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I rise.  Today as like every other day, I rise.  Some days it is hard, but I wake up and get out of bed.  Each day seems very much the same.  There are Zoom meetings.  There are tasks to perform.  There are no major markers or possibilities to pull me forward.  Each day is a bit like housework: one task is finished for this day, but  it isn’t finished. Dishes will again need to be washed.  The laundry basket fills itself.  The same tasks, the same walks, the same food.

I rise.  I make myself a drink, look at the paper and then think, “Which task to tackle first?”  “What meeting do I need to remember?”  “Who do I need to contact?”  And then as the day progresses, I notice what has distracted me.  What has kept me from completing my to do list for today?  What will I put off until tomorrow because it doesn’t really matter?  Each day is the same.

I rise.  And I wonder what will rise at the end of these three months?  Shopping? I feel the pull but I have no desire to go there.  Restaurants?  How I miss not cooking, but I have no desire to go there either.  Overseas holidays?  Not for some time.  Church gatherings?  I am not sure, churches, like restaurants, can be areas for spread of the virus.

What I want to do is see friends, look forward to conversations without the strange pauses of broadband or speaking at the wrong moment  because our cues for listening are off on the internet.  

Maya Angelou wrote a beautiful poem with the line, “And still, I rise.”  I have thought that these words were part of her response to sexual violence and racism.  Her image of rising again is powerful— a statement of hope and determination.

But these are not just words of hope; they indicate action.  Rising, we get up and start again.  Perhaps this is the power of resurrection.  By getting up every morning we act with hope—even if we don’t feel hopeful.  It is a commitment to a new day, new possibility, the surprise of a gift, maybe? We get up and allow another day to move around us.  We engage with the day as we can.  We ignore what we need to, but rising gives room for something, someone other than ourselves, for hope to spread light in our lives.  Maybe?

I rise.


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