The places that heal me aren’t structures or buildings, though I love both of those things. The places that heal me are the sounds entering my ears and vibrating their way into my consciousness. They are collections of words, not too many, that gather up my messy piles and lay them out one-by-one, side-by-side like cards in a reading. They are the quick crunch of a leaf turned by an animal as I pass by, my eyes as they find the creature, breathing fast and frozen in fear (don’t be scared). Red leaves on the roadside, doors held open for me on the subway by a total stranger while they try their best to bounce closed.
At one of my churches I hear the phrase we haven’t been given the opportunity to restore ourselves. I feel this. No one’s cups have been filled all the way up, not in a long time.
My mind is stilled tonight by some kind of weird certainty. People keep repeating "we’re all going to get it” and I get it, but I don’t want it. I don’t want it to upend plan after plan after plan, I don’t want it to harm anyone, big or small, weak or strong, young or old. I don’t want to give up or shrug or toss hands into air and say oh well, let’s all go out to dinner. I know how dominoes work.
This is for my friends and family quarantined in bedrooms tonight with doors that must stay closed. This is for my neighbors caring for them, worried that the magic they planned so carefully won’t happen, again. This is for all of us in this moment, living with the anxious energy that’s taken up residence in our chests.
You can set it down for a moment. Just for tonight.