Still in it

“Can you hear me that when it rains and shines/it’s just a state of mind.” - Lennon/McCartney

It was a year ago — good old Friday the thirteenth — when everything shut down for me.

We had already made the decision the day before to shut down my schools in Atlanta, but somehow I thought Maine had a little more time. However, that Friday was my last morning at my favorite coffee shop. They were wearing latex gloves to collect the cash. The pandemic anxiety had arrived — and the virus, too, was already circulating. Life as we knew it was over, and it still hasn’t returned.

I wanted to be able to write today from a slightly elevated perspective. I wanted to be able to make sense of the past year. But unfortunately, I’m still very much in it. I don’t know how the story ends. I don’t have any perspective. Plus, I’ve been writing all along. In the moments where I’ve been able to see something new, I’ve grabbed it and documented it already. At the moment, I’m fresh out of fresh insights. Everything feels stale. At this point, I can’t tell whether it’s winter or overwork or the pandemic that’s got me down. Presumably, a combination of all three.

There are things that give me new hope and inspiration. How good a one-year-old can be at video chat. The poignancy of a Zoom memorial service. The resilience of local businesses.

And there are things that frustrate me. The individuals who think that it would be unwise to be among the two million Americans being safely vaccinated every day. The stubborn trend line of new cases that refuses to drop. The exhaustion that has returned to hang over me like a cloud, obscuring months of clarity.

I look back and think, “What have I been doing?” It’s an unfair question. I did my best. And if I had it to do all over again, what would I change? Perish the thought! I hope I never have to do it all over again.

As a child, I used to love the darkness of heavy snowstorms. The message was clear: You’re not going anywhere. But no matter how intense the clouds, there would often be a clearing later in the day. The snow would cease, the clouds would part, and the snow would start melting off of the eaves and the trees, the drops of water sparkling in the sun as they fell.

I always felt ambivalent about this clearing. Even though it was a gain, it felt like a loss. In a way, it was easier to just be hunkered down. I didn’t want to have to go out into the cold. Worse, I didn’t want to have to shovel snow. It was overwhelming to adjust to suddenly having many choices — and responsibilities. I suspect I’ll feel similarly as the pandemic tapers off. I l don’t like things being the way they are. But I have grown accustomed to the simplicity of it.

March in Maine is still very much winter, but the temperature starts to rise a little bit. We get excited when we see temps in the 40s or even 50s in the forecast. But these milder temperatures are accompanied by a new and unwelcome development: relentless 15 to 20 mph winds that can render your warmest gear inadequate. That’s yet another metaphor for what the pandemic feels like right now: It seems better on paper, but it’s just as bad or worse to live through it. Meanwhile, it’s my non-metaphorical reality. I’m seeing progress, hoping to feel it, and finding myself disappointed.

I’m one of the lucky ones. I haven’t been sick, I haven’t had to go to a workplace, and I haven’t lost anyone close to me. During this time, I’ve been able to grow one business and start another. But despite my good fortune, good health, productivity, and success, I feel tired, bored, and lost. I know it’s not permanent — I’m sure I’ll feel better in a few days or weeks — but I’m in the down part of whatever cycle this is. And I have no way of knowing when it will shift.

I’m going to hang in there. I’m going to keep writing, keep going for walks (some pleasant, some not), and keep washing the dishes, doing the laundry, and putting moisturizer on my face. I’m going to keep learning French for a trip I don’t know when I’ll take. Maybe I’ll get some seeds and an indoor grow light so I can get started on a garden. Whether it seems like it or not, spring will come eventually. So will everything else I’m waiting for.