Journal Entry: April 5, 2020

6:55 am

Ugh, I say to myself.

I do a quick recall of the past 10 hours. My left side is so sore, I find difficulty in taking a deep breath. Yoga later, I whisper, mostly knowing that I won’t do it.

I think this is week 5. The world is different. As we know, it will never be the same. That’s okay, right? Change is the only constant. Stoicism for the win - so simple, almost (captain) obvious, usually overlooked. We enjoy, even thrive, on complexity - more, bigger, better, faster. But in actuality, what’s best is what always was - simple.

Okay, okay, I whisper to the dog.

She needs to go out. We have been walking every day in the morning for about 1.5 miles. Well, except that one day - was it rain? Wind? Both? I can’t remember, but neither will she.

We head out of isolation on onto our near-daily path that has been paved with my tears, fears, anger, ,sadness, silence and sometimes, deafening noise. It’s unconditional - always there, always waiting, always listening, never wavering.

Where was I. I think… Oh, right, the past 10 hours.

Rest is good. I recall waking around 1 am to use the bathroom. I had a hard time getting up, walking, then making the short return trip (about 10 steps, to be more specific, my watch says). I could use an adjustment or short massage. Actually, I just want to be held, or have someone put their palm on my skin - simple pleasures that aren’t so simple anymore.

I quickly shift my thoughts. Massages and human touch are small problems to have right now.

Health. I have my health.

I clear my throat, then cough hard into my bent elbow. I look around. Good, I think, no one saw me. But, but did they hear?

We keep walking.

I think it’s been 4 weeks with this cough/cold. Yea. It’s better, for sure.

We walk up to the trail around the park and fields. The playground equipment has been wrapped in CAUTION take and signs are posted around. I didn’t care to walk across the wet grass to read the specifics. Thus, we carried on.

The hum in my ears has gone away, at least temporarily. In the earlier weeks, I spent so much time morphing into my desk, my ear buds, my laptop that I’d have to peel myself away like ripping a hangnail from my cuticle. I did this at the end of every long day, only to repeat the cycle after a short night’s sleep.

Yes, the hum is gone. It was a constant. Now, I just hear the birds.

I see two people, maybe three, in the 1/2 mile scope of the park’s trail. With the blink of an eye they are gone. I look back again, unsure of where they went. How did they even disappear? There’s no way, from where they came, and where they were going that they are no longer visible.

Huh? I mutter aloud.

The dog looks up too with the same level of puzzlement.

I guess we are really alone, again.