Remembering when we could go places and do things together

I keep thinking back to a perfect day last October.

I woke up in a boutique hotel room just off of Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C. after having spent a lovely weekend with my family (including my littlest nephew). The city was a bit on edge because the Astros had taken the lead over the Nationals the night before in Game 5 of the World Series, which I had watched in between bites of cake and ice cream the night before in a common area of the hotel (along with getting a little work done).

I got out into the day, which was perfect: sunny, breezy, seventies. At the Washington Monument, I met up with a student of The Rulerless School and her family. We had never seen each other in person, but we had talked so much online that we knew each other. We spent the day wandering around the National Mall, visiting the memorials and enjoying the beautiful weather. Near sunset, my student and I sat down on the grass overlooking the Tidal Basin and did some math together, passing my iPad back and forth.

We said our goodbyes and now it was time for me to catch a flight. I walked back to my hotel, passing by the White House, which was all decked out for Halloween. The president and his wife were handing out candy and greeting a series of adorable trick-or-treaters, many of whom I encountered on the street, striding purposefully in their diminutive costumes.

It was dusk, but still very warm. The intensity of rush hour filled the city as I made my way to the Metro and ultimately, to the airport. It felt easy and joyful — traveling is, in a way, where I feel most at home. Just a person with a suitcase and a laptop, boarding a night flight after a wonderful series of experiences. I felt alive and free amidst the hustle and bustle.

And right now, I can’t see when I can ever have that feeling again. Virtually none of the things that happened during that trip — from watching the World Series with strangers to casual travel to seeing beloved friends and family in person — can happen now. Presumably, trick-or-treating at the White House is out this year, too.

I don’t feel grief anymore, except for deeply missing the family members I can’t hug. Instead, I experience a strange wistfulness as unexpected memories surface and I learn to feel at home in other ways. I’m back to being fourteen, dreaming of all the places I could travel to someday when I would have the time, freedom, and funds. I listen to Hamilton, the result of a time when human beings could come together with voices and instruments to create something that powerful. I walk along the waterfront, quieter now that even the few intrepid tourists have gone home, and talk to myself or to a far-off friend. I work, connecting with people all over the world from my laptop. It has to be enough for now.

Travel used to be a way that I would measure my life and how close it was to the ideal. Social experiences, too. And time spent with family. These metrics no longer fit. Day by day, I’m figuring something else out, and then shifting it, and then shifting it again. Which, I guess, happened before the pandemic. Things are always changing, and so are we.

So even though things are not exactly as I would wish them to be, I’m not fourteen, stuck in my small-town bedroom. Even then, I probably had more power and choices than I may have thought. I can enjoy the experiences I’m having, on their own terms, without focusing on the places I can’t go and the things that cannot be. I can consider the contributions that I can make to others and the ways that I can be of service. I can try stuff, see how it goes, and try other stuff. There is still a universe of possibilities, even though I can’t visit the Coliseum or whatever.

And in the quiet moments, I do have the memories, which are joyful in their way. And perhaps they are reminders of a future that may offer some kind of normalcy. But not yet — and I can live with that.