Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 23

A New Twist on the Golden Rule

This year of 2020 has certainly opened my eyes in more ways than I ever expected, and deconstructed so many things I thought were unshakeable truths. Even before COVID-19 locked us all in our homes, I heard something that completely upset the one rule I thought would always hold up to any scrutiny, the Golden Rule.

Back in February, my husband listened to a guest speaker at his work who was there to talk about diversity in honor of Black History Month. I’m paraphrasing what she said: “The Golden Rule says, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’ but if you think about it, that’s a bit selfish. Just because you would like something done to you doesn’t mean someone else would. It should really say, ‘Do unto others as they would like things done to them.’”

I’ve been thinking about her comment for months now, but never more so than in the past few days. As the nation starts to emerge cautiously from strict quarantines, it feels like we’re being called upon more and more to take note of how others want to be treated. Some people are still feeling very protective of their space and cautious about re-entering the world. Others are ready to throw caution to the wind. Since we can’t be sure where anyone stands, it seems only right that we try to assess what makes them comfortable, as well as what makes us comfortable.

In the coming months or years, as the grip of the virus lessens, we’re going to need to seek permission more often: “Is it okay if I give you a hug? Do you mind if I shake your hand?”

We’re going to need to ask people how they want to be approached: “Should I drop off your gift on your porch, or do you want me to ring the doorbell and hand it to you? If we go for a walk together, are you okay with me not wearing a mask or would you rather I did?”

We’re going to need to determine when and how people want to re-enter society. “I’m happy to keep picking up groceries for you, unless you miss going to the store and want to do it yourself again. Are you ready to go to a restaurant yet or would your rather I bring over take-out?”

It almost feels as if we need to develop a new, more honest way to communicate. A post-corona language with cues so that one person can truthfully express what they need to feel at ease and the other person can sincerely express if that’s okay with them. Something that goes beyond our current:

“How are you feeling about meeting in person?”

“I don’t know, how are you feeling?”

Whatever that new language is, I hope we keep this focus on others even after the virus is no longer a threat. Imagine if people continued to say, “I’m getting over a cold, is it okay if I come in, or would you rather we just talk on the stoop?” or “Tell me if you’d prefer to have our meeting in person or over zoom. Whatever is most convenient for you.”

Maybe that speaker was right. Maybe we’ve reached an era in which even the Golden Rule could use an upgrade, a time when we truly understand what it means to treat the needs and feelings of others as equal to our own, and a time when we all develop the courage to speak genuinely about what we need so we can best serve each other. Some good has to come from this virus, right?

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The Only Wisdom that Works for Everyone

I’ve been listening to a series of interviews with legendary authors who were asked to share their life wisdom. I expected to be shaken to my core by their words of insight. After all, these are writers who have left us gasping at the beauty of their written words. Instead, I was shocked by how “ordinary” these great writers sounded, and how simple their words of wisdom really were.

Maybe it’s not fair for us to hold our great contributors to such high standards, but often in times of crisis, like this current pandemic, we turn to our sages to provide the words of comfort and clarity we so desperately need. And sometimes they say exactly what we long to hear. Other times, their suggestions leave us confused or dissatisfied or even frustrated. I’m not just talking about advice from our favorite celebrity gurus, but from our personal teachers, mentors, or family members.

When I think back on some of the most profound words of wisdom I’ve received, many came from very ordinary folks whom I had interviewed for a story, or from someone I’d just met in a networking situation, or from a colleague who had, at one time, walked through the same struggle I was describing. Often times, it’s not those to whom we are closest or those whom we most admire who provide our greatest instruction, it’s total strangers. Why is that?

I think it’s because we already know what we need to know. It’s intuitive, it’s inside us. And when we hear it, we recognize its echo. It resonates because we feel it is true.

The answers to what you need right now to get you through this crisis, to reconnect with your creativity, to help you grow beyond this experience, are within you. Seek counsel with yourself. Get quiet—meditate, pray, or go for a long walk. Or talk with someone you trust and listen to their perceptions, but also listen to the deep insights that come out of your own mouth during that conversation. Sometimes we just need to hear ourselves say it out loud.

Ask yourself when you’ve felt most at ease during this difficult time. What brought you comfort, what gave you hope, what raised your energy, and whatever it was, do more of that. We are all different. There is no sage wise enough to provide a piece of advice so all-encompassing it’ll work for all of us all the time. Trust your inner guidance. You’ve got this.

