open window

As I sit here to write this, I am sick with Covid and on my seventh day in isolation from my family, my students, the produce section at Whole Foods, and the world at large. My individual existence has taken one giant pause as I work to help my body heal and recover–and yet, the rest of the world carries on with a swiftness that renders me unable to compete. My emotions during this time have spanned the spectrum…at times angry (I’ve been so careful, so cautious, but I work inside of a school so exposure is a daily danger)…at times sad (My youngest texts me regularly from two rooms away that he is sad and misses me and I cannot even offer him a hug), at times joyful (as technology creates opportunities for connectivity even in the face of confinement). But, more than any of these, there has been panic…overwhelming fear facilitating full on panic attacks…more in the last seven days than in the last seven years combined. Not knowing what this virus will exact upon my system or the war it might wage on my family is terrifying to me. Will I be okay? Will the people I love be okay? Will I end up in the hospital, perhaps more alone than I am now? Will this linger? Will I survive?

That last question feels a bit dramatic, maybe. Except, it is the truth of the trek my brain has traveled. So, dramatic or not, it has been my reality. Why? Well, my body often exists in opposition to all I’ve done to care for it. It seems to enjoy testing the limits of my endurance, to place on trial my capacity to persevere. If there is a weird ailment, side effect, strange medical possibility…my body will seek it out hungrily…voraciously…fervently. What sounds like hyperbole, trust me, is not entirely such. I am exceedingly kind to my body, feeding it well, keeping it fit, all the things–yet it persists in rebelling. Vertigo. Unrelenting Migraine. Hearing Loss. Shingles Induced Nerve Damage. This list goes on. And so, I’ve come not to trust this body to behave itself, to follow the rules, to exist within the bounds of normalcy. And so, yes, my panic is a result of a lifetime battle with anxiety, but also as a result of not ever really knowing what my body’s next trick will be. And this, as well as concern for compromised members of my family and community, is why I’ve been so careful, so cautious, even when others thought it ridiculous. Yet, here I am anyway.

So, I’ve exerted as much energy fighting the anxiety and the frustration and the loneliness and the anger as I have ridding myself of this virus because those emotions will not be willing guides to wellness. And so I’m consciously making a list of positives (because, annoyingly, for better or for worse, this is what I do…):

  1. I’ve learned how to be dependent on others when needed without feeling guilty and my kids are learning the freedom that is carried by independence as they learn to cook some basics for themselves (their poor father is left to clean up their messes, but baby steps-at least they are cooking!).
  2. I’ve become dedicated to self care (because I can’t really care for anyone else from isolation): I am setting better boundaries instead of always people pleasing; I painted my toenails; I am stretching every morning; I am taking all the vitamins; I am binge watching “The Crown” simply because I enjoy it; I’ve opened and climbed out of my bedroom window daily to enjoy fresh air and a peaceful moment outside; and I am granting myself permission to rest (maybe it’s the truce my body’s been fighting for?)
  3. I’ve been showered in love and support and errand running and food delivery and checking in. Friends and colleagues and family have become beacons of hope and deliverers of joy not just to me but to my whole household. And all the praise to my resilient husband who is brilliantly rising to the challenges of running the show without complaint…and whose ceaseless entertainment of our teenage/pre-teenage boys has helped them to feel less afraid while mom is sick.
  4. I’ve discovered a new reading spot! Extra time alone in my room has equated to turning a chair to face the window to the backyard. Peaceful, lovely, perfect. It has been awaiting discovery and I’ve been too busy to see it.
  5. Stillness.

I opened my writer’s notebook today and the last time I had written, ironically, was in thoughtful response to Medora C. Addison’s poem, “The Days to Come“. Rereading it brought me further encouragement…especially the last stanza:

So shall the days to come be filled with beauty,/Bright with the promise caught from eastern/skies;/So shall I see the stars when night is darkest,/Still hear the thrush’s song when music dies.”

Which also made me think of Wordsworth’s “I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud” when he writes, “For oft, when on my couch I lie/ In vacant or in pensive mood,/ They flash upon that inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude;/ And then my heart with pleasure fills,/ And dances with the daffodils.”

Which called to mind Ada Limon’s “Instructions on Not Giving Up” — “Patient, plodding, a green skin/ growing over whatever winter did to us, a return/ to the strange idea of continuous living despite/ the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,/ I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf/ unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.”

