I am worn out from the events of the past week, the last 2 weeks, the past month, the last 8 months, the last 4 years. Like being on a succession of amusement park rides–the merry-go-round, the roller-coaster, the tilt-a-whirl, the fun house, the bumper cars. All going faster with each ride.
After this week’s Democratic National Convention, for one brief moment, I felt human again. Hopeful again. Free again. Fired-up-and-ready-to-go again.
Only to be caught in a web of insomnia again, last night. The words of my dear friend Jocelyn ringing in my ears:
Nearly two weeks ago, we watched in horror as 3 rowhomes in Northwest Baltimore exploded, killing 2 people who were only (coincidentally) visiting friends in those houses. A 20-year-old college student of great promise and beloved. A 61-year-old woman of great heart an beloved.
Baltimore rose to the occasion, proving once again that we Are a beloved community. No matter what the pResident and his henchmen say.
Six weeks ago, I had the privilege, honor, and delight of reading my words at the first of 3 poetry readings and hearing other voices that echo mine.
Now, suddenly, the well is dry. Several half-written new verses lay idle on scraps of paper. Waiting for me to bring them to life…
The last 8 months, I have lost friends, neighbors, and acquaintances to covid-19, to senseless murder (when has there ever been a sensible murder?), to old age or illness…
Over the last 4 years, I’ve watched my country dying. I watched my anchors–my mother and my dog–die. I’ve watched my spirit and the spirits of family members and friends catch fire and fade again. Burn bright and flicker again.
I know that I am part of something greater than myself. In these days of quarantine, I’ve learned that we are together apart and alone together, in ways none of us ever dreamed.
So, though I may feel down for the count, I am grateful for this community of writers which welcomed me with open arms and with whom I have made new friends–kindred spirits.
Even in this barren season, I am not alone.