In such turbulent times, I feel smaller and lapse into doubt and disbelief. When suffering is so relative and my life feels rather slow. And yet my mind worries, perhaps coming from before. But this day-to-day is long enough. I cannot imagine mass-scale casualties or loss of lives. And ideology of violence and hatred feels too abstract.
Chaos reigns, said the fox. We go into entropy. My thoughts overly examine will overwhelm. When there are not enough lists to contain the will be’s on this tiny dot of green and blue. It’s hard to imagine a year from now without falling apart into blank pages — all I see is not yet and I don’t know and the vast lostness of what I cannot know yet.
This turbulence happens on a micro-scale: missed bus, forgotten meds taken close enough, trying to imagine recreating my network of professionals. I stare into the storm of will be’s, when the list of nows could overwhelm.
There will always be things left to do is hope and reassurance. Damnation and statement of fact. I could imagine myself through this space, but I lack the imagery. In these turbulent times, my problems feel small and yet this life of doing enough and being with this precarious enough.
I feel like a spider whose web is facing winds and rain; nearly blown away, but threads remain. In these turbulent times, I cannot process everything at once, or see beyond myself. Global pain is an abstraction. Over there captured in imagery that comes to my screen in 140 characters and infographics.
We share personal narratives to make sense of these larger patterns. A chorus of me toos on #ThatAbleistScript. My day-to-day barely touches this larger space — mine is getting by and hoping for more; while doing what I can, wondering if it’s enough.
My emotional weather is enough to track. Problem-not-to-scale are problems enough. Tracking the befores and afters, hoping a pattern would emerge. Because sensemaking is comforting. And yet so much of this storm predates me.
I don’t know how to have a conversation with you. Instead we talk of cooking fish and doing errands. There’s a script we’re both following with parenthetical dialogue. The storm passed; is passing — but the narration is absent.
In these turbulent times, I need an emergency power-down switch. Before overload comes, I wish my brain would tell me how I’m feeling. And yet that usually comes from fictional characters. Body and brain in disconnect — sometimes asleep at the controls.
In these turbulent times, I’m catching up with myself. Running down checklists of tasks I wish weren’t mine. Making up certainties from an imaginary will be. I’m not there yet. This waiting place is task enough. What next? A fictional future appears.
I tire more easily these days. As if my body knows what my brain will not reveal. In these times, normal is relative, ill-defined. I have so many stories that remain my own, but what if community emerged.
What if we are creating this busyness? In failing to rest, we miss this obligation to ourselves. I get lost in the not yet, fearing what I cannot anticipate. External turbulence is pervasive, yet inexperienced. The end draws near for some, yet here we are.
It all seems so random — maybe this turbulence is entropy, the chaos of a universe behaving like a toddler, toys scattered across the floor. Until Legos press into skin — leaving indentions.
How can we can we steady ourselves in a space unknown. Unexplored. Too vast to imagine anyone but ourselves. People not like us become monsters, dissidents, the ill-fitting. Am I us? Are you us?
What keeps our planet steady when we are not? We are pieces of stardust in a seemingly limitless galaxy. We are nothing and everything. We are enough to be with this chaos.