Which brought me to David Wagoner’s poem, “Lost,” —“…Wherever you are is called Here,/ And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,/Must ask permission to know it and be known.”

Poetry often restores my perspective and brings balance amid whirls of chaos in a world of concern–sort of in the same way climbing out of my bedroom window and into fresh air has restored my spirit in these days of isolation. Today, poetry offered bread crumbs on the path out of the wilderness of this illness. But there is more wilderness out there for the world is not absolved of pandemic simply because I’ve encountered it.

We are all weary warriors these days. I get it. I do. But this reality continues to find new ways to make its presence felt…deeply. So it is up to us to remember that all the hope offered in these poems is something to cling to as we continue to make sacrifices, small and large, to prevent others from facing the uncertainty and danger of this invisible instigator. We need to make visible our fortitude moving forward; we need to live in love of our neighbor, taking care to take care. It is the only way forward I can find. It is a path that will be briefer with company, for together we will shine a light toward better and healthier days far more brilliantly than apart.

The window is open. I am hopeful.

An explication of a year

Somewhere along the way, poetry transformed from a carefully curated collection of words existing on a flat page into a lens through which I view the world. It is a metamorphosis that is tricky to explain to anyone existing outside of  my brain (which is everyone…so hang in there with me…). It goes beyond the way poetry in its vastness can challenge my perceptions and expose the bubble ensconcing my existence…beyond the exchange poetry makes–a telescope to view the far reaches replacing the finite view through the microscope of our daily lives. I suppose that all good writing offers such an opportunity, but in its compact punch, in its easily consumable size and portraiture, poetry invites us into the confrontation with truth without overwhelm or overstatement…leaving space for us, as readers, to linger beyond the reading…to meet the poem with our story and to wrestle as we begin to redefine understanding.

Yet, even beyond this, I’ve grown to see life itself as a series of stanzas, lines, poems–pieces of a collection, of an anthology, reflective of my own story and the revision of my vision, of the truths I have come to learn. Having long been a big believer in the importance and impact of “story” in our lives (both the stories we tell and perpetuate and those told to us and about us), it is no great leap to now realize that my stories are framed in verse rather than in prose.

As we ready to depart form this year of so much, there is a call to be rid of it, to move on, to not look back. Yet, in looking back, I realize there is so much that we can’t nullify or erase if we are really to move ahead. If I look at this past year through this poetic lens, there are stanzas that speak haltingly to fear that are followed by stanzas sprinkling seeds of hope…stanzas revealing terrible trauma met by those marking the path to healing…stanzas revealing the rediscovery of what is truly valuable after stanzas marking our former fault-full ambition.

There is imagery laden with a militaristic stealth attack waged by viral particles too tiny to hold in human sight. And then there is the resultant imagery looming heavy with the weight of loss (lost time, jobs, loved ones, health…so much lost). But there is also imagery erupting jubilantly with the wealth of humanity unveiled in the face of isolation and difficulty…singing from open windows, birthday parades, mass meal distribution, surging gratitude for those on the front lines, teachers delivering books to kids in need of a read.There were weeks and months that overstayed the welcome of their allotted time, of their line, and replicated their difficulty in the weeks and months to follow in an extraordinarily uncomfortable bit of enjambment.

But I think the punctuated moments offered up to pause and reflect are where I linger the most. The moments within parentheses where we brought joy and newness to our lives interrupted (as if to say, “Take that!”). The ellipses dividing the lines of our days as we pondered, “What next?” all the while realizing the danger of such a wonder. The constant question marks, line after line, stanza after stanza, as we walked through unknown regions with no map to guide us–only shifting sands beneath our feet and the next best step, which was?

But then this–mostly this…

I often tell my students that the em dash is like a poetic breath on the page–a bit of space sacrificed intentionally by the poet so we, the reader, can inhale, consider and exhale before moving on to the rest of the poem. The protests that awakened the world to the truth and still very present ravages of racism–that opened eyes to the systems still in place perpetuating daily the vast detriment that positions of privilege have birthed–began while the world sat in quarantine…hibernating, if you will, within the bounds of one giant em dash. We had the time–to pay attention, to look inward, to be unsettled by our own truths (well, as a white woman, I can only speak for my own truths), and to determine how to move forward. We had the time, without excuse, to witness, to listen, and to learn from this most difficult and complex stanza (one new to so many, but for others a repeated refrain they’ve known for years). We had the time to take the breath offered by the em dash of quarantine and to actively set forth to do more, to make change. That moment, that em dash, was gifted with intent by no Earthly poet because we are after all called to live this life in love. That love is not in name only nor can it thrive if we keep it blindfolded. This call requires each of us to act in love and that includes challenging systems that deny humanity. We needed a pause, a reset, to see this…to feel this…to live into this.

