I realised in the last 7 days I have spoken face to face with two people. Of which, those two interactions lasted maybe, maybe, three minutes. Wow. Which means unless my Irish Twin comes ’round to cut the lawn, two could be it for the next 7-14 more days.
Now, that does not mean I’ve not chatted it up. On the contrary, between emails and text, I’m averaging my virtual conversations around 8 people a day, along with a few daily voice calls.
But an actual person with whom I could look into their own eyes with my own? Two.
Oh, I’m not talking to myself … yet. And I’m not wearing Kleenex boxes on my feet. But I know now that I can never call myself anti-social again. So far from, it hadn’t dawned on me how often I intermingle with human beings. March 2020 has taught me just what social-less truly means. And those two people I last encountered? I hardly know them. As of right now my last live social interaction was with strangers, who now are a part of my isolation story.
These are new heights, for as long as necessary. Ah poor New York. The numbers. The image of the death tent … it literally takes my breath away knowing its proximity. I wrote a rather lengthy email reply to my previous boss this morning … from the time I began my response to the time I hit send, the reported hospitalised cases in my own state jumped by 10.
My friend Marty says I should stop looking at the health department sites, but I don’t want to. I cannot not know. I am, we are, a part of this. Not asking you to join me, I’m no thought police, but this is how I see it: A daily global focus on every single person in this world.
It’s a lot to take, this mental empathy. It’s my new norm, accompanied by a hush and a prayer. And, last night, by a breakdown.
I’m not ashamed to admit that last night I had a bit of meltdown. Not a wild weep, just a wave of intense emotion that my body mandated must come out in the form of water from my eyes. I’d call it a good cry, but it was more of a necessary release.
That is balance. No more. No less. And I’ll take it. Because it is a part of dealing. The good with the sad. There will be more.
That being said, last night I dreamt I was eating a chef salad at my local pub with their homemade blue cheese dressing and a glass of crisp lovely light pink. Ah, it was lovely and calming and superb. And I woke content.
Foregoing its usual strangeness and nightmares, my sub-conscious actually stepped up. See? Balance.