Day in Day out
by Saul Robbins from New York, NY
Several times
I’ve seen the evening slide away
Watching the signs
Taking over from the fading day
Perhaps my brains are old and scrambled
Golden Hour, Brian Eno (1975)
I lost my grasp of time in 2015, after my wife became pregnant. A little over 4 years later, the planet is in lockdown due to a global pandemic. Every day is like a marathon – in a surgical mask. Every night brings anxiety dreams I can’t help but marvel at. I no longer wake before dawn to swim silently in meditative solitude. What was once a precious time to let go of and recollect my thoughts yields to the directive of “Sheltering in Place;” quickly triaging the news and other messages before our son awakes, insisting, “Poppa! Come play with me.” I agree often, asserting that Poppa is capable, resilient, and fearlessly holding everything together while leading this family through a disaster of epic proportions.
Two days ago my wife rearranged our shared office space for a video call. I now find it impossible to work with peace of mind. Today, after arguing about how frustrated I am she finally admitted the same. We step down, hold, hug, and vow to communicate differently.
Tomorrow comes too slowly and so quickly, yet like the old joke, never arrives. My mind is everywhere and nowhere. The schedule of “My time” has shattered into bits and pieces, and rarely lasts longer than an hour. Except when teaching, which has become another form of parenting, with different risks, supercharged emotions, and looming timelines. My point of focus takes hours to sharpen. It has taken me 3 weeks and countless attempts to articulate what on the surface should be a short reflective paragraph, yet I can’t help but examine every thought and action I wish to express. Perhaps I am better off following my intuition, collapsing on the floor and crying for all humanity.
