One year later
This time last year, I was hot off a coaching certification class, supporting coaching clients, in the final weeks leading up to a huge project deadline at my day job, mentoring a student director on a musical, in pre-production for my next stage play, making plans for my partner's upcoming birthday, and recovering from shingles (this is not a blog post about shingles).
I was expecting a pause in my schedule as pandemic numbers grew increasingly worrisome and closer to home. I was expecting 90 days of uncertainty. I had no idea how my world would change. None of us really, practically, understood the Experience that would become 2020.
And here we are, one year later. To say I've learned a lot about myself, my relationships, and my community would be a lame understatement. My life and my livelihood simply changed, full-stop. While I miss parts of the world from before, I'm anxious to see what's emerging: the old tactics are not going to apply in this newer world. Opportunities abound. We're all in the funknown now.
I'm feeling oddly reflective. With the privilege of hindsight I'm struck by those little things that hit me hardest over this last year; lessons I may not have otherwise experienced:
Because of our "ships-passing" schedules in the beforetimes, we relied on easy dinners that could be cooked in under 30 minutes and easily reheated in Tupperware. We were long-time subscribers to Blue Apron for those nights when someone had more bandwidth to adult-up and cook A Meal. So often (too often), we'd "grab something on the way" due to lack of adequate planning. Quarantine hit, we bought a chest freezer and stocked it; we planned our dinners for 14 days at a time and shopped to our menu. We tried new recipes because we had nothing but time. And then one fateful night our scheduled dinner went sideways, we pivoted, and a new staple was discovered: Annie's Bunny Pasta with Yummy Cheese with chopped chicken. We call it "chicky mac" and for a good five months we ate it once every 10 days. We don't have small humans, so it's unusual for us to eat macaroni and cheese on the regular. Sure, we'd keep a box in the back of the cupboard for a sick day, for emergencies, for parties, but this... this became a delightful bowl of no-fuss, only-fill dinner. It leaves us with happy tummies. There's something wholesome about tucking around a warm bowl, steam wafting upward, spoon in hand (yes, a spoon. It tastes best when eaten with a spoon. Don't ask me to explain the science). What you expect is exactly what you get, which is marvelous during a time of upheaval and uncertainty.
There's no way else to say it. I missed my commute. Don't get me wrong: I hated sitting in traffic, which if memory serves is what I did 80% of the time I was in the car. I learned very quickly that my commute was a buffer between the elements of my life. I could talk on the phone or listen to a podcast or audiobook. I could screlt along to music. It was me-time baked in to my day that I didn't realize I had. It was space to clear my head and/or put my game-face on. Last spring, I started incorporating a commute into my day, but instead of getting in the car I'd walk around the block second thing in the morning (first thing is getting the dogs situated). Some afternoons I'd go wild and reverse my commute or take a longer stroll. I learned about the pandemic rhythms of my neighborhood. I witnessed the seasons change, neighborhood politics on display, puppies grow, renovations sprout. I got fresh air and quiet time. I forced a distinction between home time and work time that I couldn't otherwise institute in my day without literally stepping outside. What I didn't understand before March 2020 was that while destination of my commute was often for someone else, the actual journey and progress was mine. And if that's not a schmaltzy metaphor for life...
Our dogs are creatures of extreme habit. When they wake up, the order in which they eat their meds and food, where they drape themselves throughout the day... their routine is unshakeable and our interloping is unappreciated. If you follow me on Instagram, you've seen pictures of our younger dog, Velma. She's a compact cannonball of a pit bull. She's adorable and attention-demanding and snuggly. She makes guest appearances on client calls and presentations. Who you don't see is our old man, Zozo. Quickly approaching 14, he's achy and grumpy. He's been with us since he was 6ish months old. His clockwork routine means we don't have to set an alarm in the morning, and we can't lose track of time in the day because of needed and demanded potty breaks. He plays like a puppy in little bursts, but the rest of the time he ambles like molasses. He stops and sniffs and forgets and sniffs again. He's a professional napper with a jackhammer snore. Because one of us is always home, we get to experience this beautiful, heart-wrenching time with him. Zo has always been stingy with kisses, and we presently compete for them. He'll accept butt scritches from anyone, and he's lousy with them now. With Zo we have the opportunity to slow down, cherish the predictability of routine when time no longer has any meaning, and simply be and feel and move how the day allows us to. He moves at his own pace, and, now, so too do we.
Those are the big three. Sure, I could talk about the exhilarating, terrifying experience of blowing up my day job to create the type of work life I wanted. I could extol the virtues of yoga pants and lounge bras; of not wearing high heels and makeup. Of protesting and Go Funding and learning and unlearning; of panic for the world and grief for the unnecessary loss of so many people. I'm sure you could, too.
But I'm curious: what has stuck with you? What lessons have you learned about yourself? What takeaways do you come back to when you reflect back on this year?
Zozo and Velma
