I’ve been fighting writers block for weeks.

When Bob and I first tucked into the primal adventure of our lives, I anticipated an unprecedented flow of words. They would spill freely, unhampered by social distractions just like the times we had left the country and reinvented our lives. I pictured me and Bob in a sampan, bumping our way down a river clogged with Covid refugees, an island of two navigating a foreign landscape.

Writing would be as easy as falling off a log. All I had to do was pick up my Pilot G2 gel pen and float to the fertile gulf. I would delve deep, spending hours on my back porch rocker with my legs stretched out, scribbling furiously, capturing dialogue and irony, blithely blasting through the log jams.

I would build an easel of my knees and sketch a fantastic world. I would capture the glories of spring in watercolor pencil, nuanced with brushstrokes of global angst. I would be the Edward Scissorhands of Art, flinging finished work to the lawn as my fingers rushed to start another.

But that surge in creativity has not been forthcoming. Instead, my words repeat in dull loops, rolling beneath my feet, refusing to carry me anywhere. My sketch pad sits patiently on a dusty shelf.

Granted, it is April and we have planned a tight garden, every square inch of that old swimming pool measured and groomed. I’ve been shuffling compost and mulch around the yard in our wheelbarrow, have made that grey plastic tub the epicenter of my world. No time for art.

But, who am I kidding? Were it any other time of year, I would be squandering these extra hours polishing the copper-bottom pots, cleaning out cupboards, and squirting canned air on my crumb-infested keyboard.

On cold mornings perfect for writing, I zest lemons and bake pound cake. I flip pancakes and chop onions instead of fleshing out my stack of first drafts. In the evenings, after reading mountains of corona-virus news, I labor over The New York Times crossword before turning off my browser to play solitaire with a stiff, new deck.

Like many, I’m suffering from cognitive dissonance, unable to reconcile my sinfully simple day-to-day routine with the sour news of death. When I close my eyes, I imagine that I’m sitting at a table with Bob on a Mediterranean veranda. We touch glasses, our eyes shining, and turn our faces seaward to await the mushroom cloud.

And so I eat lemon pound cake while the planet wobbles, and I find myself choking on the unfairness and the uncertainty, the loss of stability, life, and livelihood. I can’t ignore the sight of our social systems folding in on themselves like a house of cards.

I want desperately to write of something else, to try and capture the light of hope. I’d like to believe world governments and their people will rebuild a more equitable world on the ashes of this pandemic. In my dreams, people who have been forced to cook for themselves will retain the habit, the gardens they have dug will remain weed-free, and government will fix our healthcare fiasco. In my dreams.

I picture five strangers in a floating prison with four gallons of water and three weeks of rations, stonily regarding the infinite, blue seascape. Conversation long ago exhausted, their eyes shift from the tarp covering their meager supply to the deepening lines in each other’s faces, and back to the sea of undrinkable water.

My browser feeds me news of asymptomatic ballplayers and senators testing positive for Covid-19 while the untested hoi polloi hover in limbo, staring at their kitchen cupboards. A family in Freehold, New Jersey, my childhood stomping grounds, is paying the ultimate price for honoring their Sunday dinner tradition. The matriarch and three of her eleven children have died, while others wait out their infection.

In the absence of community testing, we assume that we and everyone around us are carrying the virus. All are guilty until proven innocent. And, should we test negative, that status evaporates when we touch the next community-accessible hard surface, or pass downwind from someone with a dry cough.

The only rational response is to distance ourselves. Bob and I bang around our little dingy, embracing each time we cross paths. We’ve shrunk our world to house and yard, meandering from our news feeds to the garden, to the refrigerator. We subscribe to a spring CSA and start planting potatoes.

This morning I wake from a dream where I am hugging an older woman in a red dress, a familiar stranger with whom I’ve formed an instant bond. What I wouldn’t do for a hug from an outsider.

The United States took action too late. Our curve will look like most other countries, a hockey stick of terrible decisions, drastic action, overwhelmed health care, and triage. I click on a satellite image of two limed trenches in an Iranian graveyard, while our hospitals draft guidelines for who to turn away. The governor extends North Carolina school closures to mid-May. Many of our friends are now sidelined from work, while friends and family in healthcare, food service, and delivery scramble to keep up.

