Out Missing

The lane is quiet, for a moment.

I stop to gather my wits. It feels strange to be out and about after 17 days of isolation.

So this is what I’ve been missing

For years, FOMO had been a thing for me. The vexing, perplexing, wondering what’s nexting

Phones and WhatsApp groups didn’t help.

I’d like to think I’ve grown more secure, more able to deal. More assured of my place in the universe.

There are still moments where it rears its head. But fewer, and farther, these days.

Maybe I’m growing up

The irony is not lost on me that FOMO usually happens while staring at a phone. Distracted, taken out of this moment.

Missing out.

The single bike cruises by while I pause to write

Black hair unencumbered , he breezes, a single 5-gallon blue water bottle secured horizontally at the back. He’s on a mission as he darts.

The surprise in this always-busy alley is that, in this moment, he is the only one.

There’s something about his energy that draws my attention. He’s distracting in his pace, his intent. A real sense of purpose as he cruises, he is

secure.

Insecurity is a tough road. The sense of who we are, what our place is, how we fit.

And to whom we matter

And in these days and weeks and months of disconnect, of isolation, of living as outsiders, we reach out and cling to moments of here

And now

He gives me a quick nod, and as quickly as he arrives, is gone. And as I watch him get smaller

I don’t feel like I missed out.