Three weeks ago, the last time I physically set foot in a grocery store, I could barely make it out of the car to go in my anxiety was so high. I had no sanitizer, no wipes and a fussy toddler strapped to my chest. Three weeks ago, the shuttered shops on Sunset were an eerie sight. Three weeks ago the world changed. Today it’s all still strange, but this new normal has resulted in some unexpected, refreshing changes. I go outside once a day simply for the sake of being outside, feeling sunshine on my skin, breathing fresh air, looking at the sky without the filter of my bedroom window. Once a day I meditate, at first as a coping tool for my anxiety that bubbled to the surface from the existential threat of contracting the virus seemingly from anyone, anything, anywhere, from the immediate threat of three humans—two adult and one just beginning to figure out this world—under one suddenly smaller roof, from the first-world-problems’ discomfort of not knowing when I can access garlic or toilet paper again, from the general uncertainty of the future. But 21 days in, this daily meditation practice has become habit—a habit I’ve been wanting to cultivate since forever. Also, at least once a day, usually at night, I journal. A little about the day, the latest outbreak news and stats, but mostly about what I’m grateful for. Another habit I’d been meaning to establish.
Between the walks outside, the meditations, and the journaling, and of course the general pause that’s been placed on typical daily life around the world, what’s added up is a certain stillness, peacefulness, and focus. Did the birds always chirp this much? Were there always these many squirrels in the neighborhood? Oh, yeah, ladybugs. And lizards. And gophers. How I’d forgotten. And bees! Are flowers more vibrantly colored this spring? Did the breeze blowing through the bougainvillea always make that shuffling sound? Could I always hear the cars driving on Sunset Blvd? Sounds like someone is working on their backyard. Another plane overhead far away. A motorcycle revs its engine. So many birds.
The strange thing is, this certain quiet, this pull to the present, it’s all sort of familiar. When I walk the mostly empty neighborhood streets, noticing the stunning succulents and herbs and lemon trees in people’s front yards or the yellow and purple wildflowers growing rampant in empty lots in between, when I stare out the window while I meditate not looking at anything in particular but seeing the gentle sway of the palm trees’ palms in my periphery or a flock of birds fly across my field of vision, when I put pen to paper in my journal as I’ve done since I was seven or eight years old, and can hear my husband watching TV or chatting on the phone in the other room, when I play a favorite song to move my body just because it feels good, when I have moments where I’m doing anything in particular so I grab a snack of crackers and almond butter, when I want to hang out with my friends but I can’t so I talk on the phone for hours instead, I feel a welcome sense that I’ve been here before. These moments. Granted, I’m prone to painting everything with a wide brush of nostalgia. It’s sort of my default. But when was the last time the days felt long? When afternoons lingered? When the natural light coming through the windows shifted so gradually it didn’t occur to me to turn on the lights until I was making dinner? When any solitary time wasn’t truly alone, but with the chattering of a child in another room. When was the last time I listened to a song from start to finish as I lay on the living room floor or danced around aimlessly in my bedroom? When was the last time I went weeks without driving? When was the last time I remembered all my dreams? When was the time I stayed up late reading because I had nowhere to be the next morning? When was the last time I walked around the suburbs at three in the afternoon because where else could I go? When I was a child.
When I was a child I couldn’t imagine that far into the future. The days were long. I noticed the buzzing of life outside because it was all a little mysterious. I didn’t know how not to be in the present. As an adult all I do is project into the future, stress about how fast time goes, and figure out ways to break out of my latest rut. Add a child to the mix and future worries are never ending, time goes faster, and ruts linger. But now this. This collective moment we’re in. This here, and now. It’s shed light where I wasn’t looking because I was too busy looking anywhere but right here. And now I’m so grateful for everything I’ve been able to see:
· The woman in the checkout line who let me go in front of her and helped me unload my grocery cart.
· The farmer’s market vendor who gave me 6 more tangerines on top of the 6 I had just purchased from him.
· Improving my husband and my communication tenfold.
· Having mandatory family bonding time.
· Getting organized.
· Appreciating seltzer water, avocados, eggs, fresh baked goods, garlic, and pasta much more than usual.
· Professional yoga classes from the comfort of my bedroom.
· Forced to sit and be with my thoughts, confronted by my true wants and needs without all the typical background noise of life.
· The peacefulness of a simple neighborhood stroll.
· The novelty of bumping into someone you know in real life and valuing live, in-person connection.
· The beauty of a blank screen waiting to be filled with words.