If I’ve learned anything from the stanza of this past year, I’ve learned the value of intentionality…of knowingly creating space to pause, observe, take a breath and move forward. This em dash intentionality is true in all aspects of my life–whether I’m examining if my actions speak loudly enough to my beliefs or whether I’m considering ways to spend more time making time for friends and family without the burden of school clouding my vision and my heart.

As we leave 2020, I am eager for the period that will close the verse, full stop, but I also don’t want to burn to ashes the pages containing the year, leaving them to scatter to the winds. The lines and stanza of 2020, if the struggle is to be worth anything, must color those yet to be written in 2021–so that we can be better, so we can exist in some form of gratitude for the days to come (even the crappy ones), so that we can ensure the year of too much doesn’t win. I won’t carry every line, every image, every mark of punctuation everyday, it would be too heavy. But “the mist” that Juan Felipe Herrera speaks of will linger as a reminder of all I’ve gained even in the leanest and cruelest of days.

(Also this…I love this poem as we enter a new year…“Oceans” by Juan Ramon Jimenez)

wonder

Lately, my migraine life has had a reductive impact on my exercise life…like walking my neighborhood is really all I can do without negative effects. I mean, some days are pretty golden and I can get away with a HIIT workout or some TRX work without too much residual discomfort, but those days are becoming more and more rare. But this new walking habit is not without benefit (beyond the physical well-being bit). There is a freedom offered in these walks–they belong solely to me, a rare moment in time where I act just for myself. I determine my path, my playlist, my distance, my pace. I don’t need to weigh the opinions of others. I don’t need to compromise with anyone else. I don’t need to negotiate with or listen to anyone other than myself. It is a step toward solitude, toward peace, toward wholeness.

And today, it was a step toward reawakening wonder.

We have this glorified drainage ditch running through our neighborhood…my kids call it a “creek” but I feel like that term just transforms their exploration of it on summer days into something a bit more adventurous–I mean, come on, who wants to say, “Hey mom, can we go check out the drainage ditch?” Words do matter and who am I to deny their careful work with connotation?! On recent walks, this “creek” (I’m just going to stick with the positive nomenclature of my kids here), has been pretty dry and even a little musty. Without the nourishment of rain for the past several days and even weeks, the creek was losing its richness and its beauty was waning(yep, the drainage ditch too can be beautiful). The creek bed was still there, patiently awaiting renewal in the natural cycle of things, but the deprivation on the path to getting there was taking its toll.

And then, after withholding its gifts for so many days, the rain paid a long awaited visit.

As I was walking today through that rain, I heard a noise outside my earbuds as I neared the creek. At first, I thought a car was coming up behind me and so I glanced around to be sure. Not a moving vehicle in sight (not many care to be out and about on a rainy Sunday). Then it struck me. What I heard was not a car, rather it was rushing water swiftly running down rocks and filling up the creek–almost as if it could not get there fast enough. They cycle of hardship was ended…patient endurance, rewarded with rebirth.

It was beautiful and weirdly wondrous at the same time.

In a time when so much feels lost…when we feel so without, so lost…to witness renewal in that way, well, it restores a bit of faith that our dried out, musty selves will one day (even if it is later rather than sooner) be met again by that which makes us whole.  Even in dormancy there can still be the expectation of revival and in that time of waiting, there can even be joy. And in the stillness of that hope (okay, stillness while walking a 14 minute mile…), I thought of Mary Oliver’s poem, “Song For Autumn” and how in it she offers fresh perspective on what we think of as the hibernation of nature’s beauty in the fall.

“Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now

how comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of the air and the endless

freshets of wind?…”

Maybe the creek appreciated the rest, the time to itself, the solitude within which to appreciate the pause and the chance to just be? And maybe its reunion with the rain was even sweeter for the time without?

Maybe I am just a swoony hopeful optimist who seeks answers in poetry and nature for that which seems without solution?

