The End of The Beginning

I'm not feeling very Instagramable. With last week's announcement that anyone 16 and up and in Georgia can get vaccinated, I feel like I should have celebrated with a vaxxie (vaccine selfie).

Yet with herd immunity on the horizon, it feels more like I'm driving a new car off of the lot for the first time. After being so safe for so long, the idea of getting back to normal feels a bit daunting.

It's not that I don't have anything to photograph. Life continues to move forward. With spring comes Passover and we had a lovely Seder, albeit smaller than usual, on Saturday. Still, I didn't take any pics of the amazing chopped liver, light-as-air matzo balls or fork-tender brisket (no posting but clearly kvelling).

In some ways I didn't want to flaunt it on social media because I felt bad that the friends who usually celebrate with us couldn't be there.

But there was something a bit more significant in not posting pics of my mom, sister or brother-in-law, who I haven't shared a meal with in-real-life in over a year. Or pics of my sister holding up an advance copy of her soon-to-be released book, "Southern Ground," having showed it to me for the first time (talk about kvelling).

I didn't post pics of any of those moments. I just lived them. We were present, engaged and connected.

My husband and I got our second vaxx, which marks the end of the beginning for us. I'm not sure if we'll ever get back to normal, even as we look forward to resuming travel, spending time with people we love and, above almost all else, hugs.

With spring's resplendent glory, we still curse the pollen. And just as every rose has a thorn, while I'm happy to be nearing the other side of this, I still have so many unanswered questions -- why didn't I get sick when others did, will it come back, if so will we better prepared and are there long-term effects of the vaccine?

We may never know.

As the Passover holiday tells us, we've lived through plagues before. And as we recite the myriad of them as part of the Seder prayers, what once felt like an archaic story, now feels eerily germane.

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