Restless

Butt in the chair.
Doing it the old fashioned way.
Pen in hand. Pad of paper on the desk.
I have told myself I will write something at least once a week.
Why?
Because it is good for me.
I learned long ago that writing helps me understand what I am thinking and feeling. Otherwise unnamed thoughts and emotions run wild inside me eventually forcing their way to the surface as they did two nights ago when I woke up angry from a dream and then heard someone call my name as clearly as if you were standing in the room next to me.

Today, I am restless.
Maybe I have always been.
I remember my Mom telling me that when I was a baby my Mom and Dad had to put a “lid” on my crib to keep me from climbing out.
I am restless.
Holding my breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I am restless.
Because there is nothing I can do but wait.
And send thoughts and prayers and best wishes and what strength I can and what hope I have  and what gratitude I feel to those on the front line of this crisis. Those giving their lives on my behalf. Our behalf.
I am restless.
Wanting to help.
I am restless.
As I think about the millions of people whose lives are far more disrupted and displaced than mine.
I am restless.
As I ponder what next.