waffle in sight, I write in my journal. I went through a whole journal in three months recently. Every day. Writing, but only for myself and those unconditionally loving blank pages.
So, why am I compelled to write in this here public diary today, of all the days of November?
Yes, you guessed it. Or maybe you didn’t.
You know—a writer’s best friend. A deadline. The last day of November.
In the absence of real people in person, real deadlines and such—I must cling to those deadlines that come due no matter what is swirling around in the world. Time. Calendars. And they continue to tick on.
I am in disbelief, actually. In fact, I was just telling my journal—the off-line, paper, lined version that I write in with pen (not a special pen, but anything I can find with ink flowing out of it)—how when this pandemic first started the “slowing down” never quite seemed to reach the buzzing within our home. Perhaps it’s the four kids or the penchant for volunteering for so many things, but it seemed that the show still insisted on going on. This new show was a real pain in the patootie, though. Instead of the usual in-person requirements there were several more steps and usually a screen of some sort.
Every time I looked up I was standing in or approaching Friday. Another week gone by. How did that happen? But, who would complain about time flying during a pandemic. This isn’t exactly a moment in history I want to dwell in or let soak too deeply into my skin, so I’ve gone with it.
And, so went the time.
Today, I can truthfully attest to the fact that I am astounded! Absolutely flummoxed. Could it be that just as I was getting used to the fact that November had crossed over my threshold, it is already walking out the front door as I wave goodbye with a bewildered look on my face, whispering to whoever is standing beside me, “Didn’t November just get here—like, yesterday? Was it something I said?”
For those of you familiar with cassette tapes, there’s no doubt I’ve wanted to fast-forward through 2020 for nearly all of 2020, but I didn’t expect it to actually happen. Well, it’s happening.
Let’s hope I am able to sit down with December for tea or some cookies before it’s the last day and I’m squeaking out a Dear Diary entry under duress. And, if you are one of the lucky ones who have been able to bake bread and paint walls during this pandemic—I salute you! As for me, I will be patient knowing that for every ebb there must eventually be a flow. At some point I'll be in the flow.
Until then, stay safe and eat waffles whenever the opportunity presents itself.
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