I worked a lot with my hands during the pandemic. First, I cleaned out every space in or near this house. Then, like a crazed Rapunzel, I fashioned yards and yards of my obscene supply of fabric into pillows....
and rag rugs.
I collaged everything with a bare surface, except for Rob and Molly.
I learned how to paint.
|" Memory Keeper"|
And then I traveled in our Airstream for 3 months, 12,000 miles, and 15 mostly Western states.
I did all this stuff.
But I forgot to write.
Ok, Grace, since you're still sitting across from me demanding that I tell only truth, that is a big fat lie. I did jot down daily descriptions in my journal about how I spent the day, just to affirm that I was coping. And perhaps, for the future, to chronicle what coping looked like. But I couldn't muster any interest in coming here. At first, I thought I had nothing to say...a big psychic "Who Cares?" Then, as I became more and more intrigued by painting, I thought "I know how to write, let me spend my time learning how to paint."
This morning, with my second dose of Moderna vaccine just three weeks away, my pandemic cocoon is starting to feel tight around the edges. I peeked back out into the world and happened to catch up on Saskia's blog as she moves through these very early days of losing both her parents.. And that helped me understand the truth. I wasn't reluctant to write, I just couldn't write truth about anything that wasn't about my own broken heart after the loss of my parents. And for me, the work of healing required--requires--a lot more feeling and a lot less word-crafting.
With that understanding, I also took a peek at my old self. I read back through my own entries here and saw how well I captured my experiences of their deaths. And how I reached total strangers who nodded in agreement.
And how over some 157 posts, I made us laugh, you and me both.
I remember writing. And how good it all feels.