Like many of you, I’m tired of waking up to new reports of inanity by 45 and his cronies, and wondering how much more we will suffer before it is all over. I’m exhausted with worry for my immigrant, queer, and Muslim friends.
Day before yesterday, I was on a flight from Atlanta to Houston, and all I could think about was whether or not there’d be an incident. There was a Sikh man on our flight, and several folks with accents I could not identify. I readied myself; I would not remain silent if anyone attacked them or made disparaging remarks about them. The Indian woman and her daughter who sat next to me did not speak; I wonder if they were as afraid for me as I was for them.
I’m also busy, busy doing the things that folks do when they have jobs, families, and businesses to run. I drove to Georgia from North Carolina on Friday, flew to Houston on Saturday, and drove to San Antonio yesterday. I’m also tired from traveling, although I love that I’m able to do it.
What this all means is that I’m behind on my writing. My brain is on hiatus, refusing to think critically or deeply about much of anything the past few days. It will pass, but until it does, I’ve decided to practice a bit of self-care: reading sci-fi (N.K. Jemisin’s The Fifth Season), playing Candy Crush Soda and Words with Friends, taking long walks, and painting my fingernails. Doing these things make me happy and don’t take much effort.
I started a new story last Monday, although I haven’t looked at it since. I know that it’s waiting for me, and I will return to it soon. For now though, I’m choosing to rest my brain and body, so that I can be ready for the work ahead.