The fog is thick this morning, a cold cocoon chrysalis shielding our house and holding it suspended in time.
It has been 38 days since my last confession.
I’ve been quiet, I think, because I’m hibernating.
The isolation and confinement of trying to be wise, trying to protect our people, has forced a sort of inward focus. Like an owl tucking its face in its wing for slumber. Or a dog curled up by the fireplace, tail over its nose.
Oh, my home is still Chaos Made Manifest. Large humans prowl at all hours and yell fuck at their video screens and thunder up and down the stairs and leave evidence of whole meals made in the wee hours of the morning. Gummy sauce splatters decorate the counters. Noodles, cooked then spilled then dried, grace the stovetop burners. Crumbs from bread and cereal and crackers litter the kitchen table. Bits of shaved cheese turn into oily stones. Dogs leave muddy footprints on the floor and the couch and my bed. There is no shortage of Things Which Must Be Done: bills to pay, food to buy, chores to manage, school to monitor, and on and on and on and on.
Still, I feel as though I’m hibernating. Hunkering down. Curling in on myself. Not in a bad way. Nor just because it’s winter. But because it’s the season for it. The spot in this, the strangest of all timelines, when hunkering is required of me.
I have a routine for this time of year. Or I did, in the Before Times. Now that routine, full of bustle and haste, is gone. It didn’t flee. It… evaporated. It was there one day, then it became air and floated away. And I know that’s hard for a lot of folks right now who are craving Normalcy, but it’s not very hard for me. I’m not mourning that this will be a different Christmas. Or, I’m not mourning it much. I long to hug my mom and my dad; other than that, I’m oddly content. Like the molecules that make up my cells recognize this blueprint, the twin demands of active rest and passive growth. Like it’s physiological. An urge like hunger or exhaustion for which the solution is clear. I want to resist it no more than I want to resist gravity. Which is to say, I sometimes pull against it anyway, but not a lot and not for long.
I guess… I just wanted to say I’m still here.
Hibernating, but here.
And waving in the dark, as always,
P.S. I’ve been using this time to write and write and write and write. Not here in this space. On something wholly different. Maybe I’ll get to show you those words one day.
P.P.S. How are you? Are you hanging in there?