But, a spark of joy was ignited inside my heart and in these days, that spark is good enough for me.

lifting the lens

I think sometimes in the midst of the bombardment of disappointments and devastation the world seems to hurl freely these days, it becomes easy to lose sight of just how much authorial control we still have within our lives. It becomes easy to unwittingly sink into helplessness and to relinquish our rights to the details of our story without even an honorarium paid. Lately, the stuff  of  life has become exceedingly good at bullying us into believing that we need a new year or a new phase of life to be able to fully enjoy and live into our existence.

Except that is such a lie. Such a lie.

And to sit idly, waiting for something to come along and offer immediate healing is a dangerous stance to take. In doing this we become bystanders in our own lives, rather than active participants. It is an admission and acceptance that our joy can only come from someone or someplace else. That we cannot create that for ourselves and must wait for it to be delivered on a schedule that isn’t published or even guaranteed.

In this season of giving thanks, remembering that in every circumstance we have the ability to lift the lens of gratitude rather than the scope of victimization holds the potential to restore our outlook. We have the ability to empower ourselves to seek the goodness in the scant and the beacon in the bleak. In the moments in my life in which I have felt the deepest grief and the least control over my circumstances, gratitude has unfailingly delivered a way forward while restoring my rights to the details of my own story.

There was no other way to walk toward peace after delivering a child into a world he would never know. The Oprah Show was still airing daily in the year that we lost Nathan. And you know, Oprah’s words carried weight, so when she began talking about the importance and life changing qualities of something as simple as gratitude, I paid attention. Okay, I also thought she had lost her mind. I was so deep in grief. I was so angry and for so many reasons. I was so full of shame and regret. And I couldn’t seem to let go of any of it let alone summon the strength to seek gratitude. What could I possibly have to be grateful for?

But Oprah said gratitude changed lives, so I tried it.

It wasn’t easy.

As Joy Harjo writes, “Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time.” (link below)

Gratitude is an active stance and as such required total effort on my part. Without constant attention and care, without a mindfulness to lift the lens, gratitude disintegrates before it can invigorate. There is one day that the lens was lifted for me…one day that sort of changed everything. I was leaving the house of a friend who delivered her child a month or two after we lost ours, and I had to pull over because I was weeping so hard it became impossible to drive. I had just stopped in to deliver some treats and to see the sweet babe and somehow hadn’t prepared myself for the onslaught of emotion that would follow. As I sat in my car sobbing beneath the weight and complexity of loss, I caught a glimpse of the sky. It was crystal blue–not a cloud to be seen–and it was stunning and somehow full of hope that things would not always be so cloudy and dim. A switch flipped. Through my tears and with a shaky voice, I spoke into gratitude (like literally out loud)–thank you for this amazing sky to remind me that there is still light in the world…there is still hope.

Everyday after that moment, as I walked the often shadowy path toward peace after loss, gratitude was my guide…my signpost. But more importantly, gratitude was my choice. Gratitude (and well, I guess Oprah too) changed my life.

So, even now, in the face of all that 2020 has delivered, in the face of chronic illness and pain, in the face of so much uncertainty and turmoil, I walk the world wielding gratitude because that is something I can control…that is something I don’t need to wait for…that is something that even in the most treacherous moments unfailingly shines a light. It is not a perfect practice and often requires effort I don’t feel like exerting, but it is a worthwhile endeavor every single day of the week.

“For Calling the Spirit Back From Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet” by Joy Harjo, referenced earlier, speaks to this effort towards gratitude beautifully. Honestly, it is worth clicking the link and reading the whole thing–this poem is stunning and a gorgeous reminder. But just in case, at least I can leave you with this excerpt…

Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.

Give it back with gratitude.”

(And trust me. This is not an attempt to oversimplify of the vast weight of mental illness. I am not offering gratitude as some kind of simplistic inoculation against the depths of depression or any other depletion of mental health.  Just as a way to see a less than forgiving world)

Anticipation

Having dealt with chronic illness for the last 8 or 9 years, one of the messiest mental mud holes I needed to dig myself out from existed in a very simple sentence starter…which existed in variations of itself but always lead to the same deleterious effects. It always went  something like this: “Back when I  could…” or “The old me could have…” or “There was a time in my life when _____ was possible”. The trouble with these statements emanates from their constant glance backwards which blinded me to my current truth. And maybe that was my mind’s ulterior motive. If I was always idolizing and gazing back at the “old me”, then the current version of myself was only a temporary imposter. I didn’t have to accept this new human with her new limitations, in her new situation. She was a lesser version of old me and I didn’t really like her very much. Her life seemed less than the one I had been working so hard for so long to create. I wanted more. I wanted what I felt I deserved.  I looked to every outlet that might offer healing because this would not  (NOT) be what defined my existence for the rest of my life. This was a “right now” scenario and I would fix what people told me could not be fixed. I tried acupuncture,  chiropractors, physical  therapy,  vestibular  rehab, essential oils, neuro-otologists, audiologists, oral  surgeons, dentists (this list  goes on for a while, you get the picture). And while I might find relief, no one held the cure…the magic potion that would restore old me and extinguish new me. I felt I had tried everything to heal myself.

