2020 Unraveled
I rearranged all the clothes in my closet in color order. They look like a rainbow, chakra pigmentation, lined up gleaming until you hit the thickest section: black, edged with a tinge of gray. This is where I live these days. This year looms like storm clouds, drifting north and south, glaring downward until they decide it’s time to release another deluge.
First it was COVID. Shortages of Clorox wipes and toilet paper, terrorizing people into gluttony, hands grabbing packages off the shelves and hoarding, never thinking twice about the neighbor next door. Self-protection. Self-preservation. Self. Lining up the colors. The red thread unravels.
The pandemic spread. Moving yoga classes online terrified me. Would I have to watch myself on a screen and listen to my own voice on recordings? Hadn’t I escaped this hell when I opted out of my theater and communications majors? Writing was a safer outlet. Frozen with anxiety, the orange thread unravels.
I didn’t step into a grocery store for 60 days. When my husband ventured out (every 3 weeks or so) he armed himself with a mask and rubber gloves. Every item brought into our garage sat there for 48 hours, except those needing refrigeration; he diligently wiped those down and left them in the second fridge until we needed to restock our kitchen supply. No more lunch meetings on Zareen’s patio. No more grab-and-go breakfasts on the way to teach a class. The menu tightened. The yellow edges fray.
My children struggled. Classes from home required self-discipline. My older one didn’t come by that naturally. My younger one hated the self-reflection on the screen. As a mom, I only wanted to protect their mental health. I didn’t care about grades or homework getting done. I just needed them to feel safe. My heart ached, trying to burn its way out of my chest to seep into theirs. The green fabric smokes.
In Minneapolis, where I lived a painful 7 months after college, a police officer knelt on a man’s throat until he died. My grandfathers were both police officers. One was arguably racist, though I didn’t know him well. Would he have condoned this? The police force undoubtedly embraces brotherhood, protecting their own. Would my grandfather have stepped back and watched as his partner took a Black man’s life? Thinking about it, I choke back a sob. My breath catches in my throat. The blue yarn floats away with an exhale.
Politics jump to the forefront. Another dreaded election year. The shock of 2016 bubbles back to the surface of memory, that realization that somehow an inexperienced, hateful narcissist had become The Chosen One. Who let this happen? People in my own country. Self. People who live under the same law as I. Self. Did I misinterpret something? Had the ideals of this nation been lost in translation? Indigo fibers began to burn...
Along with our beautiful redwoods and homes of good-hearted people living by our coast. People I knew peripherally who taught love and simplicity and selflessness, who believed in the ocean's power to keep us grounded and calm and safe. And fire for once overpowered the water. Violet smoke from the last remaining threads.
The smoke billowed higher, joined the storm clouds overhead, creating a haze outlined in orange. So hard to breathe. When would it descend again? What storms lay ahead?
White equals light, an absence of color.
Black has no light, but all colors melted together.
Joined as one, do these blend into perfect balance? Perfect light, all the chakras elegantly aligned?
They call me White. But I feel dark and weighed down, the opposite of “light.” What is color, really?
I reach into my closet and slip a charcoal black dress over my head. I cover it with a gray sweater.
