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I used to try to imagine what it would feel like to spend a whole month at home and never have to leave. No obligations. No one disappointed because I chose not to attend their meeting, festival, conference, seminar, graduation, wedding, banquet, awards ceremony, you name it.
Over the years I learned to say no to 90 percent of the invitations I received. But saying yes to even 10 percent kept me away from home more than I preferred. Covid-19 has changed things for me, for at least the remainder of this year. I haven’t ventured beyond my front gate since March 11. And I have no desire to be anywhere else.
I had pneumonia last fall, followed by a bronchial infection in February, and I’m still dealing with a lingering postnasal drip. I have a preexisting condition, and I’m 66: both good reasons to be extra careful. That’s why Stedman, who was speaking at a gathering in St. Louis just before California locked down, stayed in the guesthouse for 14 days after arriving home—to protect me. Tests weren’t readily available then, so we couldn’t be sure he wasn’t an asymptomatic carrier.
What I’ve learned from this experience is that I’m a true introvert. My happiest times this spring were rainy days when I could build a fire and nestle in. Zoom has become a way of life and my new best friend; it gives me joy to think I never have to travel for another meeting again. (More revelations: There is no need to change my sheets every other day; once a week is just fine. Chunky peanut butter on toast with coffee or tea is a complete breakfast. Pasta is a staple you should never be without.)
This time has made me more conscious of what is important. Life is fragile. And uncertain. Though it always has been, we were lulled into believing we’d eventually get to all the things on our to-do lists. Yet everyone who’s died also had plans for tomorrow.
I’ve always been grateful to be healthy. Now I am acutely aware of just how significant that gift is. And I’m more awake to the inequities that are reality for so many. I’ve made a decision to be more philanthropic in ways that can be sustainable in bringing justice and joy. I’ve reached out to people I thought might need a hand and given support to organizations directly serving communities where I grew up: Chicago, Nashville, Baltimore, Milwaukee, and Kosciusko, Mississippi. (Even with all I have, I can’t help everyone who has not. So I’ve focused on people I know and places that once knew me.)
I’ve also rewatched old movies and read books I’d been “meaning to read” for years. And I’ve realized that despite all the time I’ve spent running and doing and doing, the quiet, sweet stillness of just being with myself is the greatest peace.
On the internet, I came across this poem, written by Haroon Rashid, that pretty much sums up what I’ve been feeling:
We fell asleep in one world and
woke up in another.
Suddenly Disney is out of magic,
Paris is no longer romantic, New York
doesn’t stand up anymore, the
Chinese wall is no longer a fortress,
and Mecca is empty.
Hugs & kisses suddenly become
weapons, and not visiting parents &
friends becomes an act of love.
Suddenly you realize that power,
beauty & money are worthless,
and can’t get you the oxygen you’re
fighting for.
The world continues its life and it is
beautiful. It only puts humans in cages.
I think it’s sending us a message:
“You are not necessary. The air, earth,
water and sky without you are fine.
When you come back, remember that
you are my guests. Not my masters.”
We got a time-out. We required a reset so we could see without obstruction what is essential.
I hope we all get the lessons we most needed—as individuals and as a collective world consciousness—so we can move forward with a desire to heal ourselves and our planet. I know for sure that if we don’t learn from being literally sent to our rooms, when we finally come out, the next challenge will be even harder.
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