|My children at Lake Conasauga in Rome, GA|
As I recently wrote in the first issue of my cannabis newsletter The Seed:
I’ve had the feeling that I needed to wait. A shift was coming. Now, it’s here. Regardless of how you view it, COVID-19 has already forced unprecedented change across the world, and it will have a lasting impact not just on global politics and economics, but also on the way we approach death and process grief.
Each of us will feel this shift on our own terms, but none of us will escape it.
In Rome, Georgia, USA, we've now experienced one week of social distancing, followed by one week of mandatory sheltering in place. I feel tighter quarantine restrictions are to come. Yesterday, my children needed a break from the apartment, so we ventured out to a local lake and walked around the circumference.
One one side, far too many people had gathered. We heard the remnants of a back yard birthday party BBQ, saw little heads bobbing up over a fence as laughing children bounced into each other on a trampoline.
On the other side, we were alone--accompanied only by some friendly ducks, the water, the wind and the stones lining the shallow lake's banks.
When I was a child, I lived near the same lake. I always asked my mother to park so we could walk around it. Instead, she would plop me in a wagon and drag me to the edges of a small, grassy pond nearby. She said the larger lake was too dangerous. Too many people.
Her warning makes more sense these days. And yet, the guidelines I'm giving my children center on balance--of hope and fear, gratitude and grief, connection and isolation.
Back home, the apartment felt like a welcome cocoon wrapping around us, keeping us safe during the world's transformation. My son (long non-verbal due to autism) practiced his speech and his dance moves. My daughter laughed on the phone with her friend and made new art.
I did what I often need to do these days--lie down, feeling waves of emotions and physical sensation weave their way through my neurologically divergent mind and cancer-infused body. Like many Americans, I'm uncertain whether I've already had the virus, have the virus now or have somehow avoided it thus far.
I do know that, when I allow myself to feel everything that comes up, I end up feeling better. Then, I'm able to write.
I'm going to spare you (and me) a precise of vision of how my writing will unfold over the course of this pandemic and beyond. However, I am going to link to a few things I've done thus far.
The Seed, Issue 1: Cannabis and Quarantine
The Corona Virus Has Become a Super Meme
Proven Paths to Freelance Success, Before and After COVID-19
Finally, your donations to SOVEREIGN: Recovery Poems are still welcome and needed now more than ever. Thank you so much for everything!