But sometimes…

…we have to look within first.

One day, in a moment of defensiveness, I told a friend,  “I have a neurological and inner ear disorder; I am hearing impaired. So what?!”  And it was one of the most freeing moments of my entire life.

I had said it.

Out loud.

In the world.

For someone else to hear.

I had spoken the truth that I had been working so furiously to deny and to walk away from. In that moment, I began to nurture acceptance rather than denial. In that moment, I began to slowly and steadfastly heal myself rather than futilely and frantically try to eradicate my disorder. The path toward acceptance possesses an inordinate number of thorns and there is no map to navigate it well. It requires resilience and dedication and also, as I came to learn, anticipation of who I was becoming rather than disappointment over who I had lost. I did not need to mourn that girl who could do some stupid number of burpees in two minutes…I did not need to mourn the adventures she would never seek (because let’s face it, “adventure” was never really my thing anyway)…I did not need to mourn any of it because she was still a part of me and together, we were becoming someone stronger, someone more beautiful, someone who despite limitations still had plenty to give to this world.

And so in anticipation of who I was becoming, I fought harder.

As 2020 wears on and I feel like so much in this world is changing and shifting, I once again find myself gazing backward. “Remember when we could…” “Remember when we didn’t have to…” “Remember the days before…” Of course we all remember all these things, they are a part of us and our stories. And for a substantial piece of our lives they dictated our narratives for us. They are not lost forever, though, just in a holding pattern of sorts…wrapped in bright paper waiting for us to unwrap them again when it is safe and maybe with the newfound gratitude we are all bound to feel for what was once just the everyday.

I  find myself making this note in my notebook at school regularly: “Anticipate who you are becoming in all of this”  It is a necessary reminder when the work of reimagining school on a regular basis grows exhausting and frustrating. It is a necessary reminder when I decide how I will  react or respond to those around me at work, at home, in my community. It is a necessary reminder that this is my story and I am not a static character. I am dynamic. I am changing. And I can shape that change and my attitude about it.

Opening my mind and my heart to accepting myself, presented some of the toughest work I’ve faced…and that work doesn’t end, maybe not ever. Some days issue considerable challenges while others tender feelings of accomplishment and joy. Regardless, all the days are situated in anticipation of who I will become on the other side of the struggle and what work I can do in the moment to make that person a better one than she is today.

Neither a neurological disorder nor pandemic can change that…unless I allow for it.

All you need is shade

I’d  like to be  under the  sea

In an octopus’s  garden  in the shade”

(The Beatles)

Imagine…

It is a beautiful but unseasonably warm spring day in a time before music festivals had been extinguished by the blight of pandemic. It is a day full of food and music and joy and laughter…and sweat…so much sweat. As the day draws nearer to its closing, you stand amid what seems an endless sea of humanity in anticipation of the headlining act, and in that moment, you realize that under the oppression of the heat you are faltering.  A  little  shaky, a little sick, and in need of relief, you glance skyward in hopes that even a single cloud might be dancing toward the sun to offer a brief respite. Only, there is not a cloud to be found and a bit of panic starts to settle in because you have convinced yourself that in fact you cannot survive the show without some kind of shade. Suddenly, there are too many people around. Suddenly, you are questioning your decisions–why didn’t you wear a hat…why didn’t you buy an extra bottle of water…why are you even still standing here in this misery when you could be at home, cool and comfortable…why does no one else seem bothered by this?

But then the show begins…the crowd roars as the first few chords resonate…

…and everything shifts.

As though suddenly inoculated with protection against the heat,  you find yourself relinquishing the internal panic in favor of the auditory peace of the moment.  

Washed over, baptized if you will, by the waters of this magical, musical oasis, you are            no longer languishing, but living.

You are no longer ailing, but alive.

The temperature has not changed.

The circumstances are nearly identical to what they were just moments before.

But in the shade of the music, it is all bearable and you can continue in spite of it.

