Passing for Sunrise: New Life, Every Day

Today's sunrise was better,
but my phone is still dead.
I did write today, just not to you.  (Oh, HARSH, Susan, that was harsh!)

To be honest (well, when am I ever not honest here?) I settled myself with my laptop and the rising sun and thought, "You know, I just don't feel like I have all that much to say right now." Oh, I can write four pages about the ceramic Gorton's fisherman lamp next to me if you asked me to, but being able to write is not the same as having something to say.

Listen, people are getting grumpy, or sad. Yesterday's news that we aren't going back to school hit me right in the gut. Be aware: I do not live for school. I appreciate my job; my heart explodes with pride when I stand before 65 kids in a band, knowing that it was me who introduced them all to this wild, cacaphonous, life-enriching sound. But it does not define me, and I am delighted to have all this time to explore creative ideas at home. No, I do not live for school. It was not the loss of school that got me; what struck me about the governor's announcement yesterday was the reality of it. This is real. We are not going back to the way it was, probably ever. And from the Facebook posts and zoom calls, and emails I got, I am not alone: Teachers are SAD. Genuinely.

We're at week five, or is it six? Six weeks of forced family-unit isolation, and only the five year old is satisfied. The thirteen year old is showing cracks on the relatively smooth exterior,  the fifty year old man prefers not to be written about (who can blame him?!?!), and the fifty year old female is finding that no matter where you go, there you are. I still feel just as busy, unfinished creatively, and frenetic as when I actually had to run around.

Why? Too many freaking ideas and still not enough time to pursue them. Which just proves a simple maxim: There really is not enough time. Period.

We only get one of these go-rounds. Reverend Question Mark reminded me this morning that once we die, we die. He said there is new life, but I don't think he meant ours.  I think he meant the sun, and the grass, and the elephants and stuff. Well, maybe not the elephants, but definitely the cockroaches. So without heaven, here on our little porches, we get small resurrections. We get sunrises. We get crayon-drawn rainbows in people's windows. We get porch portraits. We get to push our kids on rope swings. We get our bosses and our colleagues and on-screen celebrities reminding us that this too shall pass.

Will it? I hope so, because not to be depressing or actually disgusting, but if this qualifies as the process of "passing," I think the universe needs to eat a little more fiber.