This week, as I ran through the park, where the azaleas were in peak bloom, I thought about the end of lockdown. It was just a few weeks away, at least officially, but I felt more nervous than excited. Despite being vaccinated, I still felt leery of the virus, like it was only a matter of time until we faced a new and even deadlier wave. I didn’t feel this way all the time, but the fear was there, like an itch or even a craving. Why was I being so pessimistic and cautious?
I’m not saying I would have ever chosen this option had it been presented to me, but being locked down has given me a greater appreciation for a more habitual, calmer mode of living that I fear will be lost if I return to society. In short, I’ve turned into one of our cats. I’m sort of kidding, but I’m sort of not kidding.
The outside world seems manic to me: everyone going somewhere, doing this, buying that, and documenting it on social media. All of the articles offering new perspectives on the hard partying people have on tap for this summer. People describing trips they’ve recently taken — on airplanes! — or are planning to take. While a part of me is attracted to mania, recognizing this attraction sounded a cautionary note: be careful what you wish for.
I get agitated watching the world from the sidelines: do I really need to be in it?
On my runs, I’ve noticed that most runners still wear masks. A smaller number don’t, and a third category — to which I belong — have the masks on, but keep them around our chins unless passing another runner or group.
We put up our respective masks for a few seconds before taking them down again. Sometimes we nod at each other with a kind of fear and understanding.
