Memories

 I can’t begin to describe how much I hate 2020.

Suffice it to say it has been difficult. I’m constantly on the lookout for wellness solutions.

I rode my bike 2,500 miles to the West Coast.

I bought a Britta water pitcher.

I either run or take an hour-long walk, getting outside daily.

I don’t hesitate to eat ice cream.

I’m intentional about scheduling calls with friends to catch up, sending cards and letters.

Yet nothing can dispel this unease with myself and my life.

Part of it is a lack of routine. At least when I was on my epic bike ride I knew what my job was each day: to get somewhere, to pedal and make miles.

There was never a problem with motivation; I had a purpose. Since returning home I’m left with discovering what I need to be about. Even writing feels like tossed salad, words chopped and mixed up, trying to find meaning.

What feels good? Standing yesterday at the edge of the sand and watching the water wash in. There was a duck on a raft of tree corpses, every once in a while he went down bottom up to feed, once again bobbing his head back to the surface. These natural rhythms remind me that out there, beyond the pandemic and apocalyptic state of the States, there are moments where I can forget.

pic by Lyda Jackson, a morning walker