There was once a time when I did not live without the specter of illness around every corner? I lived a life that wasn’t conditional on the spread of a virus? I spent almost five decades making plans that weren’t likely to be cancelled anywhere, any time, with little notice, because of a nasal-swabbed test result? Could it be true?
Would it really be so bad to lose the world?
Anxiety . . . is an illness of “what-ifs.” The mind takes the most minuscule threat and blows it up to–not even huge proportions, just unrealistically large ones.
Of course, there is no way I am going to fix a fractured world. There is no way I am going to fix even a fraction of it. But as Mother Teresa says, “We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop.” Accepting that my contribution will be only a drop, the question becomes “where in the ocean will my drop fall?”
For the first time since vacation planning in March, I was grateful rather than resentful we weren’t vacationing in Europe.
Parties, gatherings, travel, theme park visits, celebrations, but most of all time spent face-to-face with those I love were all the things I longed for during the pandemic.
My ride was not unique. It wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t fun. It was basically like me–comfortable, stable, and safe. No surprises. Reliable. Always there, waiting to be needed.
I’d rather place my bets on the medical community being right than thinking a wild virus that’s killed over half a million Americans is perfectly survivable.
Even in my postpartum-addled state, I recognize I’m singing my baby daughter a love song. . . . Yet the words have never seemed more true.
Let’s take some of our free time to play at doubting what we are naturally inclined to believe, and believing what we are naturally inclined to doubt. I guarantee that if nothing else, it will help us better argue for what we believe, and against what we doubt, with more reason and passion.