I left Twitter just one week ago. It is strange to delete oneself; to clear with a click years of carefully curated conversations; to rip out the pages of virtual life and watch them waft away.
Nothing remarkable has happened. There has been both grief and relief. Both and once again.
I have fallen ill with COVID for the first time and that has been a miserable bit of meandering though fever, cough, and increasing isolation. I do not do a bed of sickness well, but I do know anyone who does. I thought I might read at length and found that I succumbed only feverish sleep, truncated by the occasional episode of from the BBC. I washed my hair for the first time in a week. I fear I resembled Medusa. Things are smoother now, if not still feverish.
I find that I welcome correspondence now, where I once declined it. I have marginally more to give to those who reach out, I find my well less empty, my soul, though sick in body, less depleted. I feel content in this increased capacity for communion with myself and others.
I continue to watch justice unfold and marvel at its path. The way has been precipitous, the cost incalculable. I feel such sorrow for what could have been, what should have been, and grieve over what currently is.
I have no other great revelation, just a slowly growing sense of grounding in the present; in these four walls; in these four people; in this canine companion; in these close connections.
Please take care of you. You are worth taking care of.