As the sun bears down, the water lures you from your rubber seat. The cooling relief quickly turns to panic when you feel the first bump of a fish against your dangling legs. You claw your way back into your life raft and watch the salt crust bloom across your arms. The fins appear, and you try not to lick your lips.

~*~

On the weekends, we break our quarantine for a walk at the dam. We’ve altered our route as more people take advantage of the park. We test the breeze, doing our best to stay upwind of other strollers. Like us, many take calculated risks: the occasional trip to town for supplies, dinner with the folks, or a walk beyond the confines of home.

I’ve given up my Tuesday walk with Shelley and Amy. Instead, we text and talk on the phone. I compensate by walking out our back gate and disappearing down the trail into Tami’s woods. At my destination, I stand on the big rocks and regard Stinking Creek, hoping to see a deer come down to drink, or perhaps another human being. On the way home, I stop and sit on Carl’s bench, beneath that stately beech. Sometimes I lie back, staring up at the beyond, thinking about what I’ll do with those peppers when I get home.

I set my flip phone on the table and look out a freshly-washed window at our greening lawn. It is Saturday, day four of my self-imposed covid-19 retreat, and plan-canceling has become second nature. I was able to say “No,” to grocery shopping, buddy strolls, and a writing workshop.

Bob and I had a pivotal discussion after dinner on Tuesday. At first, I thought he was kidding, but the set of his face assured me he was serious. He’d been watching the virus sweep over the globe, affecting his co-workers and their clients for weeks. “I’m only suggesting we limit our exposure and wait it out. See what happens,” he said.

“Okay, I’m with you,” I said, struggling to catch up. “I am, after all, an introvert.”

Earlier that day, I had spent $100 on groceries, and now it was time to sit tight and eat down our larder. “It’ll be easy, I assured myself. “It’ll be fun!”

We have long been a nation of two, so reducing our social profile would be easy. Bob works from home, I’m retired, and we have access to an arsenal of social media tools. Ignoring the lump in my windpipe, I began re-framing my commitment. It would be a relaxing mini-retreat cleverly disguised as our civic duty, not solitary confinement. We’d merely be removing ourselves from the vector pool. It would be like a second honeymoon.

“What’s on our list?” Bob asks this morning.

“Well, we’ve got our Dam walk . . .”

We are running our of winter projects. The pollinator garden we topped off with compost last weekend is settling nicely, and the frogs are happy. We should probably plant out the last of the spider lily bulbs we got from Whitney. If we felt ambitious, we could work on replacing the crawl space door. And we could spend an hour wiring chicken wire onto the garden fence.

Instead, I sew the heels shut on my wool socks, and we drive out to Jordan Lake. We step between the guard rails onto the worn path towards the tailrace. The water is much calmer today, the whirling gull vortex replaced by a solitary blue heron. The sun bounces off everything, the distant trees one-dimensionally stoic. A man with a long, black ponytail tosses a net as a cormorant rises, flapping wildly.

Back home, we tackle the overflow in our garage, unearthing a set of rusting pipe-wrenches that Bob plans to restore. We play tidy-up for a little while before coming inside to gorge on popcorn. Bob retires to a sunny bedroom with the last chapters of In Cold Blood while I sit in a rocker on the front porch and get caught up with my brother, Johnny.

Later, I open the chest freezer and pull a bag of homemade seitan cutlets from the top shelf. We could eat out of here for a month! Additionally, we are packing an extra ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of dried beans, a cupboard stocked with canned goods, five pounds of rice, and four pounds of pasta. The garden weighs in with collards and carrots, and there are squash and sweet potatoes from last fall. And, in the refrigerator, we’ve got four quarts of mayonnaise and more than a dozen eggs from Ted and Helen’s chickens in the fridge.

So far, our social distancing project has been quite bearable. Tomorrow promises more of the same: a little exercise, a bit of puttering, and some heavy snacking. The tightness in my throat is long gone, and I’m feeling good about doing my bit to slow the spread of Covid-19. Additionally, we’ll likely stay healthy, and are in no danger of losing weight.

