Finding a Good Place to Start

I didn’t realize it was missing until western Oklahoma. That intoxicating feeling of freedom from being on the road so powerful that I’m moved to doing cart wheels and dancing to music in my head in gas station parking lots. After being cooped up for more than nine months, responsibly staying in my home, I expected to be leaping with joy.

But at the gas station, I thought, “I don’t feel like doing a cartwheel.” Later, driving down the highway, looking through the windshield at an orange sunset covering the entire horizon, at a moment I should have been giddy with gratitude, I felt ...flat. I wasn’t feeling grateful.

I realize I am incredibly fortunate, compared to most Americans. I have been able to work safely from home all this time. We live in the woods, a terrific place to isolate. We have had some hard times through the pandemic, my husband had a major health crisis from which he is recovering. But no one close to me has suffered a serious case of Covid or is about to lose their home. I don’t deserve to be so fortunate. Still, here I am. 

Now on the road, traveling with my husband, my favorite place to be, why am I feeling nothing?

I may be a little depressed. I think all of America is.

I am reading things I wrote four years ago, after Trump was elected. Despite fears of what the future would bring, my words are filled with hope. And gratitude. I had just suffered a heart attack and three cardiac arrests and I was so grateful. Grateful just to be alive.

What changed? How did I lose my gratitude? And how do I get it back? How do we all?

It may have been the only way to deal with the hourly barrage of crisises that we have lived with for the last four years. Our bodies can only produce so much outrage before we become numb.

But I must work on returning to who I used to be. Maybe getting back to writing will help. Force me to feel again. Because how can you write without feeling?

My husband worked until 3 am the night before we left, getting the van ready for this trip, constructing our bed and a makeshift kitchen, so we could more safely travel, avoiding hotels and restaurants on the road. We are sleeping in the van at a truck stop and he is snuggled up tight against me in the bed he built. Outside it is 40 degrees, but in here, under the pile of blankets, it is toasty. I think this moment could be a good place to start.