Flattening the optimism curve (Day 22)

Today, I am determined to write something positive. Determined, I tell you.

I’ve got to stop scrolling Twitter at bedtime. I was so angry it kept me awake until 3:30 this morning. And I’m writing this at 6:00 a.m.

Uh-oh. It looks like Mr. Patience here hit a rough patch in his shelter-at-home effort, and he has recognized that there is a second line that can be plotted on the flattening-the-curve chart: The one that tracks optimism.

At the beginning, that optimism line was like a rocket ship; straight up: Yeah, this is a bad, bad situation, but I’m home with the family I love more than anything, and together, we’ll get through this.

Somewhere around the two week mark the reality of “hunkered down” kicked in, and the line was less of a rocket ship and more like the incline of the first hill of a rollercoaster: I hear the anxious click-click-click of the coaster as it climbs that hill, but with each click I also find something to be grateful for. Knowing what’s ahead is scary, but at the end of that rollercoaster ride we’ll have an incredible moment of exhilaration, because we’ll be back out there together. Together together. Not together apart.

I’ll admit that now that I’ve started my fourth week, the optimism doesn’t come as easily as it once did. More and more of us personally know someone who’s gotten the virus. There are loved ones in our lives whose jobs require them to work amongst the madness, or who live in the areas that are hardest-hit. And then we’ve learned of people who we admire, who’ve done important work, or who’ve brought us great joy … and they are gone. Forever. It leaves our world colder. There were stories they had yet to tell, songs yet to sing, movies to make, paintings to paint.

If art isn’t a vital and necessary service, I don’t know what is.

Unlike the coronavirus curve, the flattening of the optimism curve is a bad thing. It dips when the cases rise, when science is ignored, when people are abandoned, when the general welfare is forgotten, when selfishness replaces empathy.

There you have it, folks. Not everyday is a winner. So I’ll give myself a break. I will shelter at home with my family and gain strength in their love. I will find hope and happiness in the boundless energy and creativity of my larger family and friends.

And I will remind myself that those angering, heartbreaking voices that sometimes come in the middle of the night are untrustworthy. Unreliable. They aren’t the only voices out there. Don’t listen to them. Put them aside. Reconsider them and battle against them in the light of a new day … the day when we’re all given another chance to push that optimism curve toward the sky.