of use

I write from under a freshly washed duvet; I don’t seem to have the strength to put on the comforter. Putting on the duvet is my least favorite household task, second only to putting pillow cases onto pillows. I don’t want to type, I don’t want to think or feel. I want to close the laptop, turn my head and fall asleep right here and now, contacts in, teeth fuzzy from no brushing. I feel so tired. Do you?

I have luxuriously taken a break from news for a couple of days. I know it’s still bad and I trust that my kin will tell me when its getting better. I know what’s happening out there. I know who’s dying. I know that because I had jobs that were “ non-essential” and those jobs disappeared. I could stay home because of my privilege, because even if I hit rock-bottom, which is a very real possibility, I would still have a soft place to land, a place to go, someone to help.

All the while, as we try our hand at baking and stress about whether or not our kids will fall behind and some folks buy bidets, essential workers, frontline workers, workers who are delivering your groceries, must put themselves in the way of this virus on an hourly basis. I hate it.

Before all of this, just before, I was talking with a friend, blabbing on and on about how pleased I was that I could do all the work that I did. I spoke about being able to create theater for the very young and being able to share that process with my kids in a way that felt meaningful, even magical to me. Before this, I was a part of a multi-year residency at a middle school — this was my third year with this group of kids with no arts programing at their school — they were becoming theater-lovers and critics! before my eyes. To feel the ending of all of that so abruptly was a terrible shock. I was/am a part of an ensemble of incredible artists and they thought the same of me. For years, I worked in hospitals as a pediatric hospital clown; for the past three years, I’ve spent a day each month volunteering as an abortion doula in one of the busiest hospitals in the city. I miss these places, all these different people. Where does all of it go? Where does the work live now?

It’s so difficult to think outside my own personal flurry, but eventually I must. I think that’s part of why I’m writing so much. I need to touch the outside, even if I can’t get there. But I don’t want to teach online. I don’t want to Zoom this life away. I don’t want to rush to figure it all out. I want to be of service again.

Let me. Let me. Let me.