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I’m Not Going to Write About Coronavirus Anymore (or any less)

I’m not going to write about the pandemic this week. I mean it. I’m not going to elaborate on how this crisis is affecting every area of our lives. We all know that. And I don’t believe it’s truly all there is to talk about these days.

 

Things are re-opening now, so it makes sense we should start looking ahead, not fearing the second wave we feel sure is coming now that everyone is out and about again. The weather is changing for the better, and we should focus on that, not on how overcrowded the bike and walking trails have become.

 

I’m not going to write about the silly things, either, like the twinge of panic I still get when I finish another toilet paper roll or use the last Clorox wipe in the can. Or how I’m no longer sure if my “good jeans” fit because I’ve been wearing my comfy pants since this whole thing started.

 

It might be kind of fun to list all the oddities about this stay-at-home time, like how my husband hasn’t gassed up his pickup or ironed a shirt in seven weeks. Or how we’re saving money by not going out, but running the dishwasher daily.

 

It’s tempting to write about the creative things that have lifted my spirits lately, like walking around my neighborhood after our recent spring snow and seeing more snowmen than I’ve ever seen in my life. And snow dogs, and rabbits, and wolves, and whole families of snowpeople. Or to write about the paintings and photographs that have brought tears to my eyes, or the thrill I received listening to the cast of Hamilton sing together on Jon Krasinski’s Some Good News internet show. It would be in keeping with the themes of this blog to say how grateful I am that art and creativity are keeping us sane right now, but I promised I wouldn’t write about the pandemic.

 

I’m definitely going to avoid words that are now part of our daily conversation: COVID-19, lockdown, shelter-in-place, unprecedented, curbside pick-up. I’m most certainly not going to talk about my love-hate relationship with Zoom calls or how I still can’t get used to wearing a mask. And there’s no point saying yet again how much I miss being in the same room with someone other than my loving husband.

 

Nope, I’m not going to write about the virus or how I predict we will or will not change because of this bizarre experience. I’m certainly not going to wax poetic about all the wisdom we’ve gained. And it goes without saying that our hearts continue to ache for all those experiencing serious loss at this time.

 

So, let’s talk about something else, shall we? Um . . . I cleaned out my fridge yesterday as I listened to a live-stream benefit concert. Also went on an extra-long walk because I didn’t want to go back inside. Had a good dinner, too, and discussed the book I just finished thanks to the extra time I’ve had lately. That’s not corona-talk, right?

 

There have been moments in the past few weeks when I managed not to think about the virus, mostly when I was focused on making final changes to the Spanish translation of one of my children’s books and the stage play adaptation of another. My creative work can take me away from here for a bit. But it never lasts long. This pandemic and all it has brought create the first clear thoughts I have each morning and the last prayers that cross my heart each night. It’s what I don’t want to write about anymore, and the only thing I can write about.

 

Okay, so next week, I won’t write about the virus. Or maybe the next. We’ll see.

 

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Love Travels Any Distance – Even in a Pandemic

Today, I mailed a package to my daughter. She will soon be celebrating her first birthday since moving to New York City and she’ll spend it in isolation in her apartment. I also drove across town and dropped off a present for a friend who turned 79 today. I put the gift bag on the bench outside his home, and we spoke for a few minutes at a safe distance. It was good to see him, but hard not to give him a birthday hug.

A friend recently wrote about how heartbreaking it is to mourn the passing of her favorite aunt when she can’t come together with people to celebrate her aunt’s life. Another told me she called off the trip she and her husband had planned for their 40th anniversary. My husband and I cancelled our trip to see our nephew graduate from high school, since the ceremony will no longer take place. All around us, people are giving up the rituals and traditions that mark the milestones in our lives.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the men and women of the World War II generation whom I’ve interviewed over the years. Many of them told me the same story with minor variations, how a woman would look up at the moon and wonder if her husband in a POW camp was looking at it too. Or how a soldier in a foxhole would imagine his wife standing under the same moon thinking of him. This shared memory never ceased to get to me. I think of all the soldiers and sailors who missed the births of their children, and all the women back home who marked their anniversaries by dancing alone in their living rooms. Maybe it sounds “corny” to some people, but to me, those stories went to the heart of separation, that need to have something that still ties us to each other.

