On my refrigerator, there is still my third-grader’s school lunch menu from the week of March 9th―what I think of as the last normal week. Maybe I’ll take it down and recycle it soon, or maybe it’ll stay up there until the next one comes home, whenever that may be. Or maybe it’ll stay up there forever, a reminder for those future mornings not to stress over the rush to get out of the house on time.
Four weeks ago, one of my biggest concerns was that my 18-month-old would fall asleep in the car on the way home from picking up my 4-year-old at preschool― because that would mess with his afternoon nap (aka Mommy’s alone time).
Then again, four weeks ago, everything was different. Four weeks ago, I didn’t have to think twice about going to the grocery store, and I could still hug my parents. Four weeks ago, empty store shelves and toilet paper shortages would have made me think of the Communist Poland of my childhood, and not of anything that had to do with America.
And then suddenly, everything changed.
My eight-year-old came home from school one day that week and said he was worried about Babcia and Dziadek. Kids on the bus had been talking about some new virus, and how old people could get sick from it and die, and he was scared for his grandparents. That’s when it hit me. This is not just something happening on the other side of the world anymore. It’s here. I can no longer pretend it won’t affect our lives.
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash
That evening, my anxiety skyrocketed. Reading the news and scrolling Facebook didn’t help, but I couldn’t tear myself away. It felt like the ground underneath my feet was moving and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
By nature, I am an optimist. So the next day when I went online and started noticing positive posts about the situation―like this beautiful meditation posted by a friend, or this poem by Rev. Lynn Ungar, or that Kitty O’Meara poem that has been making its rounds―I jumped right on board and my anxiety melted away.
Hunkering down for a few weeks in our warm house full of food would not be so bad. Things like family and laughter and nature weren’t canceled, after all. We would simply make the best of it. My belief that everything happens for a reason, and my philosophy that we can control our reactions to a situation even if we can’t control the situation itself, filled me with faith and hope that day. It would be all right, and maybe even some good would come of it. The Earth would be able to breathe a little bit better, heal herself while we humans stayed home.
I was bursting with positive vibes and wanted to share them, so that night, I wrote a piece on my Polish blog. About how there is good in this, because when the whole world slows down, such moments reveal to us how closely bound together we are. Just look at those Italians singing together on their balconies. Doesn’t that melt your heart? Let’s treat this time as a gift rather than a hardship, I wrote.
But then the first week of “homeschooling” began, and a new reality set in.
Things no longer appeared quite so rosy.
Where was all this extra time I was supposed to have? To turn inwards, to create? To feel joy and gratitude for the simple things? To learn deep lessons about myself and life and the world? If anything, I felt like I had less time than ever. My part-time job completing insurance inspections of houses was considered essential (although now there’d be no more interior inspections, at least), so I was still working outside of the home two days a week, and then on other days trying to file my reports while also homeschooling a third-grader, attempting to prevent my 4-year-old’s increasingly occurring meltdowns, and entertaining my toddler somewhere in the mix. Not to mention trying to filter the news I was taking in, and processing the ever changing world outside.
Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay
That week I had to take Patryk to the doctor for his 18-month check-up, after calling ahead to make sure they were still seeing patients. And even though they were, and we ended up going, still I wondered whether keeping the appointment was a good idea. Seeing how different things were at the doctor’s was an absolute shock. The ominous stop signs with red arrows at the door, workers installing plastic windows for the receptionists, the waiting area completely cleared of toys and books, the new questions the receptionist had to ask me upon checking in. I felt like I was at a border crossing instead of at the pediatrician’s, and it made me sick to my stomach, just being there, seeing reality shifting around me.
By the middle of the week I was a ball of nerves again. By Friday, I was a mess, crying in my bathrobe while the baby napped and Daniel watched T.V. and Damian had a virtual play date with his friend on Skype. I reread the words I had written on my Polish blog the previous week and had a pretty hard time believing them. I felt like a hypocrite, failing at living my best quarantine life.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
Now it’s week four of the shutdown.
Schools won’t reopen for at least another month. The local park is barricaded and the playgrounds in our town have been closed, roped off with yellow tape, like crime scenes. My eight-year-old is worried that this will go on forever, and my four-year-old doesn’t quite understand why he can no longer go to the library or to his preschool. I worry about my parents.
A month ago, in my Polish blog post, I wrote, “We can’t control everything―but we can control how we respond to this whole situation. When the world slows down, we can slow down with it.”
Do I still believe that? To a certain extent, yes, but it sounds a bit naive to me now, I admit. When I wrote those words, I don’t think I realized the true gravity of this situation, or how it would affect people who hadn’t been standing on solid ground to begin with.
Because it’s like this: When we’ve planned an outdoor party and it starts pouring rain and thundering―sure, we can control our response to that. We can decide whether this will ruin our plans, or whether we will adapt and move the party indoors and still have the best time. But if, instead of rain and thunder, there’s a wildfire coming―well, it would be pretty insane to say, “Let’s just make the best of it! Let’s roast more hot dogs!” When there’s a fire coming, rose-colored glasses won’t save you. When there’s a fire coming, you think about survival.
This is what it comes down to now, for many of us―survival. The idea of using this time to enrich ourselves, to be productive, even to slow down―that comes from a place of security and privilege. Not everyone is lucky enough to be in that place right now. Or ever, for that matter.
But even those of us who are experiencing the pandemic from the comfort and safety of our homes―we can still acknowledge that this is hard. We should acknowledge it, in fact, and we certainly shouldn’t feel guilty momentarily grieving for the things we’ve lost―the missed celebrations and trips, the Easter plans, the graduations and weddings, or whatever else we were looking forward to but now have to let go of.
This is part of what fed my anxiety that first week, this trying to live up to an idea of productivity and enrichment and making the best of things. Now I realize that it’s all right to not keep it together all of the time. It’s all right to not be a bursting ball of sunshine every day and not have everything figured out, because this whole situation is unprecedented, and traumatic, and we shouldn’t deny that parts of it are scary and hard. Negative feelings will come, and they need to be acknowledged and processed, so that they can wash over us and subside―so that we can let them go and accept that this is happening. And that it will change the world.
As the first month of the quarantine slowly draws to a close, I’m finding myself on some kind of middle ground, even when the knot of anxiety in my chest refuses to be undone. It’s getting warmer. The daffodils are in bloom and there are tiny green buds on the trees and soon, nature will be overflowing with an abundance of color. I hope this will make things easier.
And you know what? I still believe we will get through this and that many will come out of it better, wiser. I still believe our planet will benefit from the momentary decrease of human activity. I still believe this global pandemic has the power to affect human connection, understanding, and compassion on a larger scale.
Maybe it’s because the optimist in me refuses to give up hope.
Photo by Fateme Alaie on Unsplash
Or maybe it’s because I’ve been noticing the way that the space between people is shifting. Before, we were able to be close physically, but still there was disconnection. Now, it’s beginning to feel different. When we ask each other from six feet away how we are, we really, truly mean it. It’s a small step.
So let’s take a breath. Let’s feed our hearts and souls with positive energy to keep our stress levels as low as we can, but let’s not be too hard on ourselves when things feel like they are falling apart, or when it seems that others are handling this so much better than we are. There’s no need to feel pressure to come out of this time having accomplished miracles. (Although if we do, that’s fantastic.) Let’s remember that even when there isn’t a global pandemic going on, we are connected. Let’s prepare ourselves for the changes coming our way.
Blog post cover photo by Evgeni Tcherkasski on Unsplash