Well it feels odd to try to write about anything other than the world pandemic that is upon us at this time. Not so much in Western North Carolina (yet) as other parts of the U.S. and the world. I've discovered NPR's Tiny desk concerts in my "shelter at home" time. Am listening to the soulful and soothing work of Max Richter as I write.
Funny the things that come into focus at a time like this. How I've been talking to people I haven't connected with in awhile- both family and friends. How much the bird song and spring wildflowers mean to me. How the sound of that cello and violin reaches into my body and offers me something that I didn't even know I needed.
I've been thinking a lot about our stories. Who is collecting the stories from this pandemic? Where is a vessel wide enough, deep enough to hold them all? The stories of loss, of grief, of rage, and fear. The stories of resilience and courage and community.
I suspect that we are the vessels my friends. That one of our jobs now is to open our hearts wide enough to let the stories in. Through our phone calls, our instagram posts, our long discussions on Facebook, our socially distanced greetings to the neighbors across the street. May we draw strength from the art and the stories that deeply connect us to each other and ourselves.