Beyond all rituals and milestones and traditions there is love. That’s what it always comes back to. For those long-ago sweethearts, it wasn’t the moon that connected them. It was the love they imagined traveling to the moon and then shimmering down on their far-flung lovers. It was silly, of course, and overly romantic, but it was necessary. In a time when nothing felt certain, the moon was always there. Love was always there. In life, in death, in sacrifice, and in joy, love is always there.

Don’t just let your milestone moments slip by during this pandemic. They still matter. You still matter. Stop and feel the love that is coming to you. Find your own way, no matter how silly or simple or romantic, to breathe in that love and breathe it out again. Find your own moon to stand under.

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Seeing Clearly Through this Pandemic Fog

Some of us here in Colorado woke to a foot of snow this morning. I’m not going to say there isn’t a certain beauty to spring snow—even when it is laying tulips flat and snapping branches on budding trees—but I confess my first thought was, “Oh come on, Mother Nature, you heartless witch. Don’t you know there’s a pandemic going on, and we’ve been in lockdown for over a month? Don’t you understand the only thing keeping me sane is my daily walk? Outside. In the fresh air. In the sunshine. Where I might spot another human being from a safe distance. Where I can travel my usual route through the neighborhood and pretend life is the same as it was before all this madness.”

And here I am writing about the virus again. I’d hoped to write about something else this week, but that doesn’t feel possible. Not a single aspect of our lives, not even something as simple as a walk, has been untouched by this monster. And while I recognize the good that is coming from our isolation and am extremely grateful for my many blessings, I feel like I’m losing track of what types of things I used to talk about or think about or care about, and I can’t recall most of the things I assumed I’d one day write about.

I think with the snow came a fog.

While I struggle to string two words together, people keep reminding me of all the works of genius that were created by master artists during times of their own isolation. But you know what? They probably would have created those works of art anyway. They were masters, after all.

And people keep reminding me this too shall pass. And that’s true, of course, but I can’t imagine when.

People keep saying that things will go back to normal, but no one can articulate what normal means anymore.

It’s all just so . . . foggy.

If you’ve ever gone skiing, you know that sometimes your goggles cloud over. I was a timid skier, and whenever my goggles fogged up, I’d head immediately in the direction I hoped was the most out of the way of other skiers and stop to lift the goggles from my eyes and get my bearings. Sometimes I’d discover with relief I was further down the mountain than I thought. Other times I’d realize how far I had to go. Other times, I wasn’t even sure where I was. As I wiped off my goggles with my scarf or glove, I’d glance around and see clearly my fellow skiers swishing by, I’d notice the snow bending the branches of pine trees, and the sunlight pushing through the clouds. I’d take a deep breath, pull the goggles back over my eyes, and head cautiously down the hill.

As today wore on, it finally stopped snowing and the sun came out. The restlessness and the pull of the outdoors got to me. We live on a main street in our subdivision, so the snowplow had come by. I said to my husband, “Let’s go! Let’s walk right down the middle of the street. With this pandemic, the rules are out the window, and there’s hardly any traffic anyway.” So, we did.

And in the beauty of a snowy, spring day, what did Roger and I talk about on our walk? The virus, of course. We caught each other up on the latest scary news briefings, but we also joked about how we didn’t need to shovel the driveway because there was no place to go.

As we walked, my sunglasses fogged up just a bit. This time, I didn’t rush to wipe them off. I realized I could see well enough I didn’t feel unsafe, well enough I could trust that I could get down this mountain without, for once, needing everything to be clear. I could be a little less timid than usual.

Sorry I yelled at you, Mother Nature. Once again, you have given me a gift.

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The Best Lessons Are Often the Hardest Lessons

I’ve always been the type of person who responds to bad news with a “this-is-not-happening” reaction. I get that distressing phone call, hang up, and return immediately to my e-mail or to making dinner or to whatever task I was doing before my world came crashing down. If the call is distressing enough, my denial doesn’t last for long. Five minutes, ten maybe, and then the weight of reality finally drops me to my knees.

When the bad news isn’t all that bad or, worse yet, is confusing, my denial can go on for hours, even days. When this pandemic hit home on March 13, and I watched in befuddled awe as my world came crashing down, I didn’t stop to soak it in, I moved straight into action. If my talks and classes were cancelled, was there some other way I could provide instruction and support through my online coaching? If my school visits were called off, could I record a video and create some teaching tools to help the teachers and students? If book sales had halted, could I find some other way to bring income into the business so I could move forward with my current writing projects? I’ve always been a hard worker, but I think I worked even harder in those first two weeks after the lockdown started. I wanted to be of service, I wanted to concentrate on things I could control, I wanted to stay in motion.

