Holding Breath

These past few days, it feels like we've been holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The center is directionless and will not hold; the confusion is mighty and amplifies our unease. Solid, moral leadership from the top about COVID-19 would have given us a base to work from, even if dire. Instead, we have this free-fall, this unidentified free-wheeling panic, with little way to determine what's true or exactly what to do.

We are waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Perhaps we are watching it tip over in slow-motion and tumble downward.

Meanwhile, we're washing hands, wiping counters down, offering elbow bumps and vulcan salutes. The impulse to touch upon greeting is so innate, it feels rude not to offer a hand or a hug. But it's the best way to break the bridges the virus uses for its invasion from one host to the other.

Keeping my hands from my face is a monumental task and requires as much concentration as mindfulness meditation. But the upshot is that for the first time in decades, I have fingernails.  Real tools! I can flick open tops of tubes; I can cut into the deep skin of oranges, inhaling the  sweet spray. 

We muster on, because, really, what else can we do? We hang tough, we keep super-clean, we maintain our distances, we watch the shoe falling in slow motion.

By the way, the oranges are delicious. And the Vitamin C is good for you.