Journal, 3/22

Things, perspectives … change quickly. Gratitude for simple moments go unnoticed until they’re pulled — no, swept — away. The waves keep rolling, rolling, out. The sea of normalcy retreats.

Here are the things I never said thanks to: a group trail run with friends, a tart, liquid-gold beer at Green Mountain Brewery, a packed yoga class. I never said thanks to long lines at grocery stores, cart pressing into cart, shelves stocked with the generic-brand white rice, medium grain. The overflowing bins of yellow onions.

I appreciated, but not enough: the trip to Mexico, our writing retreat, two shows at the Curious Theatre.

I appreciated, but not enough: small business owners, hourly workers, nurses, paid sick leave, just the pay.

Where was my gratitude when I got a cold, knowing it was just a cold
knowing I would heal
knowing I couldn’t possible hurt another person with my own cackling cough.

Should I even have this box of latex gloves?

The world has changed in just a few clicks east on the calendar. It was a new decade, it was a new democratic debate. It was … a new disease. This is something everyone can touch, can roll around on their thumb and index finger. I want to ball up this virus and flick it into an untouched, sleepy atmosphere. I want to beg for forgiveness: I’ll thank the bad traffic, the 45 minute wait, our collective deep and clear breath.

I remember, just last summer, running through Bryce Canyon. Circling through swarms of people: an accidental shoulder brush, or a tilt of my chest at an angle, sucking my belly in, a quick ‘excuse me’ as I passed on the left. We ran a mile before people began to dissipate. When it was just us and the bright-rusted hoodoos that directed each stride through the spiraling canyons and cliffs.

I was thankful to be alone with rock. Was that when the tide started sliding out from under me?