In the pandemic, somehow the new day is starker, clearer. Before the virus, when I faced a new day, I thought of the events that would fill it, as if they were the day. But they weren’t.
Now that events have fallen away, the day is revealed to be a thing of its own. Not an empty space. A substantial space. A space that means something, or could mean something.
I’m reminded of the old joke about a man who pushes an empty wheelbarrow across a guarded border each day. The guard, sure the man is smuggling something, checks the wheelbarrow for goods but can never find any. Years later, the guard runs across the man and asks what he was smuggling.
“Wheelbarrows,” says the man.
A wheelbarrow is a fine thing. It moves. It serves a purpose. It can be filled with useful items. Sometimes, though, it can be empty, and there’s beauty in that.
I walk down the driveway toward the house. The sun is rising. So am I.