The number of pivots I’ve spiraled since the beginning of this year has felt like a wild, chaotic dance, performed against the backdrop of a world in (literal) flames. Between a tumultuous work schedule alongside the escalating pandemic, personal grief and loss, and societal ugliness rearing its head in multitudes, every aspect of my identity has been left feeling drained and running on empty.
The last thing I was expecting to spin into was 2 weeks of full-bodied, soul-enriching rest.
It certainly didn’t feel like rest at first, though. Sitting on a newly bought air mattress in a hot, otherwise barren room secured by a last-minute phone call, I was blindsided by an abrupt need to quarantine and anxious about the safety of those around me. But as tangible assurances and accommodations fell into place, my uneasiness began to settle — and in its place, pieces of myself that I’d nearly forgotten started to resurface.
In between some greatly needed moments of simply vegetating in solitude, I found myself reaching towards things that had always sustained my inner life: writing, reading, painting, sitting outside, taking long walks, having extended conversations with loved ones over the phone. Having the freedom to structure my days around these activities, instead of sacrificing them in the name of obligation or exhaustion, was an enormous privilege that I absolutely did not take for granted.
As the pace of my life returns to pandemic-“normal” and encroaches upon an especially demanding flu season, I feel myself already beginning to ration the restorative energy cultivated over the past few weeks. Nevertheless — here’s to the gratitude for continued good health and the hope that when I meet myself on the other side of all this, those inner pieces will be there waiting for me again.
Scraps and Progression 