Sunday should always be sacred. In this time of forever Saturdays, especially so. Of course I speak for myself through a culture embedded in me. Any time will do – ring-fence it. I pick Sunday.
I’m reflecting now. I’ve felt an anxiety rise and wonder why. I have had a good run of it forty-something days into ‘the emergency’. I have been luckier than most.
In contrast to that anxiety is a great joy. A love for creation I have not felt in a long, long time. Telling someone about it earlier today almost led me to tears, so joyful was my soul.
Which, ironically, is the source of this most recent bout of fearfulness. Peace has been rare enough (in my life) and I’m scared of losing the life that I have right now.
A symptom of my growing unease was getting involved in an online debate. They are less about listening and more about intellectual brow-beating (inviting in the inequality of ‘who is smarter’).
I’m no different from anyone else. I need my reassurance. But, validating myself with the prowess of convoluted wordplay over a computer is probably the wrong place to look for it. If I want to twist verbs, I can write poems.
“How dare you fear what I don’t fear?” is the crux of every online argument ever. I am not surprised. These are fearful times.
Happy doesn’t fight, happy isn’t abusive. Happy keeps no record of wrongs – Or is that love? I caught myself slipping into old ways, so ‘I tuned in, turned on, and dropped out.’
Kickboxing is a healthier outlet for that type of violence. At least it always ends with a hug.
Back to the old faithfuls seems like the best plan – my moments with nature, a chat with good friends, a hug for my boy. How could I possibly ask for anything more?
I find what I am looking for and I reset the joy: Mating ducks under a tree, swallows frolicking; even the horse chestnut trees have flowered as they look to fuse DNA with another. Bloody hell, the Covid virus is looking for a host. Everything, bar fighting humans, is looking for a connection.
Facebook discord is anti-joy. Nobody needs my input. I’ve done enough this week. Unless my pager goes off, history can carry on without me.
Great Mystery. All around I did not make.
Not choice of shoes nor belly full or pain-free flesh.
Release unease this day of rest.