Hello friends,
I noticed a dragonfly trapped in the birdcage around my pool the other day. It made a methodical buzzing as it crashed into the screen. The screen door was open, but the dragonfly didn’t notice. It flew upward repeatedly, unaware that the exit was to the side, like a swimmer stuck in a riptide. Bzzz. Trapped. Bzzz bzzz. Still trapped.
I wanted to cradle the poor thing and usher it out the door, but I couldn’t get close. I frightened it. I thought of my own cage, the one primarily in my mind. I wonder if there’s a side door I haven’t noticed yet. How often do I run from help?
In my last letter, I talked about how December is a communal liminal space. This past year was like that too. 2021 never felt like its own year. It was merely a continuation of 2020, a worldwide liminality, the year that was two. Time folded in on itself, or maybe we folded time because it was the only way we could cope. But now we’re all stuck, wading around in the mist. It’s 2022, but numbers haven’t felt this meaningless since I cried my way through high school calculus. The world keeps waiting for something to change, but we’re all too tired to make the change ourselves.
Last year, I was hopeful for what 2021 might bring. I haven’t lost hope, but I’ve realized that hope alone isn’t enough. I’m exhausted. I know you are too. But I can’t keep sitting around just hoping things will get better. We have to pull ourselves out of this lethargy.
I have no grand resolutions for 2022, but I have a phrase: Make an effort. I’ve had so many bad days recently, but I’ve just accepted them. I’ve become content with merely existing; anything else feels too difficult. But I didn’t fall into this stagnation all at once. I won’t crawl out of it in one go, either. I’m not able to make great leaps right now. I’ve become a creature of small movements, and I’m okay with that.
What is your phrase for 2022? Let me know in the comments.
Until next time,
Yardena