Plague Journal, continued

   I can not say I’ve experienced the “Perfect Storm.” But I’m at the end of a “Perfect Squall.” It began four years ago with a questionable turn in worldly affairs (the flap of the butterfly wing). It escalated a year ago with the onset of Pandemic and the fear and stress that accompanied it. It intensified at the end of December with a month-long bout of “food poisoning/bacterial hurricane,” complicated by tooth ache. And culminated (so I thought) a few weeks ago with the removal of the affected tooth, leaving me traumatized in body, mind, and spirit.
   Grim stories from friends and acquaintances accelerated the spiral. It’s not as if I made a concussive hit onto rock bottom, but I slipped into a muddy murk that sought to pull me further into the abyss. And yet, I am one of the lucky ones! How could this be?
   When I thought I had overcome the Fates, I fell. Literally. In the street, splat! Injuring my hand and knee, but not breaking anything (except my dignity, such that it is). A week later my hand is still painful, my knee still seeps. I ache. Fates to Fool, “Gotcha!!”
   I’m not so muddled as to believe I’m the only one in this situation, or that there aren’t a lot of folks much worse off. So I accept the challenge to persevere, and hopefully lend an (uninjured) hand when the situation allows. I enthusiastically reject the posture of “self-pity,” the lowest of low affectations when I say that when life pulls you into mud and muck, don’t be afraid to roll around, get dirty, and make some mud pies (with your good hand).