At the center

What happened to all the pens that were sprawled at the center of my desk just a moment ago? I think I had some fleeting thought about cleaning up.

At the center now is a book of poems, abandoned on my yoga mat the other day. Somehow I knew they'd be needed again.

At the center of my day, there's yet another call about what to watch out for in this strange new time. No answers, just question marks and communities of care.

Information swaddles us, threatens to smother. But maybe if someone presents it in a slide deck, it's something we can swallow?

I digress. I'm wandering from the center, because I find nothing there to comfort me. Not on my desk, not in my day.

What comforts me is at the edges -- waking and sleep. Happy hour with friends, where we share coping strategies and more bits of news. Driving to the edge of this west coast world, looking out at the ocean, remembering that humans are tiny and the universe is vast.

We act like we are at the center, but really we are not. It's possible that we might disappear, and it won't matter much in the end.