Brain Fog? You’re Not Alone
We were sitting out back last Tuesday, toes touching under the table, letting meadow-sounds fill the silence. A lonely cicada strummed his buzzy song and the heat of the day slowly dwindled. I leaned back and watched some barn swallows soar above the trees. Across from me, my husband quietly read a book on his iPad, not even the rustle of pages to signal his presence. We’ve had few words to offer each other at the end of the day lately, but it has been enough to sit together under an open sky.
I was thinking of how tired I was, how I always seem to be tired lately, and then I recalled a report I’d heard on NPR about pandemic fatigue. You know, that thing they’re calling this increase in irritability, fatigue and brain fog these days? Researchers tell us symptoms of anxiety and depression continue to climb since the pandemic began, especially among young adults. More than half of all adults in the country have now been vaccinated, the world is opening up again, but still, our bodies aren’t convinced the danger is over. In the interview, a psychiatrist said, “It’s like we’ve been running a marathon for over a year now, and they keep moving the finish line on us.”
Images from the past year flickered through my mind like a black and white news reel. I mused to myself. There has been some sweet alongside the bitter.
This, in itself creates dissonance. How do we continue to carry such ambiguity? There is a wrestling of the paradoxes. And I felt it there, looming loud in the quiet. I wanted to talk about it, but I also wanted to remain in the silence. I wanted to move, but I also wanted to stay still. I wanted company, but I wanted to be alone. I wanted things to change, but I wanted them to stay the same.
How can one person feel so many things at once? There, under the fast-approaching darkness, every year of my life settled deep in my bones—dense, thick, heavy. I was about to give in; make my apologies, go inside and watch TV. But when I opened my mouth, out of the corner of my eye I saw something stir. There, up in the dense leaves … I stared, night blind. And in the dim light of dusk, there it was again: first light! First firefly!
I jumped up from my chair. “Did you see that?” My husband, too, was on his feet, staring in the direction of my pointed finger. We both chuckled in delight and I grabbed the deck rail to keep from floating away.
“It’s official,” he said. “No matter what the calendar says. Summer is here.”
joy announces himself
from the lush greening
of the maple;
behind my lover’s ear;
from the peony bush
on the edge of the
yard
“catch me,” he flashes,
on repeat
“catch me.”
and I cannot resist
reaching into the dark
a bright secret brushes
my fingertips
but light eludes
“catch me;
catch me”
instead, I catch
a memory:
hair still wet
and smelling of Johnson’s
baby shampoo, we
are let loose into the
dewy scent
of night falling—
my two brothers, my
sister and I on the first
night of the last day
of school
mom sits
on the porch holding
a mason jar, holes
poked in the lid with
that old metal
corkscrew
grass, still warm
from faded sun, and we
scatter over the yard
again and again, chasing
light; until our bare feet
are stained green,
to be scrubbed clean
later
one by one we
return to our mother;
make our deposits,
stand back
and marvel at
light that lives and
moves and breathes
this is how to carry
a paradox: cradled
gently between
cupped hands; handled
with care, gingerly;
guarding
the life within
until time comes
to let it go
Photo by Nathalie, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Laura Boggess, Tweetspeak Poetry’s 2021 Poet Laura.
__________________________
A Novella From Laura Boggess
Lyrical and whimsical writer Laura Boggess brings us an inspiring story of one woman’s quest to put her life back together. Poetry plays a part. But not before a book gets delivered to the wrong house on a windy, impossible day.
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Megan Willome says
Sitting outside last night in the driveway, we saw them too.
Love the “catch me” refrain.
Laura says
It never gets old to me, that first flashing hello. And it will forever be the harbinger of summer.
Katie Brewster says
Laura,
Thank you for this thoughtful post and poem:)
Favorite lines: “We both chuckled in delight and I grabbed the deck rail to keep from floating away.”
AND: “It’s official,” he said. “No matter what the calendar says. Summer is here.”
Oh, your last verse and closing couplet – YES.
This paragraph too I think will stay with me as well:
“This, in itself creates dissonance. How do we continue to carry such ambiguity? There is a wrestling of the paradoxes. And I felt it there, looming loud in the quiet. I wanted to talk about it, but I also wanted to remain in the silence. I wanted to move, but I also wanted to stay still. I wanted company, but I wanted to be alone. I wanted things to change, but I wanted them to stay the same.”
Gratefully,
Katie
Laura Boggess says
Thank YOU for reading, Katie. 😊
I’ve been relistening to an episode of On Being in which Krista Tippett interviews the clinical social worker Pauline Boss. They talk about “ambiguous loss” and our ability to hold seemingly conflicting emotions in a healthy way. Her thoughts have helped me through this time. Some. And poetry, of course 😊
Melanie Weldon-Soiset says
Thank you for naming the brain fog and fatigue of this moment. I really appreciated this On Being podcast from a few months ago (posted below) about how we are carrying this past year in our brains, as well as in our bodies. As I seek to write poems from embodied experience, naming and noticing the realities of this moment is empowering, and helps with the recovery process.
https://onbeing.org/programs/christine-runyan-whats-happening-in-our-nervous-systems/
I love too the idea of cradling a paradox like holding a firefly, and even being willing to hold it (as well as to know when it’s time to let it go). I keep fighting the temptation to seek premature clarity, to be able to answer the question, “what does this past year mean?” I thought I knew last year what this past year meant (i.e. a call to jubilee). Now I’m not so sure.
Interestingly, some Black poets and pastors I admire have named how the desire to want quick answers can contribute to white supremacy. I’ve been brainstorming how to write the apophatic “I don’t know” poem in response. An image of cradling something so delicate as a firefly is helpful to me in that endeavor. Thank you :).
Laura Boggess says
I’m so glad you found these words helpful. I agree, processing what we have been through during this time is going to be a long journey. I would love to read some of your poetry that rises out of this experience. I have found writing and reading poetry to be so helpful in “naming and noticing the realities of this moment” as you so aptly say. Your comments about the wisdom you have gleaned from Black poets and pastors illustrate another reality of this time that further complicates recovery. We are holding so many things with gentle hands right now, trying desperately not to cause any further damage. We cannot talk about these things enough. Thank you for the reference to the On Being episode. I will listen.
Melanie Weldon-Soiset says
Thank you :). I hope to remember to come back here, and share some poems that come together in response to this wonderful conversation. Hopefully the brain fog won’t prevent that from happening! 🙂
Melanie Weldon-Soiset says
I’ve had a moment to engage in some centering prayer, and here is a poem that has emerged from the “I don’t know” experience, called “Getting There on Tuesday” :).
https://melanieweldonsoiset.com/2021/06/22/getting-there-on-tuesday-a-poem/
laura says
This is absolutely lovely, Melanie. I especially enjoy the line, “festooned on the back of my eyelids.” :). Anyone who has ever done Centering Prayer will identify with this experience. Thank you so much for sharing.