Craving a horizon

I’ve been fantasizing about floating in a swimming pool this week. I can almost taste the weightlessness. And then one of my all time favorite sensations on Planet Earth: getting out and laying my body on the hot concrete, feeling it warm my skin, closing my eyes, and listening to the sounds of collective, unbridled joy. So many bodies, and their resident souls, together unselfconsciously. 

Floating is an appropriate fantasy because it’s what I’m mentally doing, too. But not the good kind. I feel unanchored in time, like I’m floating between my life as it was and my life as it will be. In between is this--the sweetness of my girls, the spikes of anxiety, the lows of monotony and irritation. I was riding it all for awhile--sometimes freaking out, sometimes remarkably zen, waves upon waves upon waves as far as the eye could see.

But now I’m starting to crave a horizon. 

Stella winning at quarantine.

I want something to look forward to. A swimming pool. A hug from my dad. My women’s group’s first night back--the sound of laughter and reunion exploding out the screens on the windows past the calla lilies outside. That morning when Stella runs into the backyard at her preschool, united with the friends she never stops talking about, the basset hound named Rooney, all those trikes and grubby-faced baby dolls, and I get to walk away, get in my car, and drive away knowing she’s safe and happy somewhere else. Or even just to hold my friend’s baby, smell his or her head. That would be enough to keep me going for weeks and weeks, I swear.

In some ways, scrolling through our Google Calendar and deleting summer camps and family vacations was cathartic. Like scrubbing the film off of a window. I can see clearly. It’s summer—just a few months of time. It’s not that important compared to being healthy and/or alive, as it turns out. My work isn’t that important. Airplane trips aren’t that important. Even Frozen II Musical Camp, the thing Maya was most looking forward to this summer, turns out to be not that important. When I told her it was moving online and she could still do it if she wanted to, she looked crushed for a moment and then quietly said, “No thanks,” and kept coloring her dream boathouse. I was relieved. So far, learning online has not been her thing. 

What used to be the calculus of our schedule, which is to say, our lives, has become basic addition and subtraction. 

Which in some ways is quite a spiritual practice. We had our first take-out sushi in 10 weeks the other night and I couldn’t believe how good it tasted. I kept talking about it--suddenly that person at the table who won’t shut up about how divine everything is. I savored every single bite.

Longing, as it turns out, is a much better path to mindfulness than cramming your life full of apps and books and lectures on mindfulness. 

But what if the longing has no place to land? When does it just become ennui? 

Like a lot of people, I’m not sure that I liked my pre-pandemic life as much as I thought I did. Too social. Too busy. Too self-important. But I also don’t have a sense of when or how I will be shaping my post-pandemic life. I’d like to apply my new savoring skills to a world with more freedom, more sensory variety, more diversity of human touch. I’d like to run into you on the street and give you a big, bear hug. I’d like to fight for the world we deserve--prove to myself that I’m not going to forget how to be mad as hell this time around.

But for now, I float. And dream about floating. And try to tolerate the in between.    

While tolerating, I’ve contributed to and really appreciated some stuff. Check out this piece on slow streets (we live on one), this incredible conversation about school integration, and this video of a wonderful teacher at my daughter’s school being surprised by Ellen…yup, that Ellen! And thanks to my dear friend and collaborator, Wendy MacNaughton, on our third anniversary of this poster. Wish it didn’t feel so relevant, but damn it does.