You’d think that with all this sheltering in place, time would be crawling by and every day would seem longer than the one before due to their rather dreary lack of variety. And yet, each day finds its own rhythm.
Time is a shape shifter. It expands to fill a vacuum, and contracts when doing something pleasurable. It lives on in memory, where events can be revisited and reimagined for years. It’s too short when we’re happy; too long when we’re impatient or bored.
Pandemic Time is a law unto itself. Excursions now take on mythic importance, to be remembered and savored because they’re so rare. It can feel like “forever” before we can eat out or get our nails done, even if it’s only a matter of days or weeks. And although there are certainly enough hours to do all those chores I’ve been putting off, night inevitably drops the curtain on another day where they didn’t get done — because, well, there’s always tomorrow.
Mostly I’m grateful to have these days at all, when so many haven’t. I read somewhere recently that “Good times become good memories. Bad times become good lessons.” One can only hope.