I’ve been very blue throughout the pandemic. Not the I-wish-I could-go-to-the-movies kind of blue, but the I-don’t-know-what’s-worth-living-for-anymore blue. I’ve inhabited this hole before. I always find a way out. But I have to admit that this moment in time has definitely pushed me to new depths of existential mournfulness, much deeper than something a best pal can pull you out of with a hug and a gentle intervention. It's all wrapped up with trauma and grief and triggers and it's just a lot.
But I soldier on (what a terrible cliché.) I get up on time every morning, shower and pull on clothing that can pass for daywear. Sometimes I even put on earrings, which seems like a tribute to optimism, since no one will see them. I walk the dog, feed him breakfast, feed me breakfast. I do a few puzzles and word games to wake my mind up and then read the news, which leads right into my daily primal scream practice. I work a good portion of the day, virtually, with clients who are giving me interesting problems to tackle, so there, too, my mind is engaged. I stop late in the afternoon, have a glass of wine, and consider dinner for me and the two of my three adult children who are willing to sit at the same table in the same room at the same time with me. The third is lost in his own miasma and rarely leaves his room. At the end of the meal, the dog and I take another walk in the sticky gloam of the evening, I read a little or watch a show and then head up to bed, where I can shut my mind off for a few blissful hours. Except when there’s a bad dream. Which is often.
I have a lovely house and plenty of fresh air. I have food. My loved ones are safe, for now. But I find very little joy. There is nothing to look forward to. There is no upcoming travel, no dinner with a friend, no show to see. There is no trip to a museum, a bookstore, a farmer’s market (except masked and quick, eyes darting around to make sure no one is coming within six feet.) There is anger and rage and political evil all surrounding us. But there is very little daily living being done, at least in the way of the before times.
When my husband was first diagnosed with glioblastoma, the doctors tossed around the concept of “quality of life.” It was an abstraction to us, and seemed like a negative pull on our focus in those early days, when we were all about fighting and beating the scourge. By the end of his life, we understood the concept all too well, and he made the brave decision, when the quality of his life had completely disappeared and he was left with no ability to do anything for himself, to withdraw life-prolonging medication and let nature take its course. Which it did, and two weeks later we were planning his funeral.
Today’s quality of life, for those of us whose Maslovian needs are well met, isn’t easily measurable either. But this morning, I had a glimpse of hope in the form of a neighbor whose son is getting married, suddenly and soon. The dog and I were walking, as we do, and we came across the front yard of a neighbor who I’ve known since our sons were born, 25-years-ago. Our neighbor was watering his beautiful flower garden, and told me that his wife, a landscape architect, had put in some colorful annuals to brighten up the front yard in time for the wedding. What wedding, I asked. It turns out that their son and his long-time girlfriend were getting married in three weeks in their backyard. The wedding was a last minute decision, brought on by a graduate program that the girlfriend had been accepted to overseas. She has a passport that will allow her to attend; he does not. The couple figured that he would have a better chance of being able to join her if they were married. And so, a summer wedding.
I was reminded of the stories of war times, when brides and grooms are borne of necessity, and no one has time for a large wedding – backyards and front hallways become our altars of choice. In pandemic times, of course, we can’t have even our dearest close enough to hug us, and so our weddings and celebrations … and funerals and shivas … are taking place with just a few family members. Also virtually. Over the past four months, Zoom has become the imperfect receptacle to capture and hold our hearts’ deepest yearnings.
I cannot begin to describe how happy the news of this wedding made me feel. I don't know their son, and probably wouldn’t recognize him if I saw him on the street, but the story of love and perseverance and young adult lives making the best of this terrible moment and the beautiful, beautiful garden all conspired to make me, like the flowers I admired, burst with delight.
And as I continued on my walk, my trusty dog tripping alongside me, I felt one of the heavy curtains that has been tamping down my spirit lift and a surge of new understanding. For the first time in months, I remembered why we’re here, and why we need to keep masking and staying home and preserving our health. It’s so that when the day comes that we can poke out of our bubble, and squint at the sun, we can emerge whole and with our hearts intact, ready to celebrate the next moment of joy, in whatever way is possible. Because, despite everything, there will always be a next moment of joy.
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