UNCERTAINTY SOUP*

My granddog, Chloe, who is not fond of mornings

I used to spout lofty phrases: "the only thing that is certain is change", for example. I thought learning to let go was the lesson, and that I was doing well with it. Until covid. I never dreamed I would have to let go of so much - of everything. I could never have fathomed a time when walking down the street was risky, when the unthinking ease of shopping for groceries would be a dilemma.

Now uncertainty is everywhere, from the moment I open my eyes. I do an inventory: still here, that's good. I go to the basement of the building to put a load of laundry in, not daring to touch the railing on the stairs, bumping light switches with my elbow, washing hands on return to my apartment. Dare I turn on the news? Let's get the tea ready first. Fortified, I click the remote. What new horror has happened since yesterday? For, every day, there is a new horror.

In the midst of a seething, spreading, killer pandemic, there are marches for an end to racism, protesting police killing the people they are meant to serve, in honour of the most recent deaths, more shootings happening even as we march for the fallen.

The orange man, his face looking most unhappy, keeps talking talking talking, "sound and fury signifying nothing", as the world turns and burns.

I need wine to watch the evening news, and it takes extra sweetener in my coffee to face the morning, but on we go.

I have had plenty of practice learning to stand steady in the storm. I feel the old tired tree of my being supporting me. But she is weary. So tired. While we are waiting for the transformation of consciousness, it looks like the world is falling apart. Will the virus ever end? Will the marching peoples' voices ever be heard? Will life ever make sense? Will someone come to lead us back to civility and decency and make America kind again?

This morning my stellar jays arrive on my balcony. For them, life is simple; the finding of food, the feathering of nests, the soaring of skies. But it is uncertain, too, in times when food cannot be found, when the heavens open and pummel them on their dripping branches, when their eggs or babies are eaten by predators.

For today, the only day I have: a fortifying cup of tea, the news, perhaps, if the Muse is kind, a poem. Then a walk into town, for this is what the living do: we carry on.


*Uncertainty soup is a title I borrowed from Laurie Wagner of Wild Writing. Apt for these times.