survive.

These Days—

I’ve been staying with my husband’s family for the past couple months, and we’ve been watching Survivor—binging old seasons, charting the ways the show has changed, ranking players from lovable to ruthless.
 
It’s pure escapism, to watch these players through our screen. They discuss immunity and survival as if, despite the crew of producers and medics, this is truly life or death.
 
There’s comfort in that.
 

*

My sister-in-law grows a garden. She tells us about victory gardens during World War II, how people grew their own food when the future was too uncertain to trust. She offers affirmations to her seeds as she waters them, You’re doing great, lettuce. Rosemary, you’re a rockstar. Mint, you’re…it’s okay, mint. We’re struggling, too.
 
She waters them and affirms them and we watch tiny stems peek out from beneath the soil. It’s surprisingly moving, and as someone who’s never gardened, I’m not sure if it’s the times that move me, or if this is always how it feels to watch life grow.
 
We watch lettuce sprout, we watch flowers bloom, and when a snow storm in April buries these new stems beneath a blanket of white, we think, Keep growing, little plants. Survive.
 

*

 
My father-in-law works in the emergency room, and we see his never-ending work—in the late night shifts at the hospital, in the zoom calls with residents (affirmations: You’re doing great. You’re a rockstar. It’s okay. I’m struggling, too), and in the ways he shields us from the worst of realities.
 
It’s only in the late hours of night, when we’re too tired to keep the fear away, when the worry creeps in, that he talks softly about his colleagues. I hope they survive.
 

*

 
I’m doing okay, so far, which is an unfair shake of the dice, and one I’m grateful for. But I worry for friends and family with mental illnesses, who struggle with isolation. I worry for family and friends facing this every day, in hospitals and grocery stores. I worry for those I know who are sick, and those who could be. And I hold all these people close to my heart, because I cannot hold them close.
 

 *

 
It’s been a while since I’ve written one of these letters.  I try to capture moments, big and small, and I attempt to make meaning out of them. But facing the moments in our world, right now, has been daunting. And making meaning out of this is something I’m entirely unequipped for.
 
But I’ve missed writing. So, here are some moments. It’s not profound. We’re just surviving, in big ways and in small.