Settling

I’m sitting in my office, watching the sunrise at a desk that looks out over a wooded area in the backyard.  The leaves haven’t yet appeared; spring is just beginning to show herself in the tiny buds on the branches.  But the birds are active.  I don’t know birds, really.  I can identify a Robin and a Bluebird, and maybe a Chickadee.  But I find myself drawn to the peacefulness of watching the birds flit about on a spring morning.  I never would have taken the time to notice before. 

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We have settled in to a strange new normal.  It mostly looks like this: 

6-8 am, wake up, go for a walk, shower, coffee, news

8-9 am breakfast, check schedules, wake kids

9-12 pm – work and school, on separate devices in separate rooms

12-1 pm – lunch & connect

1-3 pm – do something.  Go outside, bake, build legos, play games, clean. 

3-5 pm- check school work, email, prepare lessons

5-7 pm- prepare and eat dinner

7-9 pm- watch tv, read, write

9-10 pm- say goodnights

10 pm – sleep

Some days are better than others.  Some days, we feel more connected.  Some days, we’re in our own little worlds.  Some days are filled with too much screen time, and some days we stay outside all day.  Some days feel manageable.  Some days are full of tears.  

Today, I went to the grocery store.  I’ve done this a few times since we began our isolation, but this time was different.  This time, this strange, dystopian reality took my breath away.  I had heard that they were limiting the number of people in the stores.  I had heard that we were advised to wear masks and gloves.  I knew about the plexiglass barriers and the tape on the floor.  I knew about it…. But I hadn’t FELT it yet.  

People waited outside the store, 15 feet apart, waiting to be admitted.  Everyone wore masks.  Nearly everyone wore gloves, too.  It was eerily silent.  

More so than all of these visible differences, the intangibles weighed on me.  Our faces covered, we could no longer offer a reassuring smile to a stranger.  Our gloves and our masks only amplified the palpable fear in the air.  People waited awkwardly for others to pass, allowing the maximum radius of personal space.  People flinched as workers passed by with their carts to restock; perhaps they were too close?  

I usually enjoy my grocery shopping.  Today I couldn’t wait to get out of there.  The tightness in my chest didn’t go away until I was safely back in my car.  And logically, I know that even that is unreasonable.  I had already exposed myself.  I had already exposed others to me.  If damage had been done, none of us would know it for weeks.  

This whole experience is such a strange roller-coaster.  On Tuesday, I spoke with my therapist on the phone.  I sat in my car (the only place I could get a little privacy) and I sipped my coffee and I told her about how GREAT things have been.  The kids have been creative.  I’ve been working on my personal goals.  I’m re-evaluating what is most important and prioritizing and creating and all kinds of cool things.  I explained that there’s something empowering about deciding what I WANT to do, instead of checking off the list of things I am SUPPOSED to do.  On Tuesday, I was feeling good.  

And there are a lot of days when I actually feel pretty good.  I’m noticing some positive changes within my family.  Our time together is less forced.  There’s more room to explore our interests.  I enjoy that the days have a sort of natural rhythm, unencumbered by arbitrary times on the clock.  With so many fewer priorities, I don’t feel as guilty when I take time to do things just for me.  

Of course, there are things that are hard.  Online teaching and learning are super stressful.  I cried twice last week about work.  I want to do a good job and connect with my students, but sometimes the obstacles seem insurmountable. I want to help my own kids and keep them on track, but sometimes the days don’t feel long enough or the battle doesn’t seem worth it.  I worry about my family and friends who are struggling.  Sometimes the thought of another load of laundry is enough to put me over the edge.  Sometimes the filth in the bathroom prompts a banshee scream that frightens my family. 

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I’m sitting in my office, looking out into the dreary, gray, dimness of a rainy afternoon.  But the branch just outside my window is gathering tiny droplets of rain.  They pool in the valleys of the tiny branches, glittering a little, despite the dreary weather.  I sit and watch a particular droplet.  I watch it slowly grow as the moisture accumulates.  I stay focused on the droplet until it swells just enough to let go and fall into the yard below.  I never would have taken the time to notice before.