“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say. And it’s weird because I’m all alone, sitting in my office, trying to figure out what to write.
My cat isn’t even there. Can’t even stand in as a rubber duck. something I’m using to talk through my problems.
Nope, it’s just me all alone in my office talking to myself. Admitting that I’m a bit lost today.
The sense of relief is overwhelming, however. The confession lifts a weight — I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m taking it day by day, decision by decision, playing by ear.
The pandemic makes it hard to plan, you know? In a practical sense of course. There are statistical projections, recommendations from public health agencies. That sort of thing. And as a statistically literate person, I look things up and appreciate that guidance.
But that’s not the only source of volatility. Everyone in my personal life is having up days and down days. Emotional volatility. So I never know what I’m going to get when I reach out to people I’m close to. Will it be a day that they’re drowning with depression? Or at they doing okay?
And how will that mesh with whatever I’m going through personally? Because I’m only human, too. Have my up days and down days.
All of that means that it’s tough to plan, tough to navigate.
“It’s a rough draft kind of life for a bit,” I say. I’m still alone.
I open up a blank window and start to write. I just write what I’ve written here. Word by word, phrase by phrase, sentence by sentence.
Reading it back, I know it’s not the best thing I’ve ever written. But it captures the chaos of the current moment adequately. It’s a rough draft for a rough draft phase of life.
And as I finish the piece, I find myself wondering if I’ll one day be able to look back on this time and edit it into something cohesive, something presentable. Or if it’ll remain one thing that evades meaning-making.