This post comes to you from nearly 4 months of not working due to COVID-19. The company has been shuttered since St. Patrick’s Day, and today we just got word that one of our resident performers – one of our family – has tested positive for the disease. Noelle and I frantically contact traced, and tomorrow marks 14 days from contact with the last person who was with the patient. It’s a wary feeling of relief, because there certainties about what we are dealing with are few.
But today, we are healthy. Today. That is all that is certain. It’s not a new thought, or a new idea. This truth is as old as anything: Nature does not understand Time.
But we sure do rock the fuck out of time, don’t we? We wear it like our favorite jacket, wrapping ourselves in its comfortable constraints. We complain and lament about how it binds us, but we feel naked without it holding us, protecting us from the cold of chaotic order of nature.
We even give it healing properties: “Time mends wounds,” is this phrase that is smeared over conflict like a lidocaine – it doesn’t heal, it only makes you feel something else.
People in charge have been telling us to give this disease time
People in charge have been telling us to let time fix racism
People in charge have been telling us to take the time to better ourselves
People in charge have been telling us to make time to be pull ourselves up by our bootstraps
Every day, I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to bending over far enough to see the light under the crack of the door that leads to fortune, understanding, and peace. But it only because I’ve stopped giving myself time to figure it out.
