“I wish I’d given myself the comfort of knowing how long (the pandemic) was going to be. Here’s you in a year, relax. Stop refreshing The New York Times” (musician Phoebe Bridgers). Many years ago, when my house had no heat during a six-month remodeling project that dragged on for two years, I subconsciously drove my car faster on the instinct that a revved-up engine would get me warmer too. All I got was a speeding ticket. At the beginning of the pandemic, I felt that same urge to hurry up, as if my working faster would hasten the end of the lockdown. Eventually I accepted that the end was nowhere in sight. Now, as I reenter the world, I’m content to advance at a snail’s pace. More thoughts about writing at REFLECTIONS.
