jillsalahub

1. Signs of spring, especially the blooms. I am really missing having flowers in my bathroom, (but not enough to risk going in to the store to buy some). Soon I’ll be able to bring some in from my own garden. I’m especially looking forward to the lilacs and peonies and the tall spikes of white irises with yellow tongues that my friend Ann gifted me the year before she died.

2. Things I miss. The gratitude isn’t about not having them or the sense of sad longing I feel when I think about them, but rather the clarity that comes with being so certain how much you love something, to know without a doubt what matters. On the top of my list is my yoga students, group yoga classes, the pool and sauna at my gym, hugging my friends, seeing my family “in person”, my friend’s dogs, massages from Dana, haircuts, going out to eat, seeing a movie in the theater with popcorn and soda pop, grocery shopping, (in particular being able to go in without fear, find and buy anything you want, which leads to eating what I want not just what I have).

3. Practice. I’ve always been someone who does much better with a routine, something to ground me and give my days structure. It’s probably related to being a highly sensitive introvert. I like at least some things to be predictable, the same, dependable, to give me a sense of structure and stability amidst the confusion, chaos, and change that is life. This has never been truer than now, and I’m so grateful that every day there are at least a few things that will repeat, stay the same.

4. I’m still here, still healthy and safe. It’s never a guarantee and I’m grateful.

5. Morning walks. Most days when I go now, it’s all four of us, and I am not mad about that.

6. My tiny family. As hard as this moment is, it could be so much harder without these three. If I have to stay home all the time, if I’m scared or sad, there’s no one I’d rather be with.

Bonus joy: the internet, video chatting with Mikalina and Chloe’, good TV, good books, good podcasts, comedians, naps, a warm shower, doing yoga and HIIT workouts with Eric, sitting in the backyard in the sun, cuddling with the dogs, hugs from Eric, the way he asks me “what can I do for you?”, texting with my brother and mom, breakfast for dinner, the new skillet Eric bought, marionberry jam, laughing.

Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I’ll tell you a story. ~F. Scott Fitzgerald

I had a long night of pandemic anxiety dreams, ones with infected people coughing on me, texting my mom and getting no response, a haunted grocery store, not being able to breathe. Eric was in a funk yesterday, the stress and frustration of our current situation and his work weighing heavy on him, and it had rubbed off on me a bit. Panic and grief and irritation are close to the surface these days. I meditated and wrote first thing when I got up, and didn’t want my practice to end because then I’d have to face the rest of the day. I did finish, and then I checked my phone.

There was an email from our grocery store, letting us know they were enacting new policies, specifically limiting the number of people they’ll allow in the store at a time. Bernie Sanders dropped out of the Democratic race for president, so our best hope now is Joe Biden (yuck). Singer songwriter John Prine and Charlotte Figi, the namesake for Charlotte’s Web’s CBD products, have both died from COVID-19.

Last night at 8 pm, many of my neighbors went outside and howled at the moon. It’s actually something they’ve been doing every night at that time. I opened the back door to listen. The back of our house faces west, so I was also looking out at the sunset, pink and orange over the foothills. The sound of howling and the color of the sky, all of us there together but also alone, made me start to cry. It reminded me of that moment at the end of the movie Troop Zero when the girls are standing on top of a picnic table under the stars, all yelling “I’m here!” at the sky, hoping someone will hear them, or the first lines of Andrea Gibson’s devastating poem “Orlando.”

When the first responders entered the Pulse Nightclub after the massacre in Orlando, they walked through the horrific scene of bodies and called out, “If you are alive, raise your hands.” ~Orlando by Andrea Gibson.

This morning, (this mourning), I’ve been listening to Ani DiFranco’s cover of John Prine’s “Angel From Montgomery” on repeat. When it feels like my heart has no more space for anymore grief, it grows and I manage somehow to hold it. My heart at this point is as big as the world, broken in places, and my body feels like it can barely contain it, like it might burst right out of my chest.