For nearly two months now, I’ve been waiting.
Waiting to go back to work.
Waiting to hug my best friend.
Waiting to go to the mall.
Waiting to sneak snacks into the movie theater.
Waiting for this mammoth clusterfuck of a pandemic to be over.
I’m also waiting to discover all the good things, all the silver linings I’ve been hearing about. Time to meditate! Time to spend with kids/spouse/self. Time to write a novel, a book of poetry about the having the space to contemplate the song of the first returning robins, the sweet pink cherry blossoms, the bursting forsythia. Time to find myself amid the quiet.
When life was hectic and hysterical, when I had a four hour commute and a full time job, when I went out with friends and did chores and volunteered for a dog rescue, I made time every day to meditate. Every. day. I went to writing group meetings, practiced Reiki, went to group meditations, wrote in my journal.
Now? I sleep late, shower, and think about a nap. I send out my resume and look over my latest crop of rejection emails. I have coffee and read Facebook and resist online shopping. I try to figure out how to make LinkedIn work. I don’t journal, I don’t meditate, I don’t ask myself what’s going on. I am waiting, that’s what’s going on.
When I was a little girl, and my mom took me shopping, she would always tell me, “Remember, if we get separated, stay right where you are and I’ll find you.” When I was a little girl, the world was a big and scary place, and I knew Mom would protect me if I just did what she told me.
So that’s what I’m doing. I’m staying right here, until she finds me. Because the world is suddenly a big and scary place. Because I’m lost. I’m not waiting for the pandemic to end. I’m waiting for my mom to come back.