It is a beautiful day at our little home in North Carolina, and I am writing this post outside under blue skies and in 70 degree weather. I’ve set up a comfortable spot with my extra fuzzy blanket at the base of the sweet gum tree in our yard. Queso and I are shamelessly watching Alex work on the garden while we sit and enjoy the sunshine.
It’s a lovely day, and of course, at the same time, it isn’t. The past couple weeks have been difficult as they have been for most everyone I know, and while Alex and I are both very fortunate to still have our jobs, my company has been forced to furlough and lay off the majority of our staff.
Although I’m still going into work, all of our patient visits are telehealth and there are just a handful of employees with me throughout the day. Life is much quieter and much slower these days.
Everywhere I go, there is a sense of unease, and even on a sunny day like today, I can’t help but notice how few cars are passing by in the neighborhood and the lack of planes flying overhead. I should be inside since the pollen has been affecting me a lot, but I can’t bear to be indoors anymore, and especially on a day like this one.
I have been writing a lot more over the past week or two, a combination of journaling and freelance assignments. With the job market as unsteady as it is, I have been trying to pick up more writing projects here and there “just in case,” and the projects have kept me entertained in my hours at home.
Surprisingly, my anxiety has not prevented me from being able to write, which would have been a major hindrance to my past self. Somehow, I’ve actually found it easier to write under a bit of pressure, along with being fueled by a dose of morbidness (i.e., “maybe I won’t get to write this at a later time . . . “).
It seems strange to be carrying on like normal, but I’ve concluded that is the best thing to do right now, and really, just about the only thing to do. Honestly, I self-isolate fairly frequently under typical circumstances, although I usually balance that side of me with an out-going streak that appears here and there.
With nowhere to go, I’ve been at home sitting at my desk much more than usual throughout the week. With nothing else to do, I’ve been happy to turn to writing for some entertainment that is not Netflix.
So for now, as always, writing continues to be a source of comfort, a cure for boredom, something to look forward to, and a habit that remains necessary throughout all of “this.”
How are you other writers dealing with life right now? Are you getting more or less writing done as the days go by?