On this the day that the governor removes most restrictions related to the COVID virus in California, I feel up to my neck in mud. I am mired and confused. I cannot move, and I don’t think I’m alone in how I feel.
The angst is mundane - with the lifting of restrictions I have no excuses left for avoiding doctors and dentists anymore; it is social - I have forgotten who I want to see and how to go about it; it is political - I don’t know how to orient my privileged life in light of the inequities so starkly exposed this year, and I have lost faith that there is anyone that can mend the broken bits; it is existential - I have lost the acceptable, normal parameters and definitions for safety and for risk. That last one is the hardest one of all.
By all rights, I should rejoice in today’s lifting of the bans, but I cannot shake the sense that more bad news is just around the corner and I’ve seen this year just how incapable we are as species and society to mitigate and cope. Personally, I think I’ve lost my reserves for facing the next inevitable onslaught - another COVID strain, perhaps, another virus altogether, the fires, the floods, the winds, the increasingly unsustainable human impact on our planet, the ugly face of racism and intolerance that presage a dark age yet to come. I feel old and unsafe for the first time in my life.
So here I am. Today the gate has opened, but I’m afraid of going through. Instead, I count the lessons that I think - I hope - I’ve learned from this extraordinary year that we have survived together and apart.
Know that loving matters. Nurture the relationships that nurture you. Ask for what you need and be ready to give everything. Write love down and send it. Be grateful, generous, and speak up.
Embrace fear. Name it. And then let it find a place to live outside your heart. Remember that death is always a close neighbor, even when the virus moves away. Find peace and acceptance from acknowledging what you can and cannot control.
Accept your aging gracefully, but do not surrender. Relish the long hours and days of reflection without wallowing in regrets, and without wanting the earth to turn any faster or slow down.
Find joy. Or make it on your own. Sing. Make art. Plunge your fingers in the soil and plant another flower. And another. And another. Wear the nicest clothes in your closet, the ones that make you smile or remind you of those you miss and love. Follow little rituals that give the day some structure and some purpose. Let the present be enough.
Be honest. Speak your heart out loud. Pandemics are not a good time for small talk.
Trust that somewhere and sometime in your life you have done something to make the world a better place, even if you cannot always see the traces in the sand. Trust that the next generation has what it takes to carry on. Never let them give up hope. Never give up hope in them.
Don’t wallow in the bad news as tempting as it may be to do. Obsessing about the mistakes that other people make is not the way to fix the world. Nor is waiting for a bigger plan. Get on with it. Use your economic privilege to go solar, buy local, eat sustainably, and give money freely to good ideas and noble efforts. Fly less. Find pleasure and comfort with less impact close to home.
Understand that the things that you have ordered or have asked for may not show up; make do with what you have.
Forgive yourself. And others, too. Believe, really believe that we’re all doing the best we can. Trust in kindness and in justice, even when they do not always manifest themselves. Say thank you every chance you get.
These are the many thoughts that have challenged, bolstered, and sustained me over the past 450 days. And this is what I tell myself as I consider what comes next: Keep learning from this, your pandemic garden. Don’t be eager to let its lessons go. Open the gate, today, tomorrow, whenever you are ready, but remember always that beauty and wisdom lie equally within and beyond the fence.