The Storm
Wouldn’t you know it, we are still living in, and therefore thinking, writing, and worrying about Covid. All of this activity is essential. We have big problems to solve, communities to care for, losses to mourn. Writing a blog post seems trite. But here are a few words- just a check in.
I recently attended a lecture that began with a quote:
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.
-Haruki Murakami
What a good quote, for those of us fortunate enough to come out of this pandemic storm. But it also threw me viscerally back into another, personal storm- the big one- surviving Mike’s death. Honestly, after that, a pandemic seems like a surreal cake walk. I know, it’s relative. Pandemic definitely does not equal cake.
A friend, recently going through an especially hard time, kindly mentioned that I remain one of the most joyful people she knows. And if I can be joyful- after what I have endured- then maybe she can get there too. We talked through how to do it. We settled on “one foot at a time” along with yet another cliché, albeit more elevated and cohesive: mindfulness.
I realize that word has been slapped on every magazine cover in health food stores for the last 10 years. How many ways can we be reminded, and why do we have to keep talking about it? Because being in the present really is the answer. It doesn’t mean not caring about the future or the past. But it does mean soaking in experience, plugging into our relationships and values, and appreciating this delicate life.
After surviving an electrocution, I was 13 and amazed be alive. I actually went around thinking, this is so cool! Another day, another year! Let’s do this!
After surviving Mike’s death, I was numb. I was terrified. I was nowhere near amazed or excited. But I was still grateful for another day, another year. I remained acutely aware of the present, of being in the moment. Mindfulness. It was the only option- can’t look forward, certainly can’t look back- and it saved me.
These days, I feel cacophonous. There’s concern, realism, heaviness, sadness, and still a fair amount of joy. Wow, ok, another day, holy shit, I guess we are still doing this, ok, let’s go. Not quite optimism. But happy to have health, love, and even more chances to give life a try.
My apparently persistent joyfulness is fueled by awe. I still look to the sky in amazement that it’s still there, that it’s so beautiful, that there is an atmosphere that sustains us. The earth is spinning a thousand miles per hour. What?! Wow. We don’t even notice it. Meanwhile, we are in our own worlds, having been given brains and bodies evolved enough to create synaptic connections that feel and think and care and stress (but not evolved enough to know the answers). That’s why my job remains the coolest, because I get to help people figure out how to make meaning as tiny organisms on a careening planet in this unknown universe.
On a good day, this can be fun stuff to figure out. But a pandemic throws quite a wrench in it all. Survival is not interesting or recreational. Awe doesn’t pay bills or bring back loved ones. So control what you can. Plan once you can. Stay present when you can. And know that when the storm is over, you will have a new version of yourself and your life to pursue.
A cloud behind my house. Momentary awe.