Yesterday I pulled a punch

Yesterday, while beating myself up for not writing more often, I went looking for my why.

I puzzled it out that my blog is about nothing. And that I write it as a way to piece together the pangs and longings that make us human. Then I wrote a short post that let me feel a wee bit better.

In it, I said that I’m struggling. Full stop. Nothing further. In other words, I pulled a punch.

In boxing, to pull a punch is to hit less hard than one can. In writing, it’s to be less truthful.

So, friends, I’m back with the minutiae that makes things real.

I’ve hit the pandemic wall.

I rent a simple suburban bungalow with a deep backyard that’s ideal for pastoral isolation but is a bitch to take care of. I’m doing the Covid cuddle with a man who means what he says, but says very little. I have plenty of work but I’m not painting or playing music though I claim I want to.

I’m noticing the dust on the windowsills instead of the sunshine streaming in.

I’m having trouble living in the present. Most days I wake up wishing I was at the beach in Mexico, where I almost bought a casita. Or on the lake in Central New York where I used to live. Or in Amsterdam, on the balcony of the AirBnB overlooking the Brouwersgracht, where I stayed a couple of years ago. Before Covid made such things impossible.

I’m scared that when Covid is over—if Covid is over—that I’ll be alone again. Because my college kid will fly the coop (as he should), and I’ll get bored (as I do) with the confines of coupledom. I’m afraid that maybe Covid has ruined me—ruined us all—for even the parts that are wonderful about being alone.

I see now that we need our people more than ever before. But that will take compromise. Patience. I’ll need skills for sitting still, alone and with another person in the room.

I’ve got to get a handle on this.

The Stoic Epictetus famously wrote: Every event has two handles—one by which it can be carried, and one by which it can’t. If your brother does you wrong, don’t grab it by his wronging, because this is the handle incapable of lifting it. Instead, use the other—that he is your brother, that you were raised together, and then you will have hold of the handle that carries.

Epictetus was right. You are my brothers and sisters. I write this blog about nothing because it’s a handle I can hang onto.

And some things just need to be said.