What I'm Doing Tonight

I have a pot of water boiling on the stove, and I'm making rhubarb simple syrup for rhubarbaritas.

I'm mixing up this frothy pink syrup because I don't know what else to do.

I don't know what else to do about lawmakers who actively pursue a forced birth strategy, yet vote against a bill allowing easier WIC access to formula when the shelves are literally empty and parents can't feed their kids. I don't know what to do about 18 young children — and two teachers — dead in Texas because we won't stand up and do something about this. I don't know what to do about the homeless person living in the tent at the end of our street, or members of my state legislature who are leaving the state work undone and refusing to even consider a special session, at least not right now. I'm worried about our kids. All of them.

I kept my sense of smell when I had covid, only to lose most of it, maybe permanently, when I broke my nose. I can't smell the lilacs, or the candle on the table.

Cleaning the kitchen, or a quick walk around the block, exhausts me. I can't go back to yoga until the pressure in my nose subsides a little. The sickness and injury and other stressors have worn me down. I'm feeling remarkably little joy right now. I miss joy.

I'm overwhelmed, and I don't see the way forward.

So I'm making rhubarbaritas.