I am living small.
I have pulled my little world around me like a warm, comfortable blanket, snuggling into it on the rug by the fireplace, my eyes reflecting the bright sparkling of the flames.
I have closed the blinds and locked the doors. A steady stream of music – songs I know and love – fills the room like the protective voices of angels.
I am tending my garden, although the time for gardens should long since have passed. I am checking in on my loved ones, offering emotional care packages, hand holding, and shared remorse. I am spending time with them in restaurants, bathed in the warmth of friends and family, where our conversations wander and we forget the woes of the world for an hour or two.
I am lingering in the shower after the soap is all rinsed off, bathing in the warmth of the water, breathing the steam deep into my lungs and exhaling cares and worries.
I am staying in bed longer than I usually do, resting in those blessed, quiet middle-moments between sleep and awakeness.
I am being gentle with myself, with Mark, with everyone in my life, and reminding them to be gentle with themselves too.
I am nursing my wounds, my broken expectations, and the failure of my once-bright hopes for the world.
I am indulging my grief, acknowledging my fears, and owning my failures.
I am living small.
But somewhere deep inside, I am harboring an absurd hope. A magical, ephemeral thing, protected from the winds that blow outside that threaten to extinguish it. I am holding it in my heart and preparing a fertile soil, where it might yet grow. Ever so slowly, green tendrils emerging from rich dark soil, verdant leaves reaching up to the sun.
I am living small, but I am also mustering my resources, bolstering my courage, and making plans with my friends – building walls, creating sanctuaries, and dreaming of something better.
So that one day soon, we may all live large again.