While I was working harder, many of my artist and writer friends were finding it impossible to work at all. The doubt, fear, and sorrow weighed too heavily on them. They couldn’t focus on creative expression. I got that. The day after the crisis began, a friend said, “You’ll start creating all kinds of new content now. Maybe you’ll blog every day or several times a week, instead of once a week only.”

And I believed him. In my “must-work-so-as-not-to-panic” state, I was happy to think I might write more than usual. To my surprise, that hasn’t happened. I’ve kept up this weekly blog, but that’s it. There’s so much to process as each day at home slides by, that I’m not even sure what to write about until my self-imposed deadline rolls around on Fridays.

How do you put into words the magnitude of this experience? What do you choose to write about when bad news arrives several times a day? When thousands of people are dying alone in hospitals, and millions are losing their jobs? One minute, I feel terrified. Then lost, then hopeful, then grateful.

How does a writer summarize all that “is” when all that “is” is changing by the hour? And all that “is” can only be defined by each person as they muddle through this?

Last night, the isolation really hit me. I’ve been coping pretty well, what with phone calls and Zoom meetings and chats from six feet away. But last night, I didn’t think I could take one more minute in this house. I missed people. I wanted to go out to a restaurant. I wanted to jump in the car and take a spontaneous road trip. I wanted to hug my grown kids. I wanted to know when this would end. Really end. Not just when they would lift stay-at-home orders, but when we would feel safe gathering again.

Then I had a stunning realization. Before this all went down, I’d actually been complaining to my husband about how routine our lives had become. “All we ever do for fun is go out to dinner with friends,” I said. “And all anyone talks about is politics or work. No one is really listening to anyone anymore (myself included). No one is asking deep questions about what really matters. We don’t laugh enough. We don’t play together enough. We do that quick “nice-to-see-you” hug, but we’re all too tired and stressed to invest too heavily in what someone really needs.”

And now, here we are in the midst of this corona pandemic, checking in with friends and colleagues and acquaintances. Asking, “Are you healthy? How’s your business? What’s going on with your family? Is there anything you need?” We’re closing our conversations with, “Stay safe. Stay well.” We’re saying, “I love you,” more. We’re putting stuffed animals in our windows to cheer the children, and dropping off groceries for the elderly, and placing painted rocks that read “be strong” beside our sidewalks. Our world has shrunk to the size of our neighborhoods, and our hearts have grown to cradle the whole world.

The best lessons are often the hardest lessons. Difficult as it is, I think we need to sit in this discomfort a bit longer until what really needs to change sinks in. We need to sit here long enough for bad habits to morph into better habits. Long enough to acknowledge the impact we’ve had on our planet. Long enough to remember what and who truly matter. I need to sit here long enough that this doesn’t just become a “this-isn’t-happening” distraction and becomes a time of real change. At least that’s how I feel in this moment.

From the bottom of my expanding heart, I hope you and yours stay safe and well.

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How Will History Remember You in This Crisis?

I’m heading into week four of isolation during this coronavirus pandemic. My days consist of a 24/7 cycle of working, exercising, and connecting with friends and family. I haven’t talked this much on the phone since I was a teenager. I’d thought I would take more opportunities during this “downtime” to read books or go on longer walks or clean out a closet or two, but instead, I’m trying to resurrect my business, which took an enormous downturn; check in more often with those I love; keep up on the news without making myself crazy; and figure out how to contribute in some meaningful way to the welfare of others as we struggle through this crisis together.

Last night, I talked with my daughter’s best friend. He’d had the opportunity, at last, to read my first World War II novel, Remember Wake, and wanted to ask me some questions about my research and writing processes. He also wanted to know how I wrote a story that still feels so relevant today.

At one point, I explained how hard we writers worked in the days before the internet to find the information we needed. I described how we’d go to the state archives, or the historical society, or a library, or a tiny museum, and dig through file after file or box after box of obscure documents or photographs until we found exactly what we were looking for.

