Updated: Mar 29
2 weeks in. 2 weeks in.
It doesn't seem like a lot when you pull the numbers out of your head and examine their numeric value. 2 weeks. Not a long time. If I were 2 weeks into a luxurious European vacation, I'd be commenting on how the time had just flown by. I'd be wishing for more time.
Now, well, I have all the time in the world. Time is just a lazy river guiding me inexorably forward.
And yet, for a great many of us, time is running out. Some of us know it already. We're on hospital beds, intubated, floating (hopefully) on a haze of opiates. A great many of us, though, don't know it yet, that our time is running out. I suppose that's where a lot of the anxiety comes from, the not knowing, the feeling that the axe hangs over all our heads and the heads of our loved ones, and yet we can't see it and we have no control over the hand that guides the ax.
The thing is that life has always been like that. That ax has always been there. Our time here has always been unknowable. What's changed is that now we know it. And the knowing is the hardest part.
2 weeks in. It's been just 2 weeks. Basically we're on mile 1 of a marathon that none of us signed up for. For some of us our legs are already cramping. For others, we feel great, like we could do this forever. What makes this unique is that getting the finish line doesn't really mean you won. Winning is measured in how many other people made it there with us.
We have to help each other. We have to be proactive, attuned to one another's needs. We have find those who are struggling with the race and help them up, get them across the finish line so we can rebuild together.
It's been just 2 weeks, and we have so much further to go. We can do this, together.
We may be isolated, but we're not alone.
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