inklingfair I haven’t really had the drive nor the quietness of mind to write lately, but I wanted to stave off the inevitable rustiness of disuse. It’s a Saturday; the laundry is done, the bathrooms are clean, and I think Jing can handle the chap chae and Korean fried chicken I planned for lunch.
The NY Times has a list of ideas to write through the pandemic, so I’m going to give a few of them a go.
#1 Journal
I’ve noticed that people have remained more or less the same as they were before and during COVID-19. I certainly have not gone through a revolutionary mindset or lifestyle change: still occasionally depressed but stubbornly fastidious in my habits (a coping mechanism), still pessimistic and controlling, impossible to get along with but for Josh’s patience and the grace of God. I have settled down into little routines that are a bit different from how we began the quarantine: waking up at 7:30, making the bed when I feel like it, breakfast, morning prayer, yoga (when I don’t feel sluggish), procrastinating on social media until I have to do laundry or order groceries or help Amy with homework, lunch, Amy’s online school on weekdays or reading/watching with her on weekends, naptime, a snack (or not), going up to the roof deck for late afternoon sunlight and fresh air, dinner, story time and last words with Josh and Amy, bedtime.
It’s a huge privilege that I can do most of the things I’m used to before the pandemic. I’ve never been a mall person, or a frequent traveler, or a partygoer, or a reunion junkie, or a wandering foodie, so I don’t miss being out and about. There are a few things I do miss: old bookstores, walking around in UP (Josh tells me they aren’t allowing outsiders in), places like Bangkal and Dapitan, small cafes, hideaways like Lilom or the secret beach in Matabungkay or the mangrove-hemmed estuary we stumbled upon in Guimaras. Other than the things that aren’t, there are the little thorns that are: spotting on my 29th week, creaky pelvic bones, having to catch my breath several times on the way up to the roof, Amy rivaling my bullheadedness, the freezer sealing shut in the humidity, the callousness and incompetence of this government.
But there are also the small joys, from peddling pretend ice cream with Amy on the roofdeck while basking in the cool early evening air and watching the skies slowly turn from orange to magenta to violet, Josh bringing home Lorenz potato chips after running the rare bike errand, Jing surprising us with her first attempt at kare-kare, my pothos putting forth a new leaf, Wowie picking up bokashi, bubble wrap, and boxes I would otherwise have no use for.
Last week we had lunch at Mom’s house for Father’s Day, the first in months. Everything felt almost the same, except for the excessive handwashing and mask-wearing in transit between our homes. I first thought that Mom overdid it with the food, bringing out every sort of fruit and cake and tea available after lunch and stuffing our take-home bags full of frozen sausages and fresh avocados and dragonfruit. But she has been that way ever since I can remember. It’s just been a long time apart.
(To be continued)
Header/thumbnail photo by Noémi Macavei-Katócz on Unsplash
