Do I spend the next hour reading about
Ukraineabortion laws or writing down little unimportant pieces of my life?
Do I track the latest stats on Covid, get mad about politics, or read a few poems?
Do I think about gas prices or what to make for dinner?
Do I take a walk in the sunshine, or squeeze in all the work I can because money’s tight and kids keep growing and food is expensive?
Do I pay for the therapy my son needs, or settle for a therapist without the specialization to actually help him, or spend a few more hours on the phone trying to find someone in-network and arguing with the insurance people?
Do I believe that everything is sacred or nothing is sacred?
Do I feel bad for what I cannot do, or proud of what I can manage?
No perfect answers, probably not even ‘best’ answers. Just choices to make, small daily choices, leaning now this way and now that way, shuffling along a line I cannot see, making tracks in the sand.
Knowing others wake up to even more difficult choices, yet refusing to diminish my own pain.
Asking for help and accepting the weight of my own burdens.
Exhausted, overwhelmed, stretched thin, with a gratitude that gets brittle, a peace irrevocably threaded with sadness. Waves of panic, cords of tension.
Hands that still touch. A voice that still laughs.
Still somehow weirdly glad I get to make these tiny choices.