My birthday is in June. The middle of the year. Often on the solstice. For years, mostly during my late teen's, my twenties and maybe my early thirties, I did a critical reassessment of how I was doing on my birthday and six months later on New Years eve. The thing is - I'm not an external goal maker. I'm not trying to run in a marathon or learn French. My assessments were always internal and abstract and tortured. Lots of hand wringing. I don't remember when I stopped or if it was a conscious choice to stop.
I usually love those end of the year round ups. But this year.
This year.
I mean.
I remember in March my goddaughter was bringing my grand-godson for a visit. I had not met him. She was in New Orleans where the pandemic was already killing people that she knew. She wasn't comfortable traveling. I thought she was probably right but I was so sad. People kept asking me if I was worried about the pandemic. I wasn't. I live in a small city in the middle of a gorge. People come and go but I'm not running around and I felt like it might not get to us. Or at least not in a big way.
Shortly after the beginning of March the sports club closed down. No swimming. I stopped going to the store. I met with friends in the garage. Masked at a distance. At some point things opened again. I went back to the pool and felt safe because I was masked and there weren't many people there. As more people came masking became an issue. One woman told me I was a fearful person. A moment I will never forget. More and more cases in the country, in Oregon and in the Hood. I stopped feeling safe about the same time I stopped having a ride. No swimming. Friends were coming into the nest. Not many. We masked up occasionally if they'd been around a lot of people. Friends shopped for me.
I continued with yoga and my bike pedals until my knee started spasming. My activity level dropped. I read books.
The economy dropped and scared me enough that I stopped buying books. Which turned out to be a fun thing. I have purchased and been gifted many books. Looking at my book shelves was like having my own little store. I worked through shelf after shelf.
Then the primary and the election. All stressful and annoying.
The demonstrations. The deaths of Black people at the hands of police.
It feels like 2020 will slip into 2021 with not much change. There will be more surges. There will be more violence. January seems grim. Maybe even February. Maybe longer.
I know Biden isn't great but he is better. There will be things that get better. The vaccine isn't perfect but it's hope. I feel like things will get better in many ways. There is sense of momentum. There is also a sense of irreparable damage. Having a binary metric isn't useful.
I am something. Something like happy. If I sound reticent it's because I am worried about the damage. I'm worried about all the best effort not being enough. Happy isn't something I'm used to. Nor was it ever anything I cared much about. Internal goals. Abstract and tortured. I always reserve a part of myself in some kind of awareness of everything, everybody around me.
Small things seem to knock me down. Almost always having to do with a sense of people not doing what they should do. A mail person doesn't take the time to find a package, which becomes obvious when another one does. I feel a desire to demand accountability. It might be my privilege showing and it's also a sense that we all need to be doing what we can. That we are in a crisis. More than one. It may also be left overs from the time of taking care of the mommie. I only know that the desire to shout why is overwhelming. I feel weepy and a bit craven.
In my life the damage has been repairable. I sit in my warm nest. Fed. Rested. New stack of books from Christmas. Something like happy.
No critical reassessment.
No goals.
Can I say happy new year? Can I use that ebullient word and feel it? In the context of all the death and all the cruelty and all the loss? Can I feel happy new year? Can I let go of assessment and just hold a moment?
Not sure.
But something like happy.