Not only that, but you can find enjoyment in the midst of what was misery.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Early in our days of life at home not so many months ago, I found myself reaching out to known places of comfort. Only, as was also true of the world, what I thought I knew, no longer carried weight. I could not focus long enough to read a page of any of the books in my many stacks of “to be read” without swiftly realizing that in fact I had retained nothing and had to reread the page…again and again, until I finally put the book to the side in frustration. I  blamed the books for a while, assuming that they just didn’t suit me, before realizing that the books were innocent and it was my overwhelm that was to blame. In the face of not being able to escape into fictional worlds, I began countless blogs in an attempt to at least log the truth of my own reality, but I lacked the stamina to see any of them through to completion. And so I turned to exercise, but that too looked different at home–alone, without my friends and the benefit of peer pressure to drive my intensity. This list of “Amy’s Pursuit of Peace” goes on for quite a while and it always seemed hampered by the ever present worry of ensuring my family was at the very least “okay” as well as the constant stress of running and reimagining school from home (and also cooking…endless cooking).

It seemed every place I turned in search of shelter only tossed me deeper into the desert. No effort made seemed enough to construct substantial enough shelter from the ever brewing storms brought on by pandemic life at a time that was also marked by violence in the face of a courageous symphony of voices crying out for overdue racial justice and change…by a country defined by its division…by a litany of natural disasters unfurling their fury as though all the turmoil we felt on the inside suddenly took form in our weather. Smoke clouded vision and smothered breath; flood waters rose leaving trademark ruin in their wake; winds whipped, tearing trees and towns to pieces.

And yet, we had to persist. It was the only way to survive–fight the fatigue and carry on even when you think the next best step is too much. There was little rest, not enough relief, and the idea of a true shelter to shield us from it all became nothing more than a mirage as I stumbled through the heat longing for an oasis.

And then, one day I was walking in my neighborhood (a newfound point of peace in the midst of my surrounding mayhem) and my music was on shuffle because in a world confined to mundanity of home, a little surprise adds color to the day. The Beatles’ “Octopus’s Garden” came on and I had to smile.

“I’d like to be under the sea
In an octopus’s garden in the shade
He’d let us in, knows where we’ve been
In his octopus’s garden in the shade

I’d ask my friends to come and see
An octopus’s garden with me
I’d like to be under the sea
In an octopus’s garden in the shade”

I mean, at first, yes, it was just delightful to imagine this garden with its caretaker who “knows where we’ve been”, and the thought of my friends being able to be there with me when we had spent so much time apart was lovely. But then I realized that in seeking full on shelter, I was actually entering a labyrinth of frustration. I had been asking for too much in desiring something that would repel the truth of the world and keep me safe inside while it happened around me. Impervious protection was not truly the goal. It would have summoned comfort, sure, but it would have also encouraged weakness rather than inspiring strength.

What I really needed instead was a little shade. A brief break to regain my strength. And even if the comfort of shade would not produce itself in obvious ways, I had to seek it out in unexpected places (an octopus’s garden, if you will).

I think we are all pretty uncomfortable right now and for lots of really good reasons, you know? It is just a hard time to be human in this world. There are no immediate cures for the myriad ills we face and in the middle of the desert, with not a cloud in the sky and no true waters of restoration in sight, shade is what we must seek and also create to get us through. My tiny pauses of peace in the shade would not be found in the usual places because the world is not its usual self. I had to initiate invention and be bold in seeking and recognizing the small moments that allowed me to catch my breath so I could be emboldened to face the next moment of struggle. I had to plant my  own trees under which I could sit from time to time to regain myself and my well being…under which I could sit from time to time to remember that even though my circumstances have not changed, there is still joy to be found and love to share.

It takes energy to create shade that will give life. And energy can be hard to muster the longer we endure.  I am trying to remember to name my shade when it is present, to rest beneath it and to recover and in my rekindled strength, to then turn my gaze away from myself and toward extending shade to comfort those around me. Because that is how we will truly survive. Selflessly together. In order to have the determination to reach the true oasis of renewal on the other side of this desert of tumult, we have to be in this with each other, for each other. We won’t all get there at the same time, but if we take comfort in the shade we create and find and share, we will all get there eventually.

the clam

“And when the broken-hearted people
Living in the world agree
There will be an answer
Let it be

For though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer
Let it be”

( “Let It Be”, John Lennon and Paul McCartney) 

My dog, Gingersnap, got out the other day. In the moment of her (apparently much sought after) liberation, she sprinted with the speed of exhilaration, evading capture for far too long and creating quite a caper. As I witnessed her escape and before the fear of potentially losing my sweet (albeit noisy) companion set in, I realized that her fleeing the confines of this house was quite the metaphor for how I believe many of us will feel when finally able to live fully in community again.

Except, I would honestly stay shuttered in this house for another year if somehow it would exonerate my kids and allow them the opportunity to play with their friends again.

I suppose this sounds like the voice of privilege. My kids are healthy. They are cared for and housed and clothed and fed and nurtured every single day. They have a backyard to play in and a safe neighborhood through which they run freely. Believe me, there is not a single moment on any given day where I lose sight of our privilege, especially at this moment in time. But that abundance does not release them from the grip of the emotional impact of this pandemic.

Funny story, when all of this was just a whisper and not yet a vivid reality, it was my hyper-anxious germaphobic child that I was worried about. I just knew this invisible predator of sorts would overwhelm his sensibility and we would be back to sleepless nights wrought with panic attacks. However, while his anxiety has seen an uptick, he knows how to verbalize his concerns and how to ask for help…and he knows how to channel his anxious energy into crafty projects (literally, in the first week and a half of this debacle, he feverishly constructed a cotton candy machine out of materials he could find around the house…don’t ask…it was a long ten days).

Yet, as the days have worn on, it is my younger son, the one who is my heart walking around outside of my body, who seems to be struggling the most. He puts on a good face most days…does his distance learning work, plays soccer in the yard, relishes the opportunity to drink a hot chocolate every morning. But there are other times where he is obviously angry for what seems to be no good reason…where he is constantly complaining of being tired…where he just seems sad. He doesn’t always want to talk about it. He worries about making other people feel badly. I know this because I do the same thing. My family called me the clam growing up because I just held everything in and I see him repeating my history. It is not a good way to go through life.

“I wrote my way out
When the world turned its back on me
I was up against the wall
I had no foundation
No friends and no family to catch my fall
Running on empty, with nothing left in me but doubt
I picked up a pen
And wrote my way out”

(“Wrote My Way Out” Nas, Dave East, Lin-Manuel Miranda & Aloe Blacc)

Thank goodness for his social studies teacher. She has asked him to write a “coronavirus journal” each week as a way to document this moment in history and that has been my only way into understanding where his brain is in all of this. He seems to recognize that it is the only comfortable way for him to get the discomfort and the heartache out into the world…he seems to wield the power of his words effortlessly…and in their wake, he is free for a few days–relieved of their weight.  If I didn’t already fully understand the power of writing, his work in this journal certainly would have taught it to me. Some weeks he has let his comedic personality flow through, but lately, his entries have just been sad.

This was his entry on Friday (he is eleven years old…):

“So, I don’t really know what to talk about today. Today hasn’t been that interesting. All of quarantine has been really boring. I really miss my friends. It’s like I’m living in a hole that I can’t climb out of. It’s like a hole has been dug in me and there are wasps flying around in me all day. People are always saying ‘We will get through this together.’  It sounds good the first few times, but by the millionth time it’s like there is no spirit left in the words. They are supposed to be convincing us, but now it sounds like they are trying to convince themselves.”

If we think our kids are impervious to the trauma of this pandemic, we are blinding ourselves to the complete truth. It is arrogance to imply that because they are kids they have nothing to worry about, no real stress, no troubles. Their whole lives have come to a screeching halt. The adults of this world are struggling to muster the emotional competence to negotiate this crisis, why on earth would children be able to navigate these waters any easier? Their stress is real…their confusion, profound. The impact is vast and beyond what we are able to currently know and that scares the hell out of me–both for my own kids and for the ones that I teach. Yes, kids are resilient humans who tend to be wiser than the adults around them. But we need to pay attention…we need to give credit to the weight of their feelings…we need to honor their experience for being just as difficult as our own…we need to treat them as humans in need…we need to stop and see their truth.

This same sensitive kiddo is preparing to play his guitar and sing in a virtual talent show for school. He decided people needed hope so he is singing “Let It Be.” I mean, he also worships the ground Sir Paul McCartney walks upon, but he knows this song can help people feel better and he wanted to try to make a difference.

Injecting hope into the world despite the “wasps” stinging him on the inside. Maybe he is going to be okay after all?