Day #124 Writing Through COVID-19: The Risk of Joy

I ran six miles this morning. This makes me happy, but I don't know why. They were slow miles. And nobody cares.

It seems my life has truly shrunken in upon itself. I run. I read. I write.

Between that, I call my sister, visit my mother-in-law (her only faced contact with the outside world), play Bridge with my parents, and tend to the unending mundane tasks that keep a home running but that are startingly undervalued. How is it that meal prep, laundry chores, and general housekeeping are at once our most basic needs and our least valued contributions to the world at large?
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I did ask my mother today about her journals. "Would you like me to read them? I offered.

"You can have them when I die," she said promptly.

"I'd like that."

"I'm very honest in my journals, Sometimes I write about what makes me angry."

"Oh, I'll love reading that!"
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My mom went on to explain that lately she uses her journal to keep her mind working. She writes down things she wants to remember. "It might not be very interesting," she said.
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This afternoon I went downstairs, masked, and asked my parents if they wanted to play Bridge. I told them I would wear a mask, wash my hands well, and refrain from touching my face, but I totally understood if they preferred I stay away. (I have not had any reason for concern beyond my Saturday-morning sniffle.)

Maybe I shouldn't have given my parents a choice.  Maybe I should have just stayed upstairs. But the eagerness with which my dad accepted my offer reinforced the reason I'd asked in the first place: joy matters.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wolf with his mama, visiting with Granny this evening.