I’m writing this to you from my couch, in my home, just outside of Austin. Everything appears to be normal: I have my AirPods in. Music’s playing. I’m wearing a sweatshirt—Tesla today, as per usual, and I’m feeling slightly productive but slightly tired, as per usual.
Yet the world’s in pain.
It’s hard to write when the world’s in pain. (I don’t know how many send-unworthy newsletter drafts I’ve typed since I last wrote to you a few weeks ago—there’s a handful—or how many plot points I’ve thought about for my stories and not actually written—there’s a handful.)
I keep thinking about how weird it feels not to be able to travel overseas. About the people I know who’ve lost their jobs. About the stories and art that’ll come from this and about how weak we are. I think about how almost everyone on earth is thinking about the same thing.
I don’t quite know how to process it—this, the coronavirus, changes, disappointments. I’m angry and sad. I’m tired and know I need to write more than ever.
I feel helpless. But there are some things I know I can and should do:
Pray
Stay cautious—wash hands, social distancing (but this is an introvert with OCD’s life)
Remember that we have never been in control, and we never will be in control, and that is a good thing
Be kind to people—family, friends, coworkers—as things are different, and we all need grace
Find joy in small things, even, especially, when I don’t feel like it
But I get stuck in sticky thoughts.
I think about how I planned on being in northern Italy and Switzerland this time next month with my sister, and how I had to cancel our trip.
I think about how two of the biggest battles we’re fighting right now as a world, as people, are invisible. We feel them, but we cannot see them. The coronavirus is one, yes. But fear, anxiety—the battle against them is eating our minds.
We are weak. I’m weak. The virus shows it. This new enemy is smaller than dust, and it’s making dust of us.
It’s weird. It hurts.
Yet I know there will be beauty that comes from this pain. As lives are reshaped and plans are changed and as normal life looks different than normal life, people will seek something bigger than themselves. Stories will be told. Life will be different, and probably, that’s good.
I keep feeling that I must write. It’s a strong feeling.
I also keep telling myself I can’t. That I can’t say it right, whatever it is. (That’s another battle I have to fight in my mind.)
The only type of creative writing that’s been coming semi-easily these past few weeks is poetry. Maybe because poetry is a form of writing in which pain is beautifully expressed.
Actually, here’s some I wrote these past few weeks. They’re raw and they’re weird and they’re a little fun and they’re painful, and I think that’s good, because those things are honest.
Seeing Stars
I saw a star plunge into the ocean,
its light became ice, its sleep became deep.
I wondered if it’d come down with a plan
to meet in the sea a secret it’d keep.
For moments I watched: the waves, they’d swallow
with foamy white mouths the beckoning glint.
That hunger communed with my lonesome low
cry for drowning star to give me a hint.
Then hauled from the gut of tireless waves
came whispers of hope that set me ablaze.
For there in the spray and yawning blue caves
were promises—I would exit this maze.
There in the space that seemed gravity-light
the tempestuous sea fought against night.
Goodbye
goodbye, you say as
my heart—i gave it to you—
is shoved in my chest.
Tide
I am tired
when events are unexpected.
When mornings are scripted
by midnight’s story.
But when I stare out my window, and I watch the sea—
if the next wave disappears, if it doesn’t crash on shore—
do not lose belief in the tide.
Trust the Maker of the ocean.
Even when living makes faith tired,
faithfully live.
Okay. That’s probably all for now. Thanks for reading. I’ll be back soon.
As everyone’s writing these days, stay safe.
P.S. I came up with a joke to lighten things up. Did you know why soy sauce was mad at Bragg’s? Because it was amino.
P.P.S. I’m done now.