A Drop of Flood

Yesterday morning I got out of the bed three hours later than usual. I didn’t go to the gym. My husband didn’t make me the usual “wake up” espresso and I didn’t bother having a shower.

The rain in Brisbane hasn’t stopped for days and we knew our ground floor was flooded. I dreaded the thought of going downstairs and examining the damage. The Russian wool rug that is at least 40 years old (though at the same time never used as it’s been carefully stored by my parents for “when the kids grow up”) and, needless to say, irreplaceable, is probably ruined. I also dreaded the thought of turning on the TV or looking at my phone. Social media flooded with images of Ukrainians in bomb shelters, nationalist slogans, prayers, and unsolicited opinions. It’s like someone opened the tap and all the pain, rage and anguish were allowed to gush out into the open contaminating our minds and churning our stomachs. I realise that by posting anything at all, I would be adding to the media flood… so this post is nothing but a drop in the ocean, so to speak…

Amidst all of this chaos my thoughts are racing, and nausea sets in. ?I seek some normality at least within a few feet from where I am. After two days of drowning, I hang the rug to dry, have my shower, get my espresso, go for a walk, and get on with my daily routine. Not because I want to pretend that nothing is happening but because my lungs need air, my mind needs calm, and my feet need dry socks. ?The flood will end eventually.