“You can’t imagine,” I said, “the sheer excitement when you found that tiny detail you’d been hunting everywhere for. You had to be a detective following the clues. It was a scavenger hunt, and you threw your arms up in glee when you found the treasure. Nowadays, we type something into Google and if it shows up, great. If it doesn’t, we give up and move on.”

He asked how I made the details in my book seem so authentic. “Ah, that was because they were authentic,” I said. “I took them from interviews with men and women who’d lived those experiences, and from out-of-print travel memoirs of people who’d been to Wake Island before the war, and from letters the men who’d worked on the island sent home to their families.”

And then I expressed a worry that has been troubling me the past few days. “We historians and writers rely so heavily on first-person accounts,” I said. “Letters, journals, diaries, oral histories, photographs, etc. But today’s communication is not permanent. We’re going through an amazing time in human history and we’re recording it in memes and texts and e-mails and Snapchat images. Most of those communications will disappear when this is over.”

If I could ask people to make time for anything during this pandemic, it would be to write down your thoughts and feelings in a journal or type them into a file on your computer. Print out a few pictures in case they someday disappear from the cloud. Slow down a bit. Draw in a sketchbook what you’re seeing, or write in a poem what you’re feeling. Make video recordings that are not just meant to be viral entertainment, but will serve as a record for future generations of how we are thinking, acting, feeling, and coping. If you’re writing a blog, print it out. If you’re e-mailing friends, save those e-mails after you hit send. If you’re creating new art, keep a record of it and how it relates to these unprecedented times.

Jonas Salk, inventor of the polio vaccine, once said, “Our greatest responsibility is to be good ancestors.” If we have to go through this experience, how can we create from it a better world? I’d like to talk more about that in another post. But I’d also like to ask, how can we best record for future generations what it’s like to live in this space and time? How can we preserve for them an authentic experience of our fears, hopes, sorrows, and breakthroughs? How can we ensure that we never forget what it has been like to walk together through this global crisis?

You may think what you’re going through doesn’t matter much in the wider scheme of things, but I promise you, every story matters. Your story matters. Be thoughtful in the way you tell it. History will thank you.

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I Am Here

Today marks two weeks since life turned upside down thanks to the coronavirus. Friday the 13th is when it became clear my husband and I would need to start isolating, although it had not yet sunk in how all-encompassing that would be.

Roger was recently channel surfing and landed on the movie, Guardians of the Galaxy. If you’ve seen it, you know there’s a character who looks like a tree and can only communicate by constantly asserting his identity, “I am Groot. I am Groot.” Sometimes his statement sounds confident and strong. Other times it comes across weak and unsure. It can sound playful, or it can sound annoyed. Since this whole virus-thing started, I hear my own assertion, “I am here. I am here.”

Sometimes it sounds strong. “I am here. You can bend me but you won’t break me.”

Other times it trails off in tears.

Sometimes it screams like a curse to humanity, “How did you let this happen again? Why do you keep making the same mistakes?”

Other times, it whispers like a plea to God, “You put us here. Can’t you help us?”

Sometimes it erupts in laughter when a friend texts me a funny meme.

Other times, it reverberates like the echo of better days.

I am here, I say, as I gaze out the window at an empty street.

I am here, I say, as my far-flung children’s faces appear on the screen as they join our family Skype call.

At times, it sounds like a pep talk to myself. “I am here. I’ve got this. You hear me?”

At times, it’s a reassurance for the people I love, “I am here if you need me.”

One minute, it’s a call to action. “I am here. Put me to work.”

The next, it’s a surrender to stillness. “I am here. Just let me be.”

I am here brimming with creativity and new ideas.

I am here holding on to hope.

I am here for however long it takes to get through this.

I am here for whatever changes this brings.

I am here for the lessons I’ll learn.

I am here to mourn the things I’ll lose.

I am here to experience all the ways I am here.

I am here because you are here.

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Returning to Heart in the Time of Coronavirus

When my son was five years old, he got very sick. I called the doctor after hours and explained the symptoms over the phone. He paused and then said, “Tell me, Mom, what do you think?”

“I think there’s something wrong. He’s not himself,” I said.

“I trust a mother’s intuition,” he replied. “Take him to the hospital, and I’ll meet you there.”

My son had pneumonia. They sent him home to rest, and for five eerie days my little Tasmanian Devil lay nearly motionless on the couch. My mother’s intuition told me he’d be okay in the long run—that we just had to get through this scary, unsettling time—but every fiber of my being wished we could speed up that process.