You have been thinking about jelly beans since Easter Sunday. You retrace your childhood steps downstairs to find a chocolate bunny sitting upright in a sea of cellophane grass. You admire the marshmallow peeps, aware that many jelly beans are hiding beneath the glossy, green, waves. It never crosses your mind what those colorful pellets might represent.

Finally, you give in. You pull into the drug store parking lot and score a bag of half-priced jelly beans. And now you are feeling sick on your way to pick up a pizza, a special treat for a difficult week. You try not to heap stress on top of your general unease. You turn on the radio, searching for the perfect song. Stay between the lines. You are probably just thirsty. Sugar does that.

You do not know why you like Longmire so much. Soap operas are not your style. You think of what Bob told you about his grandparents, about how their soap operas took priority over their grandkids, and how you used to think they were using TV to escape reality.

The show is set in a fictional county in Wyoming. Walt Longmire, the local Sherriff, is nothing to write home about. The plot elements are predictable and full of holes. There is always a body, multiple suspects, a splash of sexual tension, a measure of distrust, somebody spends time in the jail cell that sits in the middle of the sheriff’s office, and someone always ends up confessing everything to Walt.

No one warned you that Walt, Vic, Ruby, Ferg, Branch, Cady, Henry Standing Bear, Matthias, Travis, and even Jacob Nighthorse, grow on you. No matter how bad the dialogue, or how deep the plot holes, you want to know what the characters will do next. You had no idea it would be so addictive, as irresistible as the sugar in those jelly beans.

You realize that you are using the show as mental floss. Washing away the cares of the day by immersing yourself in a story that does not even faintly resemble your own reality. It would be counter-productive if you were able to place yourself in their shoes. The more improbable, the better. You are self-medicating with sugar and TV.

Finally, you make it home with the pizza. Bob has pulled down the movie screen and hooked the laptop to the projector. Your heart has calmed down. “What will it be tonight?” Bob asks as you carry your plates to the living room. “Oh, I don’t know. A bear mauling? Maybe a drug overdose? Arrows?” You cannot wait to find out.

Seven miles out I congratulated myself for keeping cool and making good time. My hastily scribbled Google Map notes said the hospital exit in Sanford was 12.7 miles south on Hwy 1. Which is where the ambulance was headed with Bob. The odometer said I was getting close. Under the circumstances, staying cool was a tall order. Not to mention the weather, which has been stupid hot. Driving without A/C is an exercise in sweat management.

It was when I saw New Hill (a.k.a “middle of nowhere”) up ahead that I realized I was traveling north. I wiped my forehead with a handkerchief, exited and turned around, trying not to think about the extra twenty minutes this blunder would cost. Bob was in good hands, I told myself. He’ll think I found one last thing to do at home, the dishes perhaps, rather than worry I’d gotten into a car wreck as frantic wives often do when chasing ambulances.

An hour earlier, Bob was drinking coffee at his desk when he noticed an odd sensation on the right side of his tongue. It felt like Novocaine. Moments later, the numbness spread to his right eye. He considered going out to get me.

I was speed-hanging laundry, wondering how I was going to process twenty-four pounds of pickles, bake a cake, and clean the house for Jason’s birthday potluck. Most of the time, pickles just sit. Until day fifteen when you slice the brined cucumbers, soak them in alum for six hours, then replace the liquid with heated vinegar. Today was pickle day.

Back inside, Bob swiveled towards me and announced, “Somethings not right.” He told me about the Novocaine. He felt dizzy. We had a short discussion. The expense was giving us pause. I phoned urgent care. They recommended I call 911, so I did.

Bob put on clean underwear like his mother taught him. While shaving he realized he’d lost the ability to puff out the left side of his face. His lips were leaking air. He positioned himself in the rosewood chair on the front porch and waited for sirens. We laughed to see the ambulance and fire truck pull into Evelyn and Jimmy’s across the street. I ran onto the lawn barefoot and waved until they saw me, got back into their vehicles and came over to our place.

Cracking jokes, a woman in navy blue EMT garb pulled out a razor and began carving a smiley face into Bob’s chest hair. The Emergency Medical Services team attached wires to Bob’s chest and asked him questions while the fire fighters looked on. They, took his blood pressure, saw it was 199 over 110 and wheeled out the gurney. “Wait!” Bob said and they paused so I could give him a kiss.

