In reflecting on 2020’s impacts and what I’m bringing with me into 2021, I started feeling some hope. To some degree, we’ve moved from shock to resignation—from anxiety to depression—as the pandemic wears on. But there is another phenomena underneath the losses, moments of reflection about priorities, clarity around values. In my life this takes place in three ways:
First, I’ve noticed all I’ve missed. Having grieved the losses, I can now see them as signposts of love. Everything I miss is something I value. I mostly miss my friends, gathering with them, laughing with them. I miss eating inside restaurants, the quiet clatter of silverware and plates, and the polite tones of wait staff. Perusing a menu anticipating my delight. I miss art: visiting art, and taking art home with me in my heart. I have tried to stay in touch with friends, switching from videocalls to regular phone calls as we grew tired of the overstimulation of screens. The company of my friends through it all, in any form, has been a balm to my heart and confirmation of life’s value.
The mirror image of my losses is what I’ve tried to nurture. What’s left of my agency during this time of constraints. What I have chosen to focus on is another shining light clarifying my values, the absolute essential aspects of life that I will not surrender, no matter the circumstances. Light, air, language, narratives, companionship, reflection, poetry, spirituality, photography. I still try to sit for a few minutes in the January sun, holding my coffee mug on my back steps. These moments of reflection center my heart, and connect me with the broader world. I am so grateful for the stories that have engaged us during this time and brought some wonder to our house: The Mandalorian, Ted Lasso, Discovery, The Expanse, Rick and Morty. The mordant humor of the Twitterverse in times of calamity. I recommitted to my writing, and made space for both fiction writing (for joy) and nonfiction writing (for clarity). I took walks through my neighborhood and documented my neighbors’ attempts at seasonal cheer. Their wreaths and sculptures, their hanging signs and lights, all brought me joy. Made me feel in community.
Finally, thinking like a poet, thinking like a scientist. Life feels very small sometimes during the pandemic. A universe consisting of my couple and the clients I care for. However, I have found my grounding in looking at very small changes. Observing my world like the poet I was as a child and youth. This comes sometimes in the company of plants, and in reading Robin Wall Kimmerer’s “Braiding Sweetgrass.” I listen to the OnBeing podcast, so grateful for the grace of the conversations, the beauty and wonder each guest brought to my day. I started looking at NASA’s APOD stream (Astronomy Picture of the Day) once again—pictures of the universe, the wide lens on the experience of being. It’s good to be reminded of the breadth and scale of the universe and my tiny joyful place in it. These are my touch stones–think small, very small, eat the cookie, look at the moss, and think big, very big, think about eternity and impossible grandeur of the known universe, and consider the ancient light of the stars, and the distant light of the sun making my plants bloom.
I hope these words bring some comfort.
(This is a cross post from www.sylviebeauvais.com)