Written 13 July 2020 while contemplating the isolation caused by the COVID-19 pandemic.
It seems too trite to talk abstractly about connection,
The theory of it: needs, modes, and dimensions,
When one starts wondering if hell
Is rows of soulless computer screens
And I'm the only one in the building.
I struggle to say what's the significance
Of hearing another's voice,
And how I feel if I read words
That I know someone typed just a few minutes ago.
"They were just here," I think.
"They are well. Someday we will meet face to face."
Hearing what is truly another's voice
Means I'm not alone.
And yes, there's the awkwardness when others make strange demands,
And the pain of disconnection from a person right in front of me,
But isn't that better than the deep worry
That I'm supposed to be just fine by myself?
(Yet sometimes the demands of loneliness
Are easier to face than the demands of others.)
Faith looks like hoping that I'm worth being heard
And that there's a time when I will be heard
And admitting I'm afraid that I won't hear another in their turn.
And faith looks like being ready
To hear another's voice in the emptiness.
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