The hospital staff was real kind, trying to procure meatless meals for Bob, and failing twice. I spent the rest of Saturday driving back and forth from home, bringing sandwiches to Sanford, and dealing with those pickles. I called upon the Three Musketeers, Buffy, Zoila, and Doug to help me get the pickles sliced and Haruka and Jason showed at 10pm to do the vinegar thing so I could spend the night on a fold-out chair by Bob’s side.

We canceled Jason’s birthday potluck. A disturbing trend, the last three birthdays were overshadowed by catastrophe. We learned of Zafer’s death on Haruka’s birthday, Chris died on mine, and we were crossing our fingers that Bob made it through Jason’s. Buffy’s promised to break the cycle with her birthday August 4th.

Towards dinner time the next day, Bob was released with a clean bill of health. He’d had a CAT scan, an MRI, ultrasounds, and blood tests. When the doctor announced that Bob had not had a stroke, our relief was audible.  How lucky for us to have dodged that bullet! Even better, the doctor pronounced Bob’s heart and carotid artery fully-functional. The likelihood of stroke or heart attack was slim, he said and even allowed that Bob’s unresponsive eyelid and Dick Cheney smile could be Bell’s Palsy as Bob suspected. His blood pressure was back to normal. He’d had a shot of B-12, something to lower cholesterol and with the help of our neighbors, we’d saved the pickles.

I’ve lived with Bob long enough to value the importance of good questions. They can make or break any deal, they steer conversations off-course or into fertile waters. Yet, as long as I’ve watched Bob hit the target with artfully-posed questions, the right questions do not naturally compose themselves in my brain.

As the baby in the family, Bob learned to ask questions in the same way I, the oldest became good at making assertions. In order to lead the pack, I needed to speak in certainties. “Not always right, but never in doubt,” we joke. My questions sound like statements and Bob’s statements sound like questions. Bob is also never in doubt, but with a subtle twist. He usually knows the answer to the questions he’s posing, or at least his version of the answer. I’ll say, “That’s a boat-tailed grackle” as opposed to Bob’s “Is that a boat-tailed grackle?”

Gretchen Rubin, author of Better Than Before and The Happiness Project devised a neat quiz to help determine our behavioral tendencies:
Upholders – people who get up in the morning and ask themselves “What’s on my list for today?” They are motivated by internal and external expectations.
Questioners, who ask, “Is there anything I really have to do today?” They require good reasons for a particular course of action.
Rebels wonder “What do I want to do today?” They respond to internal expectations and are motivated by a sense of freedom.
Obligers ask “What must I do today?” They are motivated by accountability to others.

I’m an Upholder if you haven’t already guessed, and Bob is a questioner. Here’s a typical exchange: “What are you up to today?” “I’m doing this and that, and need to do such and such.” “Can’t you put that off until tomorrow?” “Yes, but…” I’ve set my mind on what all I need to do, and Bob tries to help me by talking me out of some of it.

Last year I decided to seek help for pain in my left foot that I first noticed in 2013. I suspected a stone bruise, but after weeks without respite I linked it to my growing collection of varicose veins. I had been spending six hours a day doing housework and preparing meals barefoot on concrete terrazzo in Africa. A cursory examination by a visiting medical student supported my theory.

Two years later, I worked up the courage to visit a vascular surgeon. In hindsight, I should have brought Bob with me. I filled out a questionnaire, and spoke with the examiner at length, beginning with the story about my foot. I told her that I began wearing compression stockings at that time and they alleviated the pain, supporting my suspicion that veins were the underlying problem.

“We can fix your veins,” was the prognosis. For a $5,000 co-pay. Bob and I decided to liquidate my IRA to pay for the procedure. I never asked anyone if closing the four exterior veins in my legs would address the pain in my foot. I assumed fixing my veins would do the trick, that the veins in my leg were letting pressure accumulate in my foot, and that the examiner had heard me when I described my problem. You know what they saw about assuming. “Never assume anything. It makes an ass out of u and me.”

