Muskrats can hold their breath for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes under the surface, in the quiet; at least partially removed from the world. I imagine a gentle sensory deprivation; the hum of the forest falling away as the critter submerges. I look on with envy.
Over the past week, the cacophony of our societal decline reached a fever pitch. I don’t need to spell out the how or why; the writing is on the wall — every wall. It’s beamed into our moments by our acquaintances, our friends, the vestiges of talking heads.
The forest doesn’t have an app. Your favorite curvy road doesn’t have an agenda. That album from high school won’t shift into something sinister. We may not be able to hide beneath the water, but we have a measure of control and agency. The institutions aren’t going to save us; we can only save ourselves.
Maybe COVID was practice for a mental contagion, with nature and sourdough as treatment. Disconnection and solitude can be trying in good times. In times like these, they’re survival.
Did you see that new iPhone? It’s so thin.