Waking early to meditate outside on the back deck. Sitting at the kitchen table with my breakfast bowl and glass of water or cup of tea, writing. The rest of the day: emails, Zoom calls, planning, conversations with my husband, walking or working out, eating, more Zoom calls, reading or writing in the evening, washing dishes. There is a sweetness, a comfort, in having a daily routine. And then, lying in bed, the mind rebels against sleep: That’s it? That’s what you did today? That was too much like yesterday, and it was over too soon. A restless stirring of not-enough, battling with the weary body’s need to let go. The mind ups the ante: Is this how it will be from now on, the sense of connection with real, touchable human beings slipping further and further out of reach? What if this is it, what if there never will be any going back to “normal”? And then I’m asleep, and then it is morning, and I am waking early to meditate outside on the back deck. Gam zeh ya’avor / this too will pass.