It took months of healing before I stopped wearing the surgical stockings and a week later the pain in my foot reappeared. “What the…?!” I went back to wearing knee highs, unable to face the awful truth. Finally I mustered the courage to meet with the physician. He examined my foot and said, “This is not a vascular issue.” He read the notes on my chart from the initial consultation. There were my answers to the questionnaire with some notes from the consultation. No mention of my foot. He suggested I see a podiatrist.

The good news? My legs look great, right down to my ankles. And the dull ache in my foot is a constant reminder of the importance of asking the right question.

Our generation doesn’t think to send their kids off to college with, “And stay away from heroin, it’s a killer!” But we need to because heroin is ubiquitous, cheap, easy, and deadly.

Last month I was blindsided by Zafer’s death. After recovering my balance, I started reading. I needed to know how a well-adjusted, talented college freshman had overdosed on heroin. What I learned was shocking.

The United States is experiencing an epidemic.

“Accidental drug overdose is currently the leading cause of injury-related death in the United States for people between the ages of 35-54 and the second leading cause of injury-related death for young people. Drug overdose deaths now exceed those attributable to firearms, homicides or HIV/AIDS.” – DrugPolicy.org

“Heroin-related deaths more than tripled between 2010 and 2014, with 10,574 heroin deaths in 2014.” – CDC.gov

“Use of the drug in the United States increased 79 percent between 2007 and 2012, according to federal data, triggering a wave of overdose deaths and an “urgent and growing public health crisis,” Attorney General Eric H. Holder Jr.” – Washington Post

“Use it twice and you’re addicted” someone told me. Z died on his third try. But he wasn’t addicted, I protest. Zafer does not fit my image of a heroin addict. Times have changed.

Today’s heroin user is more likely to smoke it than inject it. It comes in pill form, is much cheaper than it was forty years ago, and you can even buy it online. “In the ’70s, a bag of heroin — enough to get a user high once — cost $30 and was about 28-percent pure. Today, it’s 80 percent to 90 percent pure, which makes it powerfully addictive, and it sells for $4 a bag.” from NPR’s Heroin in America series.

Riding the white horse has never been easier.

I try to put myself in his shoes. Like Zafer, I felt invincible at nineteen. My parents cautioned me against sex, drugs, and rock and roll to no avail. My life was mine to live and I wanted to taste everything it had to offer. Except heroin, of course.

I hung out with friends who were users. They called it horse, but as much as I love to ride I never rode this one because we all knew it rode you. No one wanted a monkey on their back nor wished that horror on others. I’d seen the writhing pain of withdrawal and wanted none of it. My friends never offered to share the drug and I never asked. It was different back then.

Heroin is now accepted as a recreational drug without regard for the risks and we have widespread pharmaceutical use and legalized marijuana to blame.

Blaming meds is easy. I disdain the pervasive fear of pain or discomfort that drives the pill culture and loathe the predatory pharmaceutical companies. A little pain never hurt anyone! My country has become a nation of addicted weenies.

I am less inclined to implicate marijuana. Facts are facts, though and when you take Mexico’s economy into consideration, the correlation makes perfect sense. The legalization of marijuana reduced the profitability of cannabis at the same time widespread use of pain meds opened up a lucrative market for heroin. Farmers began planting poppies in their pot fields and pain medication addicts soon had a cheaper alternative.

Utah, of all places, demonstrated the path forward with an aggressive education program. “The state’s overdose death rate climbed steadily during the early 2000s, driven by growing prescription opioid dependence. But Utah lawmakers took action early. In 2007, they established a two-year public health-based program to combat painkiller misuse.

Over the next three years, prescription opioid-related overdose deaths dropped more than 25%, but the success was short lived. After funding ran out in 2010, deaths began to climb again.

“We saw that when we weren’t educating the public and providers, awareness decreased and deaths increased,” said Angela Stander, prescription drug overdose prevention coordinator at the Utah department of public health.” [CDC.gov]

Bottom line, education will stop the spread of the overdose epidemic. Support legislation. Throw in with the folks at Shatterproof. Spread the word.

