London Fog in a favorite mug.
Day 66
My 11-year-old is preparing the cauliflower for dinner.
My 14-year-old is upstairs in her bedroom.
The males in the house are watching The Office.
I had only one Zoom meeting today and was able to make good progress on some work projects.
I took an impromptu trip to the grocery store to remedy our out-of-milk situation.
My 16-year-old helped unload the groceries, and then he disinfected the car.
The sun is shining.
I spoke with Sarah on the phone this afternoon.
Things feel OK right this very moment.
Mid-afternoon today I made myself a London Fog. Complete with lavendar infused Earl Grey tea, vanilla flavored syrup and steamed heavy cream (sometimes it’s not so bad to be out of milk). It was delicious. And, I’m realizing, just the right amount of caffeine to infuse me with enough positivity and stamina to get through till dinner. This is no small feat.
Sarah and I were talking about writing today. It’s a common topic of discussion. She told me she liked a recent post, and I responded that I felt it was so messy. But that people seemed to like it. Then, she said:
So maybe when you feel things are messy … KEEP GOING. And don’t turn back.
Yup. That’s exactly it. So applicable to life. Not just right now, but especially right now. We are all just greeting each day. We are in the moment. We cannot plan. We can only be in the moment and, if we must react, react to the moment. We can’t go back. We have to keep going. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Which, these days, life always seems to be. Messy. Uncomfortable.
The best writing often comes from being in those places. I know this. And I forget it. Or I fight it. Or I don’t realize it when I am right there.
I am an editor. Literally. Editor is on my business card. Sometimes — often — my professional instincts get in the way of my own creativity. Sometimes, as I write, I begin to clean up the messes before they fully form. I think, I reword, I edit, I rewrite, I delete, I start over. I search for the best word. But the great irony is this: I rarely, almost never, feel that I have truly edited my own work. More like I have made sure I’m coloring in the lines that I’ve drawn. And I almost always feel uncertain about those lines. Were they the best ones? The right ones? Do they form the picture of what I was trying to say? Or, more important perhaps, are they the words that capture the thought I was trying to get from my brain to the page?
It’s difficult (I just typed “hard,” deleted it, and replaced it with “difficult”) for me to write this way. To process in the moment. To put words together and send them into the world without a very mapped and detailed revision, copyedit and fact-check process. Of course, creating a personal narrative that feels accurate and true and editing professional magazine content may call on the same skills, but it feels not quite right to group the two together into one process. But — and here comes another metaphor — people who drive delivery trucks for a living also, presumably, drive their own vehicles, too. Is the process of working behind the wheel different from hopping in your car to do errands? Not fundamentally, and yet, of course.
There are nuances and complexities to everything. And what I want most when I see any words on the page is clarity. I want to understand what I am reading and I want to be understood what I’ve written. But that is exactly where this all falls apart. Because once the words are out there, being read by others, they are experienced by the reader. And there is always interpretation involved. And that’s where the vulnerability comes in. What am I afraid of? Being misunderstood? Yes. Overlooking the way that my words could hurt someone else? Yes. Also, though, I fear being understood. Being seen is hard. (And here I am choosing not to change this to “difficult.”)
I feel a responsibility, during this day and the 65 that have come before it and the many, many more that I anticipate will come after, still within the confines of pandemic living, to document. To document my truth. My discomfort. My joy. My wins. My questions and fear and the boring details like the cauliflower and the TV programs we are watching and the fact that today I remembered my ID so was able to buy wine when I went to the grocery store. There are infinite details to each day. I can never record all of them. But I want to continue to show up, to not look back, to keep going.
On this day, the governor of Massachusetts announced a framework for reopening the state. Many more details are to come, and our life is not going to look different any time soon. It’s strange to think of things “re-opening,” given that we know any change will not offer anything familiar or close to “normal.” But it feels good to have information and to know that there is a step-by-step plan. I’m hopeful that we can move forward and not have to backtrack. I’m hopeful we can all keep going together.
The stats:
Worldwide cases: Nearly 5 million
Worldwide deaths: Nearly 320,000
U.S. cases: More than 1.5 million
U.S. deaths: Almost 92,000
New York State cases: 360,000
New York State deaths: More than 28,000
Massachusetts cases: 86,000
Massachusetts deaths: Almost 5,800
Stay safe, everyone.