All Is Not Lost

It's hard to write an observational blog when the only thing one is currently observing is herself at her desk, in front of her computer. I mean, how many more of these lock downs can we take? Frequently, Paul and I start our day by asking, "What would you like to do today?" then fall into a fit of deranged giggles because there is no choice as to what to do today or any other day.

And so we play pretend. We look up the temperature in Hamilton, Bermuda and virtually feel the warm, sandy beach on the bottoms of our bare feet. We check Google Street View to watch the busy comings and goings of people in New York and Paris. We check for room vacancies at our favourite home-away-from-home hotel in Toronto and, why not? flirt with the idea of booking the biggest and most luxurious of the suites. We reminisce about the times we've gathered with all the kids for celebrations, good food, and lots of laughs. Whatever would we do without our memories especially when we rely on them to remind us of what life used to be like, and give us hope we may yet get back there.

The view from my office

Meanwhile, where I am, it's snowing. And it's cold. Which just about sums up what the pandemic feels like these days. It's as though we are frozen in time. There's a metaphor in there somewhere; I'm just feeling too lazy to find it.

I've been working on a blog post for over a week now which is about a week minus one day longer than it usually takes me to write one. I have a stack of drafts. None of them is going anywhere and, besides, they all sound just a little too angry, a little too passive-aggressive. Pretty much sums up how I'm feeling, creatively, so there's no coincidence there. I'm the kind of person who thrives in an open-ended, nothing but choice mindset. Needless to say, I am not currently thriving. The word shrivel comes to mind - I'm seeing a plump, green grape full of deliciously sweet hydration, drying up and withering into a dense, black raisin. Sure, it's still sweet but now it's sticky and I have to pick it out of my molars.

Despite the frozen tundra outside, I've observed that my plants inside are still happily growing and stretching into their environment in their own time. There's nothing in a hurry in the plant world. I love the juxtaposition of the snowy day outside their window. Do the plants notice this, too? And, if so, do they have a deeper appreciation for their care and feeding? Or, are they like indoor cats who just don't know any differently?

Which reminds me that:

1. looks can be deceiving and,

2. two seemingly disparate things can be true at the same time

In this case, frozen on the surface does not mean frozen underneath. As we speak, all kinds of stuff is happening underground. Nascent germination, sleepy roots, just biding their time until they start to push through the soft Spring soil, blink up at the sun's light, and grow, grow, grow. I like to think that if I take a page out of the plants' book, and just wait until my time is right, the creativity will flow once again.

There, I managed to get at least one metaphor out. All is not lost.