Additional sources:

Overdose Death Rates

A deadly crisis: mapping the spread of America’s drug overdose epidemic

Office of National Drug Control Policy: The International Heroin Market

How Much Does Heroin Cost?

Why a bag of heroin costs less than a pack of cigarettes

How Your Teenage Son or Daughter May Be Buying Heroin Online

Colorado Opioid Symposium: Reducing the Impacts of Opioids in Colorado

Opioid-Antidote Drug Will Now Be Available to US High Schools for Free

As if we needed one more reason to boycott factory-farmed animal products, here comes another horror story. It all started earlier this year when the Department of Agriculture began issuing warnings to the poultry industry. H5N2 was knocking wild birds out of the sky, birds sick with highly pathogenic avian influenza. Within a few months, outbreaks began occurring in domesticated flocks.

In Iowa, avian flu spread wildly through tightly packed egg factories, prompting them to declare a state of emergency. Similar stories soon poured across the Midwest. In April, Minnesota lost 7% of its turkey production. To date close to 50 million birds have died of the flu or were killed to staunch the epidemic.

This is horrible on several levels. Egg consumers, especially bakeries and breakfast cafes are taking a hard hit as the price of eggs doubles. International exporters are losing money due to poultry bans from a dozen countries. U.S. Poultry farmers are starting over after being only partially compensated for the lost and culled birds. USDA officials are scrambling to determine how the disease is spread and there are murmurs of fear should the flu manage to jump species and begin infecting humans.

Not to mention the birds themselves; suffering and being put to death. No wait, that’s nothing new for them. The life of animals in Confined Animal Feeding Operations is so bad, that “premature” death is likely a blessing.

Bottom line, cramming thousands of animals into tight spaces is a recipe for disaster. To survive the stress of their environment, they are fed antibiotics and other unnatural fare. One whiff of virus and their immune systems succumb. This is no way to keep animals and a bad way to feed human beings.

Sources:

Health Impact News
Avian Flu Outbreak Among Chickens—How Long Can we Continue this Failed Food System? – June 25
“These animals are fed a completely unnatural diet of glyphosate-containing genetically engineered (GE) grains mixed with antibiotics—a surefire recipe for drug resistance and out-of-control spread of disease, both among animals and humans.”
“Amy Mayer, an Iowa Public Radio reporter told PBS5 that scientists are still struggling to figure out how the outbreak was able to spread as widely as it has.”

Rochester Home Page
Avian influenza causes egg shortage – June 24
“Nearly 50 million birds have died, mainly in the Midwest”

Times Free Press
Consumers feel the pain as bird flu outbreak causes egg prices to soar – June 22
“It’s normally a $35 to $45 expense — but not this time.
“I paid $80 for the case I bought last week,” she said. “I feel the pain, yes.”

Eco Watch
Avian Flu Epidemic Prompts CDC Warning of ‘Potential for Human Infection’- June 3
The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) has released an official advisory to warn health workers and clinicians of the potential for human infection of the devastating avian flu currently ravaging the Midwest.

Business insider
Dozens of countries are banning US poultry because of a huge bird flu outbreak – April 30
“Dozens of countries have imposed total or partial bans on U.S. poultry and poultry imports since an outbreak of highly pathogenic avian influenza (HPAI) was discovered in December.

Each of the top 10 importers has introduced restrictions. Total bans have been imposed by China, South Korea and Angola, whose markets were valued at nearly $700 million last year.”

Wall Street Journal
Escalating Bird-Flu Outbreak Takes Toll on U.S. Poultry Farms – April 24
“Researchers think it is spreading through the droppings of wild ducks and geese as they migrate to the upper Midwest to breed during the warmer months of the year. But it’s unclear how the virus enters already tightly managed poultry houses, which typically are enclosed to prevent exposure to pathogens and predators.”
“Farmers whose birds are determined through USDA testing to have a case of the influenza receive compensation from the agency for birds that must be destroyed. But payments don’t cover birds that die from the flu, which can rapidly move through flocks.”

Hawaii Tribune-Herald
Ag department warns of avian flu – April 1, 2015
The state Department of Agriculture warned Hawaii commercial and backyard poultry and bird owners Tuesday to be vigilant because of outbreaks of highly pathogenic avian influenza (HPAI) H5 along the Pacific migratory bird path.

