Our windows are covered with fog in the morning. Little hands draw rainbows on them as we wait for the sun to clear our view.
We know that we are living in a moment of history. The magnitude of this reality hangs heavy like thick fog. We know that one day we will emerge from our homes running into the streets, into one another’s arms, into the sea.
But for now, we draw rainbows in the fog as we await the dawn of a new day (a new era, to be sure).
—
I cling to hope that this will make us better at both joy and at grief. That we might feel the joy of breath in our lungs, that we might celebrate the miracle of being alive. That the illusion of control and the allure of distraction might not seduce us once again. That we will gather (when it is safe to do so) and relish in the joy of being together, that we will look around and remember- together is a marvelous place to be.
I hope, too, that this will make us better at grief. We are living through a collective experience of loss– of lost forever, of lost for now, of deferred indefinitely. I hope this will offer us hearts that tend to one another far better than we ever have. That we remember that grief is a process- and that the only way through it, is together.
I hope we remember that status and security were never the markers of a good life. That we remember the importance of touch and physical proximity. That we remember the necessity of sharing our lives with the people in the room- and in the rooms next door. That we will gather again (one day) in our local shops and restaurants. That we will gather around tables and in classrooms. That we will gather along the shoreline and in the parks, and we will remember- together is a marvelous place to be. [Isn’t the sunshine beautiful?]
That when quarantine is lifted, and we want to ask, “where do we go from here?” we will instead ask, “how do we go from here?” And the answer will come softly, as we open our doors again, and we return to one another. For we were never lost here, the fog was just clouding our view.
—
I find myself wondering what the history books will say about the year 2020. About the images that will be used- the narrative they will tell. I wonder what parts will feel honest? Unfathomable? Naive? I wonder about the history I’ve read- all of the stories from another time. Where did the words fail to capture the spirit? How is it that we can ever understand? Perhaps this is why we often hear stories from those who have lived decades more than we, and the stories so often begin never forget…
For in an instant, or a few weeks, everything can change. And in this instant, or perhaps it has been a few weeks, never forget has taken on new meaning.
Never forget the gift it is to leave your home, to spend time in nature, to gather in celebration.
Never forget that this is what it feels like to have no certainty. We never do, of course, but the impression has been there. As if we have forever. As if we are in control. As if we “follow the formula” we can ward off danger, illness, and fear.
But we cannot.
And so we try to calm our children, while our own existential questions loom. Try to explain why they can’t go to school while answering emails and staying on conference calls and answering another email. We wipe their tears (and ours) as we act brave, vacillating between feelings of strength and feeling like Dorothy’s lion friend.
We live every day in this contradiction. In this tension that the world has stopped- and that it must go on. For certainly, we never imagined a world in which every school would close, every stadium would empty, every Main Street would shutter. That the structures and systems around which we have organized our lives would all, suddenly, dissipate. That the trails would be taped off and the beaches barricaded, and yet, the birds would still sing.
Life does go on. It must, after all. It’s really the only thing we can count on. That so long as the world is spinning around the sun, life -in some capacity- will go on. People will arise tomorrow, babies will be born, couples will fall in love, someone will turn 100. The waves will continue to crash and the plants will continue to convert carbon dioxide to oxygen and people will breathe it in and live. Children will laugh and dance, and adults will take notes - learning, as always, from the littlest among us.
And so we’ll paint some more rainbows in the fog on our windows. And we’ll soak in the sun. And we’ll await the clear view- and with it, the dawn of the new beginning.
[I can’t wait to hug you again.]
