It isn't that I haven't been writing or painting or knitting or any of the other things that I have been known to do, but I haven't been doing any of these things often enough to produce anything worth sharing. I think this is where my reaction to COVID and the awful news from around the world really shines through.
I'll be going along through my day working to pay bills, taking care of my loved ones, occasionally taking conscious care of myself beyond basic hygiene, thinking that I'm really managing all the weird and horrible that assaults us every day, when it hits me just how weird and awful the lives of so many people have been. All the usual wars, the ongoing environmental degradation, the increasingly terrifying weather--compounded with a disease that even some people dying from it don't believe exists.
How can painting a little picture, writing a story or, gods help us, a poem, possibly be justified? Shouldn't I be out there volunteering at a COVID center, or helping women in Afghanistan resist the men who view them as appliances or bad dogs and will kick them to pieces if they demand--request--suggest that they be treated like human beings.
And yet--
People are out there creating their art, training for their sport, improving their appreciation of the English novel, acting like they have the right to do these things. Acting like these things are necessary for their mental health. Feeling perfectly fine about it. Feeling, maybe, that practicing their craft is a human right, and that the practice, whatever form it takes, is what keeps them human. Acting in defiance against the darkness. That in fact, they MUST practice their craft to make their sacrifices, and the sacrifices and losses of others, well, I hate to use the word "worthwhile," because nothing can make these horrors worthwhile. If there's a better word, I can't think of it just now. But at least not entirely squandered. Not entirely in vain. To nudge the human project in a more life-affirming direction.
At other times, I think that people who work 50 hours per week to pitch the perfect curve ball or achieve the perfect margarita without a thought for the sufferings of others are simply selfish and oblivious.
Have to admit that all my worry isn't helping anybody, and maybe I add to the suffering of the world by failing to use my talents, such as they are, to produce something that could help or bring enjoyment to others.
I still can't help thinking that the only choice is between fiddling while Rome burns or donating all my art supplies to the local school and spending all my time and energy on risking my life to help others.
At times I can be a really black and white thinker. It is paralyzing. If a friend of mine were talking this way, I would think that they were depressed. When I hear myself talk this way, I think, well, I am a selfish moron. Do I deserve any of the slack that I so willingly give others, or am I, because I'm aware of these thoughts, and because I have been so fortunate overall, just being a crybaby who needs to shut up?
I'm not so far down the black spiral that I can't tell myself to get a grip. Take care of what and whom you can take care of. I won't be joining Doctors Without Borders in this lifetime, but sometimes I can afford to write them a check. There are less life-threatening but also important endeavors to volunteer for. Writing and art will happen when they happen, when they need to.
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