Pandemic

It’s a Sunday. Those are the words I’ve written in my journal for today. Because I imagine someday I’ll look back at this entry and while I don’t really feel the days of the week at the moment, maybe that will be something - some sort of hint layered between my words - about what life was like for me in this moment of time. One day when I’m looking back on this.

What inspires me right now? I’m struggling to answer this question. Motherhood always filling the bucket. But outside of that sustenance, I’m faced with a lack of ability to commit thoughts to paper. We can be inspired by ideas and conversations; and there is no shortage of that. Our life online sees to it! But instead of inspired, I can’t hear my ideas. Noise, so much noise I can barely give myself a moment to think to gather my thoughts. And yet, afraid to shut the noise off. How long have we been navigating the world in fear? like before this pandemic… before this all started even, so much of us living in fear (you’d have thought so much so that we’d be more prepared and yet as it has proven, all the fear in the world, all the pleading to be prepared, it doesn’t really motivate.) And if that’s been our guiding hand, what does that say of our outputs? Our creation? Does fear make you a better writer? Artist? Human? This desire to avoid and stay home, stationary and attached to people from a distance: this was a thing long before this pandemic forced our hand. Taking shelter. Bound by fear.

And I am afraid. Afraid that life will never be the same. But also so afraid it won’t change. It wasn’t really working before. So noisy. So loud. So many people shouting at each other to listen to what they had to say. And creating something, for me anyway, inundated and fearful, creating that potent combination of an inability to just *start.* Now? No decisions to make really. Just to stay put. Time to wait. Not bound by choices. Not bound by anything at all really; of what to buy, where to go, who to adventure with. Just sit.

Where is that fear? I’m finding it is slinking away.

Without noise it’s stopped growing.