They – so many theys – say to keep a record. Write it down. For posterity. For history. For sanity.
During this awful beginning, I try to jot down a note. Dribs and drabs. A minute here, a half-hour there. What’s happening? Am I ok when things are not?
Short answer: no. Who is, really?
Fully aware I am not on the front lines of anything but my little family and their well-being. My little notes contain no first-hand horror, and for that, I am grateful and profoundly aware that is not the case for many.
So here are tiny dandelion seeds I’m blowing out there. Messy weeds I’m spreading everywhere in an attempt to figure out where to land in this new reality of absolutes.
Sometimes the writing is an exercise in confronting my deficiencies as a writer. And because I am a writer, that easily spirals into thoughts of inadequacy, worries of having “missed my chance,” and wondering if I will ever meet the potential everyone thought I had when I was eight. (I was quite an eight-year-old. Weren’t we all?)
Earlier this week, we began construction on an addition to our house. Short term, it means a new office for me, and a sunroom and deck for the family. Middle-to-long term, it will help with resale when the time comes to move my little band of mischief-makers.
There are a lot of unknowns, unexpecteds, and uncontrollables.