Here’s why I haven’t written lately:

I have a million thoughts and million and a half things to do.

Or, my mind is blank and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, I need do.

I talked to a woman tonight who told me that anxiety nearly kept her from coming to the reunion where we met, after years. Anxiety. This from the most genuinely gregarious, gracious, expressively loving person I ever met. If you asked me “Who would you like to be, when you walk into a room full of strangers?” I would have named her. And she was so anxious about meeting people that she almost didn’t come to the reunion.

I know one person who, to my shock, seemed to become a white supremacist over the last few years. Sad, awful. I was not sorry when he and his wife split up. Then she went downhill, perhaps had a stroke, and after five months apart he crossed the country to return and take care of her. The first thing he did was bring her to a monthly meeting of her friends that he’d never attended before. Just so she could be there and see her friends and talk to them.

Nothing is ever what we think, is it?

So I pull a couple of anecdotes out of the morass that surrounds me daily: the depressing news stories, the growing chaos, the uncertainty. I don’t know anything. But when the day seems dark and sickly, I can see that nothing is what I think it is, and cheer up.

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