How I Learned to Run with the Squirrels Instead of The Today Show
In the haze of early morning, in the uncertain portal between sleep and waking, the monster is here in my bed poking at me, clamoring for attention. But is it real?
For days, maybe even a week or so, that’s how I’d wake up to our new world. I’d start my mornings in disbelief and denial with the thought that if only I’d rub my eyes, if only I’d shake my head and slowly get out of bed, I’d realize it was all a dream. This pandemic. This nightmare.
But it’s not.
The new consciousness is as real as it gets, following me around like a dark shadow, shifting my thoughts, correcting my patterns, redirecting my routines. No more gym. No Friday nights out. No more stopping at the bakery for a slice of bread or a muffin. No browsing for a new shirt or a pair of sandals just because it’s spring. All the impulses are still there, of course. The cues. The ingrained responses from years of habit and ritual. But then the new reality comes whooshing in. Stop. No. Don’t. Can’t.
Fortunately, within weeks, my resistance fades, my resentment softens. Suddenly, I shift from anger and doubt to embracing what is here, what is now. I begin to see the pandemic as a time for creating, for building. A time to design a different way of living that dovetails into the shape of our new normal.
What can I do? What will I build? What parts of what was there before will still work and what will compensate for what’s been shattered? How can I make my life better? Once the defensive dam breaks, the ideas start flowing.
The gym is quickly replaced with an early morning run. It’s much too cold at first. My legs resist the hard pavement after all those miles on the treadmill. And then there are the hills. Too many hills. But I learn to do what I can, putting one foot in front of the other, taking it at my own pace, one morning then the next. Slowly, I begin to feel stronger, even faster. I miss the news on the TV at the gym. But as the miles go by, I realize that the squirrels and the cherry blossoms and the early morning solitude may be more of what I need right now.
Without warning, the much-anticipated couplehood that my husband and I had just started to enjoy abruptly switches back to parenthood. Our daughter who was off on her own life adventures in New York City is suddenly back in our little town. Sleeping in her little bedroom. Not what we were planning, any of us. Adjustments are required. Compromise is necessary. Before long though, the ruffled edges become smoother and we’re enjoying our time together. Reminiscing and telling stories over dinner. Watching 30 Rock and laughing together. Unpacking boxes from the renovation. Finding treasures to sell on EBay. Accepting the unexpected detour in our lives and discovering the gift of extra time with one another.
There are other unexpected discoveries, most of which have been there all along, if only we had slowed down enough to notice. Walking in our neighborhood becomes a favorite pastime, a chance to see rhododendrons blooming or deer peering at us through the trees. Online yoga classes are now available in my office. Girlfriend chats are scheduled on the phone. Coffee is made at home and the process of brewing it becomes almost as enjoyable as the cup itself. Bread and chicken and peaches and really anything edible is savored with a new awareness that shopping is not so easy. Technology is embraced like never before. Ordering supplies online. Depositing checks by phone. Holding meetings on Zoom. We are more grateful than ever for work, health, family and friends. The list goes on.
As we start taking baby steps toward reopening and getting back to normal, there are many things I can’t wait to leave behind. Bad hair days come to mind. Avoiding people. The never-ending search for toilet paper.
But there is one thing from this strange odyssey that I want to keep with me forever. This new consciousness of ours. This revelation that we can create the world we want to live in by working with what we’ve got. That sometimes constraints and restrictions make us more creative and more thoughtful about what matters. That even when it seems as though the walls are closing in, there’s always a way forward. And if we’re guided by optimism and compassion, our new path can be better than the one we were on before.
Photo courtesy of Christina Schek
