Despite the 3 am sudden wakenings, sweaty and bleak, and the immediate avalanche of worries that smother me first thing every morning, I am feeling something good about our future.
It's the neighbors who, when I take a walk, are now sure to notice me, and we say hello - whereas a few months ago we might just as well have passed without a glance, each lost in our own thoughts.
It's the notices on my neighborhood app, NextDoor, offering assistance with shopping, picking up medications, and calling to check on neighbors who are older.
It's my daughter who's living with us this year, insisting that she do the shopping not only for our household, since my husband and I are both in the at-risk age bracket, but for our 91-year-old next-door neighbor as well.
It's the pioneer woman feeling I now have toward our food - a renewed sense of respect and gratitude for what now seem like treasures and wealth: leftover potatoes, carrots & onions from the St. Patrick's corned beef? I didn't just toss them; I made colcannon! - whereas in my "former life" I would have pitched them because, well, old soupy potatoes & carrots - you know, ick. My husband is feeding sourdough to make bread. My daughter is making casseroles and soups. And I'm growing broccoli sprouts; there's a constant jar on my countertop - tiny greens we can bring to life from just a spoonful of seeds: