Coronavirus Days--Week 33
Like many, I wait with fear, hope, anticipation, wishing for hope, on this Monday before the long awaited election. I voted weeks ago, dropped off my ballot, and tracked that it was accepted. Now, along with many many many others, I wonder what the landscape will be in months to come. I've kept my continued distance from the pundits, just checking in often enough to get a pulse, a sense of the projections, knowing that it is just a prediction, nothing certain, like the past umpteen months of the pandemic.
I don't like uncertainty. I'm a planner. But I can't plan for much these days since the messaging is constant--things are perhaps raging out of control. Cars with Trump supporters clogging up roadways, using their vehicles as potential weapons in future days of protest. My mind can create lots of nightmarish scenarios based on past events. People shot. Liberties curtailed. Madness making headlines. For now, I am not going there. Instead, I hold Obama's words closely, crying with hope when I watched him speak at one of Biden's rallies. Hope is a better place to be. At least for now.
I stay grateful for the small things, which are actually big things since they are my life. After two weeks of Nan having to be gone for five days a week to support healthcare software in Nebraska, we both are breathing a bit easier since she is able to work remotely for the last two weeks of the project. The area did not adhere strictly to mask wearing guidelines, and the positivity rates are soaring even higher there than back home here in Denver. We both keep close to home, limiting interactions, only enjoying some social company outside of ourselves and home when we can do it safely outdoors, which has been kind to me with temperatures in the high 60s and 70s recently. I even went for a long overdue run this morning.Denver moved its dial to a more restrictive status, Level 3, the museum had to limit people even more, so we felt as safe as one can feel in a pandemic indoors in a public space. It was probably the first time I attended a major art exhibit and found myself alone (well with Nan) in an entire gallery room, able to hang out with the art without peering over someone's head. Nan and I reminisced about our several visits to Mexico City, the first one years ago to visit many of the Mexican murals. When we looked at photos of Casa Azul, we remembered our day there with our close friends, hanging out in the garden, taking in the history of these artists. A bit of normalcy? Perhaps, but I'm not even sure lately what to call normal since it feels like such a moving descriptor.
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