Will there ever be a time when I start this newsletter with something other than how strange the world has become? I know life will eventually return to normal, but for now, the strangeness seems neverending.
I'm not complaining, though. In these odd times, I've found a new sense of self. You don't have to be constructive in a pandemic, of course. But during these quiet days, I've found myself creating more often. My poetry took a turn to illustrate the times we live in now.
Pandemic Poems i. Time has always been an illusion, but we can no longer see behind the curtain. Liminal spaces, tired of lingering in the shadows, unfurled into the light, shrouding us in a veil of disquietude. Instead of pausing in these waiting rooms between one time and the next, we now exist only in the interim. The threshold has shifted. Unknown waters lap at our feet. We are on the verge. ii. Home has become a heavy blanket. Static electricity traps me within the folds of cotton I once clung to. The air stagnates under layers of fabric. I cannot breathe. But outside, the garden sings. Palm fronds caress each other in the breeze, and I swallow great gulps of the morning air. Birdsong echoes all around. A fallen bed of pine needles muffles my footsteps while ancient oaks watch over me. This, too, is home. iii. Each day is a series of tiny miracles. Coffee warming my hands and pouring life into my veins. Sunlight casting shadows, bringing the inanimate to life. Feeling the presence of a loved one even from six feet away. iv. My home is a castle, a haven, a sanctuary from the madness outside. But what happens when the madness is in my head? Who knows? I'm only talking to myself. Maybe no answer is best.
I think my dad is going a little stir-crazy, but I love how the world has slowed down. Of course, we'd all be better off without this pandemic, but we're seeing a global shift. We're realizing the healing power of touch and close contact. We're re-learning how to make things with our hands. We're confined to our homes, but we've never been closer to one another.Â
At the moment, I'm on my porch enjoying a cigar and a beer, which is a pretty typical Friday afternoon activity for me. But even the taste of cold porter and the sight of swirling smoke seem different. Every action is more intentional. And when I lie down tonight with my bedroom window open, I'll fall asleep to the sounds of chuck-will’s-widows calling to one another from different tree branches, not unlike the sounds of songs from balconies around the world.Â
As always these days, I hope you're doing ok. I hope you're safe and comfortable and finding ways to take your mind off the horrors outside. IÂ hope you're creating something new.
