I took a hiatus from writing the blog last year when my graduate program got really busy. It's a writing program, and my assignments each week took up so much of my writing energy, I really didn't have any more minutes to devote to these pages. But I'm in the home stretch now - only ten weeks left. And, interestingly, the world is in the middle of a pandemic, making it possible for me to find a few more minutes each week to write for myself, so here I am.
At the beginning of our isolation, I wanted to write about our bewilderment - the sheer impossibility of going home, staying home, and watching everything we know come to a grinding halt. We're the busiest house I know, and that's the truth. Between our jobs, our kids, their sports, my coaching, Aaron's projects...we are almost never home. Don't get me wrong - I love our life! We have chosen all the things. We love all the things. We are devoted to all the things. The slow down...then the stopping...was thoroughly bewildering.
I thought about writing more about that. About the listless wandering from room to room. About the edgy restlessness that happens when you think you're probably supposed to be somewhere doing something, and you're...not. About the ping of the calendar reminding you of the meeting you're not at, the rehearsal you're not having, the game you're not watching, or the practice you're not picking someone up from.
Then, as we became more comfortable within our four walls, I thought maybe I would write about the mourning. We are missing so much. Emma's softball season. Carys's first track season. My Spring Play. Emma's first Prom...the list goes on. Everyone is grieving, in their own ways, and so often I thought about writing down the emotional ups and downs.
But tonight, something else is on my mind, and I think this is maybe what I really want to talk about. We're a lot of days in, now. I've been home for 28 days, existing faintly, teaching remotely, parenting vaguely. In between the restlessness and the grieving, there's something else happening.
In the slow stillness of this life, we watch movies. We bake, we cook, we eat together. We play board games, paint canvases, do projects, write letters, organize our rooms, and we talk to each other a LOT. All five of us go on a run/bike/walk every day together at 4pm. We argue and get annoyed and irritated with each other. Then because all we have is each other, we make up and get over it.
I recognize my blessings, and for the first time in a long time, I ACTUALLY give thanks for them every single day. I am practicing gratefulness; something I used to reserve for Sundays and holidays. I still have a job, and I know that's not true for everyone right now. (Teaching under isolation is the hardest, most exhausting thing I have ever done in my entire life, but that's a different post.) Aaron is still essential, but his job requires very little contact with other people, so we don't have to worry about contagion. We have a comfortable existence, and I absolutely KNOW what a lucky lucky human I am to have those things.
Ultimately, this is my truth. (It might have taken a long time to get here - if you're still reading this, congratulations on your reading stamina.) I don't know when isolation or physical distancing is going to end. Whenever that is...well... I'm not sure that we are going to return to who we were before it all started.
The world out there is clamoring loudly for an end to the shut-down. There is a lot of worry about its economic impact on our country, and I get it. I really do - I watch the news and read the articles and get a statement on my investment accounts regularly. Still, the loudest talkers, demanding immediate return to normalcy - well, I'm not sure those people have someone high-risk in their lives. I'm pretty worried about my Dad - he's high risk. And he's pretty much my everything, so to me, it's not worth it for that reason alone. I don't want to return to "normal" until I can feel assured that someone asymptomatic isn't going to pass it to him in Wal-Mart or the grocery store. If my investment accounts go down but I get to keep my Dad for ten more years, that's a no-brainer for me.
Beyond all that, I'm giving serious consideration to what exactly I'm going to do when this is, indeed, all over. I love my stuff, my kids love their stuff, and the world has pretty much revolved around the stuff...but I also really really love the time we are spending together. What do I need to sacrifice to keep this? To hold it just a little longer?
I will absolutely rejoice when I can pull up my lawn chair next to the dugout and watch Emma take the field. I will feel genuine joy when Carys puts on her spikes for a race. I will be thrilled to my toes when Cooper walks out on the tennis court for a match. But I'm not in a hurry for it to happen. There is a gift, buried inside the fear and the tragedy. That's what I want to remember about this time - not the fear, the loneliness, or the loss. I want them to remember the aggravation of too much togetherness and the closeness that emerged from it. I want them to remember the boredom of nowhere to go and the creativity that materialized from it. I want them to remember this as a time of great love, and I want to take all of that with us whenever the world is ready for us to return to it.
And when it's time to go back - when it's safe for everyone, not just me - I'm going to think long and hard about the hours in my days. Where I spend them, and what they're worth.
