July, 2020
The reality of Covid-19 necessitates a Plan B. Plan A was my life before. I was looking forward to my nieces' weddings, one in Massachusetts and one in Chicago. I would of course continue dancing at ODC ,3 times a week. I would celebrate my son's acceptance to UCLA and another year of his sobriety…in person, in LA with him and a long, tearful, joyful hug.
I am not sure how to redeem the pieces of Plan A which continue to dissolve on a daily basis. Who knew that there would be a pandemic which would still be proliferating months after we were told, "it's basically like the flu." I wanted to equate this part of my life with serenity and peace. With relief that I could finally exhale into myself.
I strain on a daily basis to orient myself to a very different reality than the one I imagined.
I am struggling to write. I wonder if it is a result of the idea that I need a Plan B, but I have not let go of Plan A. I don't want to disembark from my dreams. I am angry.
On the other hand, I want to start a new file. I sorted through folders of writing yesterday. Pieces I shared in my writing group years ago. Reflections on the years of strain when there was no clear path forward. It has taken time to refrain from the ever present anxiety that my son, who I love more than anyone, could perish and I would not be able to save him. Even as I write this today in the midst of his almost 5 years of sobriety, I can still feel some kind of fear which I must treat with the decongestant of faith and the reality that he is well and remarkable.
Plan A was full of uncertainly about his future, although it did not include Covid. Maybe Plan B will be more about me taking care of me. The problem is that I cannot travel or dance in the studio or leave spontaneously. I am magnetized here, in my lovely home with a couple of orange walls and my sunny backyard and my puppy and my husband.
I would so much like to disembark from this Covid ship on which I feel trapped. I strain to create a Plan B which can decongest my fear and anger and fatigue. I strain to write and to find words to orient myself to the present as I sit in front of the orange wall, looking out to the sunny backyard.