See more @ The New Yorker (April 12, 2021): “What Your Mask Says About You (How to judge a face by its cover. Barry Blitt, a cartoonist and an illustrator, has contributed to The New Yorker since 1992. In 2020, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial cartooning.April 12, 2021
Short story.
How did we get here with this random, mid-day post.
Ray, a fellow wordpress blogger, who must be beyond fatigued with my photo hobby posts across social media and my incessant sharing of book passages and quotes, said “ENOUGH already” and asked for a story. And when Ray demands, I move.
So, I’m giving him one. And it aligns with the spirt of this blog — if it moves me, it goes up.
My youngest Brother recently passed away. I am the Personal Representative of his Estate. It has been a journey in this COVID-19 environment to settle his affairs, and we’re far from done. Let’s leave this at that.
I’m sitting in a bank branch this morning waiting to get help. I’m holding my smartphone in my hand, and a file folder with my Brother’s paperwork on my lap.
And I’m waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.
My Gear is on. (Face mask fully covering nose and mouth.)
I’m looking down and paging through screen after screen after screen after screen on my smartphone.
Twitter, Tumblr, work emails, FB, WP, LinkedIn.
And I get vertigo. Eye strain. Mask inhibiting breathing. Feeling woozy.
Normal functioning Humans make adjustments.
I keep flipping through web pages. And flipping, and flipping.
Wooziness doesn’t let up.
I come to a post on LinkedIn. And stop.
I read the post again.
And as Sawsan would say. “No, I’m not crying.” Not here. Not now.
Air under the mask is getting thin.
Eyes well up.
My glasses fog up, the face mask pushing air straight up.
And just at that moment: “Sir, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I’m ready for you now.”
I can’t lift my head.
Glasses are fogged up. Floor is spinning.
She sees I’m struggling.
Sir, let me give you a moment: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I thank her, and take a moment to gain my composure, and then walk into her office.
Here was the LinkedIn story.
I was walking our dog during the pandemic, the neighborhood empty, the clouds heavy, and, through my headphones, the music of a man now gone, the love from his soul helping me keep my head above water. And though it’s hard to bow to the vastness of the sea when being pulled under, hard to believe in the merit of light when lost in the dark, hard to wait on love when painfully lonely—these larger truths never stop being true. Even as I voice this, someone is dying in the hall of an overcrowded hospital, while another is lifted from their own hell by the grace of a kindness no one saw coming. As if the spirit of the one dying arrives like pollen in the heart of the one stuck in hell, giving them just enough to begin again. If we could only give the extra warmth we receive to someone who is shivering. If we could shed the masks that keep us from ourselves, there would be enough to save the world.
~ Mark Nepo, “Sheltered-in-Place” (FB, April 5, 2020)
Notes: Photo – Axios. Quote: Thank you Make Believe Boutique. Inspired by Ray’s post: It’s all about Perspective
6:58 a.m.
First day of Winter. Temperature: 61° F. Repeat: 61° F, on December 21st. Paradoxical? Global Warming? Heti whispers: “Not everything has to be so heavy all the time.” Whoa Sheila, try walking with me in this Head for a few yards.
I step on the scale anticipating a bad outcome…and expectations are exceeded on the high side. Now Sheila, here’s some real Heavy.
Rain patters on the roof, bangin’ on the gutters. I flip open the Dark Sky app…it’s calling for heavy rain for the next two hours.
“Severe weather alert: Coastal Flooding.”
Well, maybe that might work – a flash flood to drag me along the highway, scrubbing the cheese, gingerbread cookies and peppermint chocolate gelato off these bones, and cleanse me of this mood while it’s at it.
I pause as I put on my sneakers. Maybe it’s best to wait for the rain to let up, and run later. Who are you kidding? Get your a** out the door.
I’m out the door. I run. With Me (M), and me (m).
M: What’s with the mood?
m: I don’t want to get into it.
M: Blog title? Anger management? Angry about what?
m: Hard of hearing? Pick a topic. I’ll find an angle.
M: Root cause? [Read more…]
1:32 am.
Halldór’s nightlessness and insomnia in all directions.
A new routine, and I’ve grooved it. To bed early, wake early, read to exhaustion, and back to sleep until sunrise.
I flick on the iPad, illuminating the dark. I get after it. The Journal. The Times. Apple News. Blog posts. RSS feeds in Feedly. A few late night incoming emails. And then to dessert, a chapter or two on Kindle, half-way through Lebedev’s Oblivion. It’s 3:15 am, I’m turning pages on a title called Oblivion, now that’s something. You must sleep, or you will pay dearly.
I set the e-gear down, turn on the left side, and pull up the covers. Fragments of news, pages, posts, emails and today’s full day calendar are flitting by, churning, the mind workin’, workin’. Anxiety…A piece rises to the top. Begley: “A compulsion is at once psychological balm and curse, surface madness and profound relief…The ability of compulsive behaviors to quiet anxieties great and small is one of the greatest gifts our brains can give us.”
I pause, close my eyes, and marinate in this…if this is the greatest gift our brains can give us, I am fully gifted, fully loaded. FULL UP.
And, then, it stopped. The churning stopped. [Read more…]
4:52 am.
January 19th.
35° F, clear, calm.
Rested.
Body parts functioning, check.
Smartphone in breast pocket, check.
ID building pass, check.
Nine minutes to first morning train, check.
I step out the door, insert key, turn, and lock the door. There’s a clop clop clop of footsteps on the street. I turn to see Runner. Male, wearing a Miner’s headlamp, his beam illuminating the road.
2003. That’s you. Up, pre dawn: 5 miles Tuesday. 7 miles Wednesday. 4 miles Friday. Hot shower. Off to work. [Read more…]
I am still beset
by the same old lusts
and ego and emotions,
the endless nagging details and irritations –
that aching gap between
what I know and what I am.
~ Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard
Source: Schonwieder
Live & Learn 