Day something-or-other. Getting to know myself turned out to be a blurry walk in the woods with a bar of chocolate and a box of leaf tea. I had a doona day and watched a series about two middle aged women gardeners who solve murders in beautiful English stately homes. While replanting the medieval pottager. Perfect for calming my raging sympathetic nervous system. Next day I chopped all the heads off my lemon balm. Hah. I continued to drink a lot of wine. And possibly toxic level tannic quantities of Dilmah. I gave up doing anything I felt I should do. I cried for people lost.
I don't think its just a reaction to the virus in the global room. We're all a bit jazzed up, wouldn't you say? Busy has become the new black, the crutch, the way of life. Busy is the life. Until COVID puts the brakes on and we all have to literally stay home for our lives.
I've regained the driving seat of my emotions, I hope, for now. I'm starting to think about what the next bit looks like. Lock down and beyond. Trying to reconcile the reality when everything is comfortable and familiar and a privilege I am well aware of in our home, but outside looms a new and different reality. For medicine and financial systems, employment and the way we interact.
Meanwhile the middle child continues perfectly happy, requiring nor seeking out the face to face world for interactions, reading, watching, playing. What did you do this afternoon, I asked him at dinner, having not seen him outside the bubble of his top bunk.
'Well, Mum, I cured cancer' he drawls.
If only. I wonder what will come from this period of enforced pause.
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