I turned on the radio this morning, and these words and phrases were repeating:

Delta varient, case numbers, ventilators and ICU beds, vaccinations, arms, mask mandate, virus transmission, social distancing, CDC guidelines, vulnerable demographic, children under twelve…

Felt eerily like turning on the radio in March of 2020. I was even driving the same direction down the same stretch of road.

We are not through this thing, yet. And that reality kind of smacked me in the face today.

Folks in the part of the world where I am sort of collectively started trying to move forward into a way of life that felt like the way things used to be. It felt too soon, in the beginning, and it still does. But there was this moment… after the vaccinations. There was this moment when the restrictions started lifting, when we started to be able to see each other again, when I almost began to feel safe. I started to relax into life again without thinking about the virus at all.

And I, just… I don’t think that’s a thing I can let myself do yet. Not completely.

So many of the things I’m used to doing don’t really need to be done. And sometimes, when I have to, I can let things go for a while and still keep living. I know this because I already have.

It’s simple, but not always easy to do.

I have missed dancing. I’ve missed laying on the floor and talking with friends. I’ve missed school, and I’ve missed working. I’ve missed the library, and the coffee shops. I’ve missed holding people, and being amoung people, and sharing a space.

Being away from those things is hard, and when you have to let go of them for a while you realize how important they are in your life. And I think when you get to come back, even when it’s only for a finite amount of time… you remember what it was like when they weren’t there, and the love that you have for them is somehow more profound.

In March of 2020, I felt like the world was ending. I didn’t know for sure that there would be a time when things felt alright again, even just for a while.

Things aren’t completely okay again, right now, because they probably aren’t ever going to be for as long as people keep being people. But for just a moment, in the summer, it felt more okay than it was before. And that isn’t going to last forever, because everything is changing all the time.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that the last time I felt like the world was ending, there was hope, and I wasn’t able to see that it was there, and I wish that I had been.

Leaving room for hope is not, like – the equivalent of trying to reassure a child by telling them that everything is going to be okay, because that isn’t true. It just isn’t.

An unfathomable number of people didn’t make it through this thing. I looked it up, but I’m not even going to write that number down, here, because I can’t wrap my head around how many faces and names and personalities and connections and stories we lost and I can’t comprehend the numbers of loved ones who are grieving, who are still grieving, because it hasn’t been that long.

I have been so lucky.

Leaving room for hope is not a promise that everything’s going to be okay. It’s just that there’s an off chance that it might be, and you can’t let yourself lose sight of that.

Take care of the people around you, even if that means letting go for a while, again. Cherish the people you love while they’re here.

I hope it’s a good night.