Facebook mocks me . . .
resurrecting my posts from two, three, or more years earlier, all pre-Covid. Little did we know.
Just a few months ago I wrote about the difficulty of making plans. Naively, as the Delta variance abated, we did just that. My family bought airfare to Chicago for the holidays, planning trips to the theater, to parties with friends, to meals at our favorite restaurants, to community festivals. Omicron obliterated most of the plans, forcing us to create our fun in semi-isolation in the gray, cold city.
To be clear, we had a great time: meeting unfamiliar cousins, viewing the lights of the Chicago Botanic Gardens in the company of good friends, Christmas day activities with our children and grandchildren prior to the onslaught of Covid that evening.
The holidays are long past, but the virus still rules. Plans fizzle as people announce exposure to Covid or the presence of suspicious symptoms. Those of us at a higher risk (old and fat) are especially cautious.
I reflect upon Martha Stewart . . .
and her time in prison. Lest you think that her five months at Camp Cupcake was one lovely vacation, please read the link. Nevertheless, she came out professionally and, it appears, personally unscathed.
This is not to make light of imprisonment. It is horrible and inhumane, a poor system for retribution, rehabilitation, and containment. I reflect upon Martha and her ability to turn lemons into lemonade, so to speak.
First, Martha’s sentence had a beginning. My Facebook photos of March 2020, documenting a glorious week in Mexico, reflect no awareness of the trauma to come. How would we have reacted if we had been told that as of March 15, 2020, we would be restricted to our homes for at least two years with limited social interactions and risk of ill health if not death if specific procedures were not followed, e.g. mask wearing, vaccinations, obsessive hand cleansing?
Second, there was an end to Martha’s sentence. Five months in prison, five months house arrest. Ten months. Almost two years into Covid, we remain uncertain about the trajectory.
It is no surprise . . .
that mental health issues have soared within the past two years. Inconsistency feeds mental illness. I bounce from optimism to despair and all points between within minutes. An oft-repeated phrase is “I’m sick of this”, uttered by people as once again plans are put aside.
An Indian proverb posits:
Blessed are those who plant trees under whose shade they will never sit. I keep that in mind as I play music that will never be heard, write words that will never be read, maintain a body that may never travel far, make social dates to be discarded for time alone. One day, the music may be heard, the words read, I may travel again and attend concerts with friends.
If not, I have enjoyed life and maybe made the world a little nicer for those who will sit in the shade.