Daily KOS
CAFOs and Avian Flu – February 25, 2007
“Stressed out animals fed an unnatural diet and living in filth on bare earth or concrete, or cramped into tiny cages, get sick very easily. Very easily. Only large and regular doses of powerful antibiotics make the business model viable.”

The first step was to get a feel for how many minutes, hours actually, I am tapped into my browser. This was easily done by opening my browser (I know!) and looking at history. Turned out I averaged four hours of screen time a day over the past week, a third of it after dinner.

“I’ll bet I can cut my screen time in half and still get my work done, keep up with my friends and read the news,” I said to myself.

Changing a habit always begins with a decision. I decided to stop using my computer after dinner by turning off my laptop before I ate.

The first evening, I glanced at my To Do list after shutting down my computer and nearly turned it back on when I saw the word “Write.” I wondered if I had enough willpower to open a document without also opening the browser. The little voice in my head chided my search for a loophole with “Screen time is screen time” and I left the laptop off.

That blog post would have to get written the old-fashioned way, with pen on paper. I started scribbling.

My father who is also a writer, told me years ago when I first began writing on a computer that he preferred to use his typewriter. It kept his mind sharp, he said, to have to think out what he wanted to say and write without editing.

I found myself feeling a little lost on my first day into my new habit. I actually had too much time on my hands. I wondered who I might be letting down by not checking my email at 8pm. I had gotten ready for bed, scoured the kitchen sink, taken out the compost, pulled some weeds and dead-headed the petunias. I flirted with laying in the hammock for a spell but thought it a bit too reckless. Besides, it was a chilly evening and I would have had to put on a pair of socks.

I’m optimistic about using my new-found time wisely. I believe my writing will improve and the weeds will suffer. The next step will be waiting an hour before turning my computer on in the morning. I may try writing in my journal while I sip my cocoa. Heck, I may even do a little reading.

I’ll let you know how it goes. But I’ll probably tell you to your face rather than post it on my facebook.

If you’re reading this post, you may have already embraced the concept of self-care. Perhaps you’ve always known it. Perhaps you were born knowing how to take care of yourself. You didn’t need the flight attendant telling you to “secure your mask on first, and then assist the other person.” Perhaps your tendency for self-preservation came with your first breath; a survival instinct as automatic as your heartbeat.

Not me. Caring for my own needs did not come natural. The first time I heard the term “Self-care” I snorted and thought to myself, “I’m not sick! I’m not an invalid that needs to be ‘taken care of’.” Self-care – it sounded so…Selfish. In my hubris I thought, “I’m the care-TAKER; I don’t need taken care OF!”

It took a long time for me to realize that not everyone is wired like me. I assumed others saw the same un-done tasks as I did, and couldn’t understand why they didn’t feel an urgency to get them done. My inner voice had an under-current of resentment as I took care of things that no one else wanted to do. It wasn’t until reaching my fifties that it slowly dawned on me that I was an overachiever.

Even more startling, I realized that I didn’t need to bend over backwards to earn my keep. Much of the work I had burdened myself with was driven by an undue sense of duty and responsibility. My expectations of myself were much higher than what others expected of me. I began hearing my resentment for what it was – a gentle nudge to throttle down. I now pause to reassess my actions whenever my inner dialogue begins with “I’ve love to do this but I can’t because I have to…”

It doesn’t matter where my sense of responsibility comes from (being an oldest daughter with six little brothers) or how long it has been in play, or how much I imagine others depend on me. Every time I step in to solve someone else’s problem or clean up a mess they left, my irritation tells me I am on the wrong path.

I’m learning to walk the line between contributing and enabling. And I find that others happily step up to the plate when given that opportunity. Since removing my barriers to self-care, I’m getting good at asking others to pitch in, and at staying my tongue before saying “yes” or offering to solve someone else’s problem.

Although I worried about becoming lazy and selfish or about getting kicked to the curb for not pulling my own weight, this has not happened. In fact, I’m still getting just as much done. The changes I’ve made are transparent, no one has accused me of being an underachiever, and I’ve never felt happier or more relaxed!