I love Norway.
I sit at the desk in my writing shed, affectionately dubbed Norway, thankful for the temperate winter of central Arizona and not the tundra of Scandinavia. The addition of a Wi-Fi extender in the house allows me to access the internet when I need to close the door. Sometimes.
But I’m not writing.
My mind is working to interpret data as I plan my week. A sharp red line on the daily news chart indicates a rise in Covid infections that refuses to decline. Recalling that several friends and family are suffering either Covid or colds or flu tempts me to consider isolating at home another week.
I met friends for coffee this morning. We are all cautious, masking frequently, washing our hands, and limiting our social interactions. We are all skipping the gym this week, instead joining Noreen in yoga via Zoom biweekly. How far do we venture without risking ill health? Is this an excuse? Memories of annual bouts of severe bronchitis caution me to take extra care.
I miss it.
It has been weeks since I attended my Wednesday writing group, being out of town for the holidays and/or quarantining while family members recovered from Covid. It meets tomorrow, and I have missed it. The fellowship is encouraging. The ambience of the coffee shop/wine bar nestled in a unique book shop is stimulating.
But there is that line.
No one in the world has been prepared for this. No one in the world knows how to handle it. We can’t call our parents to ask for their advice. War preparation, yes. Pandemic, no. They are gone, anyway; their generation suffered enough trauma.
Should I stay or should I go? As I this moment, I don’t know.