I’ve been feeling claustrophobic lately, which seems normal. Our worlds-if we are lucky enough to be able to work from home-have shrunk overnight, with social media as our only windows. I can go for walks around my neighborhood, of course, and drives. I can call anyone I want. I can explore for hours on the internet. But my life for the last two months (TWO MONTHS?!) has started to feel stiflingly small.

It occurs to me how much this experience has brought so much of my casual privilege to the forefront; in this instance, my ability to travel freely. I am-was?-fortunate to frequently travel for work and for pleasure. This is the first time I can remember that I didn’t have some sort of trip planned and on the horizon. I inherited a need to have a trip to look forward to from my mother; my years can be marked by distances between vacations or business travel. In the last two weeks I’ve had two different trips canceled, and those were rough moments. I knew they were coming, I didn’t think we would actually be able to go through with them, but it still hurt. Make plans and make God laugh, isn’t that the saying?

I don’t really think God is laughing right now, but I am curious what he’d like us to do with this time, with this washing away. Like Noah’s flood, but instead of wiping away animals and sin, it’s plans and calendars. Also people. Fuck. I realize I sometimes sound like a monster talking about missing a trip to the beach when people are fighting and dying. I don’t know you guys. Maybe I am a monster. Maybe that’s what God wants to point out. I hope not.

I hope, instead, he would prefer we take some stock. Appreciate the small things, yes-but also, really miss and appreciate the big things. Not stockpile experiences for the ‘gram, but actually luxuriate in free movement, in exploration. I miss the feel of sun on my shoulders, of surf on my feet. I miss the laughter of my friends bouncing off a patio and the sound of wine being poured out. I miss inactivity without a sense of impending doom. Of busyness-not the fake busyness of over-scheduling and self-importance which I was so often guilty of indulging-but the actual busyness of meaningful work and play. Of plans and things to look forward to beyond making a recipe or a FaceTime therapy session.

Maybe I’m a boring person, that can’t find something to occupy my hours, and that itches and frets, looking for something to do. Josh tells me, jokingly (I think?) that I need a hobby. But I have a hobby. In fact, I have two big ones: travel and restaurants. Maybe others would categorize those as activities, but not for me. My money, my passion, my effort, and my interest go to those things. Knitting is fine. Reading is great. Collecting is cool. But my hobbies are experiences, and without them, my life feels smaller and less interesting.  I went to buy some cookware today, and realized even though I found exactly what I wanted, and it was on sale, I had no interest in actually buying it. Clicking a button isn’t the same as a story. I wouldn’t reach for those dishes the same way I’d reach for the bits and pieces, cracked and mismatched, that I’ve picked up along my travels.

I miss new stories. The small, seemingly insignificant moments imbued with meaning because of where, or with whom, or how they occurred.  I know those stories will return. I know that they haven’t gone anywhere, not really. But I miss them all the same.