It has been years since I last posted here. Last blogged. As a matter of fact, it was way back when blogging was a requirement of my publisher. Now, I am no longer with that publisher, and the only thing driving me to post here is my own introspection. Introspection that has been ignited while sequestering in isolation during a worldwide pandemic. The battle is raging just beyond my glass. Even while the birds are singing and the squirrels corkscrew up and down my tree, the battle is raging. And here is what this pandemic introspection has brought to my surface in this particular moment:
In the short 16 days that I have already been here, I'm finding it difficult to remember the last person I touched, or whom touched me. My last day at school, I knew we might take a bit of a break, but at that point I wasn't really worried. We were simply being over precautious. So, I left that day without taking the time to memorize the jarring of a solid pat on the back. I failed to take note of calloused palms whispering against one another in a handshake. Why didn't I pay attention to the throb of pulse in a companion's neck as we pulled each other into a warm embrace? I lost sight of the details of physical human connection.
Now, after 16 days of going it alone in social-distancing, I find myself staring out the glass, trying to conjure up those details, and remember those most sacred physical moments. Those moments that seem so far in the distant past, that I wonder if I will ever get to encounter them again.
I know that this virus will retreat, and the barriers to others, both real and perceived, will fade away. Eventually. But when that happens, how will we look? How will we be different from having had this experience? What marks will this leave on our untouched bodies?
Maybe there will be scabs that thicken with time, covering the pain. Our anxiety forcing us to pick at them, refusing to let them heal. Maybe some deep purple bruising that slowly fades to yellow before finally disappearing. We will eventually forget that they were ever even there. Maybe scars that heal, but remain with us, forever changing the landscape of our skin.
I have no idea how this experience is going to change me, or the rest of us. I do know, however, that we will be changed. If nothing else, I will never again take those moments of casual human contact, those details of joyful physical connectedness, for granted. I will close my eyes and remember them with every cell in my body. I will never again be alone trying to remember what touch is like.
In the short 16 days that I have already been here, I'm finding it difficult to remember the last person I touched, or whom touched me. My last day at school, I knew we might take a bit of a break, but at that point I wasn't really worried. We were simply being over precautious. So, I left that day without taking the time to memorize the jarring of a solid pat on the back. I failed to take note of calloused palms whispering against one another in a handshake. Why didn't I pay attention to the throb of pulse in a companion's neck as we pulled each other into a warm embrace? I lost sight of the details of physical human connection.
Now, after 16 days of going it alone in social-distancing, I find myself staring out the glass, trying to conjure up those details, and remember those most sacred physical moments. Those moments that seem so far in the distant past, that I wonder if I will ever get to encounter them again.
I know that this virus will retreat, and the barriers to others, both real and perceived, will fade away. Eventually. But when that happens, how will we look? How will we be different from having had this experience? What marks will this leave on our untouched bodies?
Maybe there will be scabs that thicken with time, covering the pain. Our anxiety forcing us to pick at them, refusing to let them heal. Maybe some deep purple bruising that slowly fades to yellow before finally disappearing. We will eventually forget that they were ever even there. Maybe scars that heal, but remain with us, forever changing the landscape of our skin.
I have no idea how this experience is going to change me, or the rest of us. I do know, however, that we will be changed. If nothing else, I will never again take those moments of casual human contact, those details of joyful physical connectedness, for granted. I will close my eyes and remember them with every cell in my body. I will never again be alone trying to remember what touch is like.