Lost time

Day 112

So much time and yet at the end of so many days I feel I have wasted it. At the end of the day I can’t quite account for all of the hours spent to get here. And, even when I can, it never seems like I accomplished enough.

Today, I sorted through a pile of stuff from an upstairs clean-out. Trash, giveaway, donate. I made marinara sauce. I taught my daughter how to make pesto. I dusted a little bit (one section of one room). I ate an arugula salad for lunch. I read a little. I folded laundry. I thought about cleaning the bathrooms. I did a lot of dishes. I watched an episode of ER (the one where Dr. Greene dies, because devastation is one of the feelings I experience best right now). I made dinner. I talked to my mom. I texted with my sister.

I didn’t make more masks. Or ever get to clean the bathrooms. Or the rest of the house. I didn’t remove the chipped nail polish on my toes. Or shower. Or leave the house. I didn’t write until now — at 10:40.

Like so many nights at this time I feel like I know what day it is and how many days it has been — 112 — but that I’m not “using” my time the way I should be. That I’m not “spending” it well. Why do we describe time passed in such active ways? What is wrong, I wonder, with lounging in bed on a rainy day, listening to the rain hit the roof and searching online for comfortable shorts? Why, when I spend an hour doing just that, do I feel like I have wasted time? What is it that I expect of myself? Constant productivity, I think. Nothing is ever enough. My house will always be dirty. The laundry will never be done. The sentence I write could always be improved. I am plagued by this constant need to feel I’ve done enough, and that I have done it efficiently. I am left, at the end of the day, feeling a sense of lacking. From myself

I do not recommend this approach to one’s life. At least, not during a pandemic. But, as I write that sentence, that phrase, I realize I’ve just unraveled my own dilemma. I’m still me. The conditions have changed. I can’t go anywhere. But I am really no different than always. I just have more time to think about it. All that I feel needs to be done and all the time I spend procrastinating doing it.

Tonight there is a CNN special documenting the timeline of the pandemic in the U.S., focused on Trump’s (lack of) response since the earliest days of being aware of the coronavirus’ existence. It’s on in the other room. I can’t bring myself to watch. It’s literally a timeline of missteps, which equals deaths and more deaths, needless deaths.


Today:

  • Worldwide

    • More than 11 million cases

    • More than 524,000 deaths

  • U.S.:

    • Nearly 2.8 million cases

    • Nearly 130,000 deaths

This past week, the U.S. saw record case numbers more than once, with today’s numbers at more than 53,000 new cases and 624 deaths. The latest projections predict more than 250,000 deaths by as early as October.


Tomorrow is supposed to be a beautiful day, and I hope I can get a walk in. The days that I don’t get out for a walk — which has been many lately, given a stretch of oppressive heat followed by a several days of unpredictable showers and thunderstorms — are longer and more difficult. I hope that at this time tomorrow I feel less unproductive. More settled and comfortable. Having so much time to spend in my already very busy mind is a challenge, and I wonder how I will feel about my impulse to process and evaluate every thought and feeling during this time when I look back, once we are finally out of this thing. I wonder if I will be able to see that I am any different, really? Or if I am just more me with more time to try to understand myself. A never-ending feat

Stay safe, everyone.



Sunday at the park

One day at a time