After several days, I watched as my son sat up slowly. Some toy had caught his attention, and he rolled off the couch and beat on it for a few minutes. Wearing himself out quickly, he returned to his pillow and blanket, but my heart soared. He was on the mend. He’d be back to his old self in no time, running from here to there, turning up the volume in our house, and breaking things.

This past week, I’ve been wracked with worry about my grown children as Covid-19 spreads across the cities in which they live and their places of business shutter. I’ve been checking in constantly with my friends and family members to make sure they’re okay. I’ve been seriously considering the possibility that my business might not rebound from this as all my revenue streams shut down. And I’ve been feeling the weight of isolation as someone who loves being around other people.

I have not been okay. I have not been myself. But my intuition tells me I will be. I will recover from this. We all will. In the meantime, we need to rest and rebuild our strength. We need to protect our energy and our health, because nothing depletes those two things like worry and stress. We need to know that this, too, will pass and we’ll be okay, but we gotta take care of each other. We’re all going to have those moments when we’re the ones lying motionless on the couch, and we’ll need our friends and family to read to us and sing to us and soothe us. Because tomorrow, it might be our turn to comfort them.

I’m the one always waxing poetic about cultivating our brilliant ideas and encouraging our inner artists, but this week, I did not do that. I moved out of my heart and into my mind as I frantically sought solutions and weighed questions. And last night, I lay awake feeling panicky and unable to sleep.

Then I remembered my son and how sometimes we’re not in control and we don’t know how long something will last and we can’t just wish things away. But we can be present and watchful and nurturing and creative. And we can feel ourselves grow stronger as our hearts recall what matters most.

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Can Any Good Come from the Coronavirus?

Been watching the e-mails roll in today: all events cancelled, Spring Break extended, colleges going to online learning, restaurants limiting the number of patrons they serve, retailers encouraging online purchases, grocery stores reporting empty shelves, churches stopping their Sunday services. There doesn’t seem to be a single area of our lives that’s not currently affected by this pandemic. It feels pretty scary right now, but I’ve always been one who seeks balance. I do not wish to downplay the seriousness of this situation or the suffering, but I keep my spirits up by wondering if any good might arise from this virus.

Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:

Human Connection Persists: I was speaking at a middle school yesterday and attended an event in the evening. Kids and adults alike had forgone our usual handshakes and hugs in favor of elbow and foot bumps. But these were administered with huge smiles and warm affection and even humor. See, we humans will always find a way to touch each other, to support each other, to show our love for one another. It was quite refreshing.

Good Habits Are Forming: I’ve been a germaphobe for years. I’ve always wiped down my airline tray table with antibacterial wipes, I’ve always kept a tissue in every pocket that I can sneeze into and discard, I’ve always pulled my sleeve over my hand to open a public door, etc. I haven’t minded being teased for my thoroughness, and now these habits are catching on, which, if they stick, might slow the spread of other illnesses and diseases in the future.

The Environment May Benefit: Studies are already trickling in showing that our carbon footprint and environmental damage is decreasing as we are driving to fewer places, staying home and using our own utensils rather than plastic ones at fast food restaurants, creating less waste and less pollution as our industries slow down. Maybe there’s a way we can look at the cutbacks we’ve made lately and continue to make them.

Generosity May Rise: We are becoming more aware of how linked our communities and economies are. Lately, rather than dropping a dollar in the tip jar for the barista, I’m dropping in a five, just to help make up for the lost income they are encountering. I bought a gift card for myself online today from my local bookstore to help tied them over. I’m not asking for refunds on my tickets to concerts that have had to be cancelled and may or may not be postponed. A friend of mine offered to take supplies to another friend who is in self-quarantine. Whether it’s with our money, our resources, or our time, I think people are finding ways to give back to those affected by this crisis.

Creativity May Get a Boost: This blog, of course, is about encouraging people to reconnect with their creativity. Most people I know are staying in this weekend now that all events are cancelled. Maybe they’ll dig out that knitting project they’ve ignored for months, or set up their easels and spend time painting, or finish that book they started weeks ago. Maybe they’ll surf the internet looking for new recipes or try to catch up on their scrapbooks. Maybe they’ll sleep in later and actually remember their dreams, and in those dreams, maybe their muses will visit. May we each uncover our own brilliance again.

Babies: They say we’ll see a baby boom in nine months. Babies are a nice thing.

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