Twenty-two months of this virus. A strange world, reminiscent of some bizarre science fiction b-movie plot made manifest. It still feels a bit like living through a fever dream.
We just marked the passing of a second Covid Christmas and New Years, with new variants promising an inevitably dark winter, stealing away even more of our mental and physical health and well-being, along with our precious ability to escape, to blow off steam, to adventure, to recalibrate, to press re-set.
Eschewing holiday chaos and travel is not a new notion for someone like myself, but for many, the very definition of home has been radically challenged and often completely re-imagined in these daunting times. That safe place to either hunker down in (or mournfully avoid for some) has been altered, and that can prove to be particularly difficult during the holidays.
Sometimes, I lose track of time. I know many of us have gone through so much during these past two years; some of us still numb to things, others feeling the wounds fresh still. We've passed 850,000 U.S. deaths; a startling and macabre statistic and a grim reminder, and yet that doesn't stop us from feeling that in-the-marrow impulse to celebrate the holidays, with family, friends, on our own, or observing whatever kind of ritual with whatever tribe makes us feel the closest thing to whatever home is supposed to mean. But the revelry for those of us who have a semblance of compassion and care for the vulnerable is tempered, and I, along with everyone and their cousin, continue to ask: For how long?
Since the answer to that question is as unknowable as the fog was thick during the January marine layer early this morning, I have to simply plug myself in to what it is that gives me comfort and pleasure, and I sincerely hope that you're able to do the same.
I'm struck today by what relatively little insight I have as I reflect on the last year, because it feels as if so little has changed even though we've experienced a year of joys as well as tragedies. The predictable stuff. I guess the only real understanding I have is that all we can really do in the face of a pandemic, aside from smart, thoughtful, preventative measures that far too many are stull reluctant to take, is to count our blessings, assist others when we can, and focus on the pleasures, both large and small, that being alive gives us. It's good coffee and laughter, it's making playlists and listening to records, and holding on to the love of your family and friends, however you can.
I write this in relatively good health, vaccinated and boosted despite likely battling symptoms of long covid, recognizing my incredible privilege and luck. So, while praying ceaselessly for a light at the end of this tunnel, I'll continue to mask up, I'll limit any socializing, I'll mourn for the bands I'm not seeing and the venues I'm not seeing them in and I'll mourn the toll this virus is taking on all of us. But I'll count my blessings. Every song. Every breath. Every laugh. Every moment.
"Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances which we know to be desperate." - G.K. Chesterton.
These words I'll cling to in the coming months. Here's hoping 2022 works out better, for all of us.
Salut.
