“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions,” wrote Haruki Murakami in Kafka on the Shore –
You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
It is no news that we are currently in the midst of a “storm” that has changed our lives beyond recognition.
Millions of people are fighting for their lives, struggling at home, in intensive care units, separated from their loved ones in their hours of need. Billions are in lockdown, unable to visit one another, or go to work, or attend school.
The virus has hit hard not just at our bodies and minds, but at our most instinctive desire of being close to our family and friends, to express and receive love and care in the face of this existential threat – for even that could bring illness and death. We have, as humanity, never been so vulnerable like we are now (I may be suffering from recency bias here, but that is the way it is).