When this is over

Here is a  nice thing that is
 coming no matter what.

In  Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott's book on writing, she discusses a kind of story-sprawl, when the possibilities for an idea can go in all directions, and overwhelm the writer. 

Says Lamott: “E. L. Doctorow once said that “writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” 

However long this period of "distancing" lasts, and even knowing that some things will change forever, you will look back on this. What you remember will depend on how far into the dark you tried to see and what you did about what you couldn't.  

We are dealing with frightening things, yes. Contagion. The stock market. Unemployment. Upended events.

Our daughter will give birth in less than three months. I've worried that I might not be able to be there until well after the baby comes. She worried that she might not be able to have her husband with her in the delivery room.

We don’t know.

But maybe I will be.

Maybe he will be.

Two weeks ago, at the beginning of this how long will we be here period, I couldn’t see this day from there. I only hoped I had enough pantry staples and stuff to read. 

Two weeks ago, in the headlights, I saw extended opportunities to start and finish projects. I became more mindful of the people I don’t talk to enough, and asked them to tell me about their experiences, and I shared mine. Without interruptions or appointments or dates, I didn’t hurry to finish a piece, and I didn’t leave tasks unfinished.

There was now time for everything, some things I might not otherwise do.  

I’ve had long walks with people I love and have been reminded of how I need them.

My husband and I have become excellent at offering comfort and reassurance to the one of us who needs it most, and it isn't always me. Well, yes it is.  

Our conversations with our kids often stretch past an hour.

We’ve been silly and awkward on video calls with people, but have learned to actually like them a LOT.

We’re talking candidly with all of our friends and family about the deepest anxieties we share, and ways we are dealing with uncertainty. 

The connection that many of us have made so mindfully while apart, has made me understand that  proximity is a luxury. If you are sharing conversation, worry, humor, fears, you are sharing.  

That said.  

Eventually, all of us look into that dark and think, Wait, we’re still here?

HOW LONG ARE WE GOING TO BE HERE?

We crave answers, we’re frightened when they don’t come, and for some of us, not knowing how long we’ll be here is akin to thinking we’ll be here forever.

We won’t be.

The virus will be contained.

The death toll will slow and stop.

The market will come back.

Offices and businesses and schools will open.

The rest of our lives will resume and we’ll be free to roam again.

We will have lighter hearts when that happens, and I look forward to that. But the truth is, what you do while you wait, is what you’ll remember.

They will be memories of some connections we created or came back to. Parents will know their children better, friends will be more grateful for each other, partners in love will thank their stars for the luck in finding each other, neighbors will have practiced selfless acts of food drop-offs and well-checks that made them better people. Complaints over minor irritants will be a thing we used to do, now that we know what really matters.

It won’t be just the hard and awful stuff we remember. It will be the way we reached for each other if there was any way to do it, and learned to live with not-like-before-but-enough.  

I will remember my video calls with my daughter, in her glorious third trimester, and how, even if I could not hold her hand as I desperately wish I could right now, I will still have been able to look at her eyes and smile and hear her voice and say, “You just look so beautiful right now.”

I will remember talking through the anxieties and sharing the weird humor with my loved ones that comes from standing (six feet apart) in shared headlights, group-summoning faith that right things will be right again.

Right now, make the choice to practice acts, words, deeds, communication and gratitude that may have required exactly the fertile soil of these difficult circumstances to take root and bloom.

Never forget that for all the pain and worry and anxiety of unknowns, this time in life will end, and you will get to keep the gifts.

With love and gratitude,

Susan