A friend checked in the other month: "where are you, what are you doing?" I've stopped blogging and posting to Facebook and that's how most people keep track of me. So I thought about it. Why am I not communicating, why am I not connecting? I glanced through some of my draft blogs (the whiny/sad/exhausted/introspective ones that I did not want to share), and I thought....hmmm. But, for the sake of people who are wondering.....
I stopped blogging in spring of 2020, and previously had not done much in 2019. I'm not sure what made me stop. I had plenty of time and most people were documenting the hell out of Life in the Time of Covid. But, I didn't want to think about The Former Guy's daily assault on democracy, and I didn't want to think about how circumscribed my life was. I told people that my 3 years of being a nomad had prepared me for this, and that is sort of true. While I traveled, my connections were mainly virtual, and my activities solitary. But, of course, my activities were not pursued in solitude while I was petsitting. I visited museums, attended performances, checked out towns and countrysides, shopped for food, chatted with neighbors. Although most of my time was spent reading and knitting and writing, I did get out. I had something to write home about.
2020 was something else. I had no housemate and no pets to keep me company. I visited M once a week when I picked up my veggie share. Once I was vaccinated in 2021, I played some duets and trios, masked and sitting under the trees, but for a year my music was totally solitary. I learned some fiddle tunes and attempted some of the Bach unaccompanied sonatas and partitas. I practised my mini-piano. And of course I did other things. I folded 1000 cranes in solidarity with my nephew who was undergoing chemo. I tried to write, walk, and draw. I learned a bit of Norwegian on Duolingo. I did weekly virtual yoga with my Portland friends. I re-did The Artist's Way and started doing daily Morning Pages while I sipped my coffee. I also did Tai Chi Chih while I made the coffee and did the dishes. I posted a daily pic to Blipfoto. I set up a clay studio in the garage and made a LOT of pots. (They all got fired in the autumn, when Coyote Clay reopened.) I knitted and listened to books and podcasts. Mom called me every day. I lost 50 pounds. And these routines sufficed and continue to suffice in 2021. But they are nothing to write home about.
Eventually, things opened up a bit. In August, 2020, I drove to TX to bring back my housemate and her pets. In September, 2020, M died from a recurrence of cancer. I still can't write about it. In October, 2020, I went to Portland because my aunt had been calling me several times a week; she was not dealing well with isolation. She had technical problems with her computer and phone and emotional problems that led to medical problems. So, I car-camped across the West and ended up at B's house in SE Portland. She had just lost her husband and welcomed me into her guest room for as long as I needed it. I kept postponing my departure: I was helping my aunt, driving her to appointments, keeping her company, clearing up technical issues. I walked with S several days a week and saw several other friends and family, totally masked. I was reveling in B's company; it had been too long. I celebrated my aunt's birthday, Solstice, Christmas, New Year's. I made wreaths. I sewed a coffee cozy. I made jewelry. I watched spring return.
In March, I returned to NM, via a road trip with V through CA wine countries and various wild-flower spots. I arrived home in a freak snow storm. And here I am now. I've been pet-sitting for pay (a mere $25/day) at the co-op and in Santa Fe, but that's the only scheduled and gainful employment I have had. In the fall I went back to Portland to catsit for friends, and then to IL to join a sister for a roadtrip through TN to VA, where I met my nephew's fiancee. Last month I returned to IL for a trip to Branson MO; it was the sort-of annual Spider Reunion, but C had to bail. On these trips I saw some family, including two of my grandnieces.
It's all good, but somehow it's not enough. And the horrible politics that I tried to escape in 2017 are still there. It's been such a relief to have Biden in office: no more daily news bulletins about crazy and vicious behaviors. But, on my recent travels, I became sharply aware that the civil war is still in place: TRUMP WON and Fuck Biden signs were scattered throughout the Heartland. I don't know if we'll ever recover, and it makes me sad and anxious. And I miss the regular travel and the distraction it provides, although I hate flying in the time of COVID. I miss having gainful employment, although I don't want to be under someone's scrutiny and I don't want to be living under someone's schedule. I miss being productive, although I cannot define what I mean by productivity. None of what I'm feeling now is new, nor is the supportive feedback I'm getting. And that's why I'm not writing about it. It's small and boring.
My friend suggests that I look into reframing my inner monolog, which, again, is not new advice. But how? I want to run and hide again, instead. But that won't happen while the pandemic rages and the borders remain closed. So for now, I'm here in NM. I take pix, I read, I craft, I make music. Surely that's enough. I'll write again when I have something to say.
