What Have You Learned During the Pandemic?

I was talking with a client recently (via video, of course) and the question of whether she’d gleaned anything positive from this pandemic arose.

     “I’ve lost so much this past year—my job, getting to visit my parents, vacation, seeing friends—I’m surprised I’m not in bed with the covers pulled over my head,” she mourned.

    “Yeah, I hear you,” I said, “but why do you think you’re NOT paralyzed by depression?”

    “I get outside every day. I play with my kids more. I care about money less. I am learning to take care of myself and cherish the simple things, I guess, and that feels peaceful.”

Being Present

Similarly, I stood on my front porch yesterday, looking out at my street, drinking in the quiet. Because Seattle had been graced with snow the day prior, the eleven inches that had accumulated in my neighborhood prevented cars from driving the roads. There was no traffic noise. Only the occasional sound of cross-country skis or the crunch of a pedestrian’s snow boots could be heard. The stillness and beauty of the snow on the cherry tree branches and the glow of dusky skies instilled a calm in me that felt healing. I inhaled, soaking up the moment. I forgot about the pandemic or Trump’s recent acquittal or the fact I haven’t seen my mother in ages. I became fully aware that this beautiful phenomenon called snow that fell silently from above was one of the wonderous aspects of Mother Earth.

Tuning In

Mothering oneself has been a central theme of my work with clients these days. In the usual rat race of American life, we are often too busy to truly attune to ourselves and provide what is needed. We may think we’re taking care of ourselves as we rush from work to the gym to a local field to watch our son or daughter’s baseball game, but we’re just checking boxes, often unaware of how we truly feel. The pandemic has provided many people with more time alone. It has presented the opportunity to tune in instead of tune out to myriad nuances of our day. A child’s laughter. The smell of baked bread. The touch of warm sheets. A squirrel’s nibbling on a nut. Your heartbeat. It takes intention to notice these sweet moments. It takes turning off the smartphone and closing the laptop. It takes standing still with senses wide open. 

Clinging Less

 “I’m no longer worried about my retirement account or whether I worked out enough or whether my daughter is getting high enough grades,” says my client boldly.

    “And that must feel centering, like you’re driving the car instead of it driving you,” I replied.

    “Exactly! I am in charge as long as I take the time to be in the moment and care for myself or whoever is around me,” she exclaimed. “I’m living more by wanting less.”

Her statement reminded me of an Irish blessing my father had given me when I was a teenager:

    “May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.”

Conclusion

We have become so used to striving, achieving, chasing money or fame or the perfect job, that we forget that life is unfolding right here, right now, with each and every breath, with the beat of your heart, with the snow falling, with your child’s smile. If we have learned to slow down, to listen more fully, to see more clearly, to appreciate one another more, then the pandemic has, indeed, taught us something valuable. We’ve lost many lives to this virus. Those of us who have survived are fortunate to be here, if we take the time to notice.