It’s hard to process one’s own grief when there’s so much else going on in the world. I’m flush with intense worry and sadness over so much else:
New Orleans and those in the path of Ida.
Afghanistan, the US strike against the airport bomb, the girls’ school that evacuated to Rwanda, and those Afghans who will be left there.
Haiti still struggling.
The shooting in Nigeria.
Bolsonaro threatening to stay in power unless arrested or killed.
And the pandemic’s new wave proving more dangerous than before, among all of that.
I’m holding on to small personal victories among friends. People holding and lifting each other up. People escaping their oppressive situations. People’s medical treatments being successful.
My own grief, though, still lurks ragged and sharp, like a nerve threatening to pinch in my neck if I move the slightest bit wrong, ready to immobilize me any minute. If I withdraw again, that’s what’s going on.