Where did the past two months go?
It has been just a few days since most countries began to lift the imposed lockdown measures, cautiously easing the way towards a modus vivendi too surreal to fathom and accept. With wobbling steps and the curiosity of a toddler, we venture again into cities, offices, or shops, acutely conscious of the perils encompassed in our old practices, following new rules that smear the warmth of our days. While still in shock from the decisive blow on our alleged invulnerability, we deny the magnitude of what has befallen upon us, and we derive hope from the aspired impermanence of this conundrum, clinging to our past and trying to remain unchanged. But we have already changed – perhaps, irrevocably. The question is: towards what direction.
At the beginning of the lockdown, I was grateful for the gift of time bestowed upon me. Choosing to focus on the silver lining of an otherwise challenging and disorienting situation, I dreamed of the books I would read, the writing I would complete, the pending issues I would finally address, or the physical exercise I would do, simmering for days in the joy of my ambitious agenda. Two months later, these “extra hours” stare back at me with a scornful gaze, mocking my inefficiency, for nothing went as planned. Granted, I did not remain idle, and some modest progress was accomplished on certain topics; still, time, like the proverbial sand grains, slipped through my fingers unawares, leaving me befuddled and with a vague feeling that something – elusive but substantial – had gone awry.
Working from home was not new to me, nor was the need to adhere with some discipline to a self-imposed agenda. And yet, I caught myself gradually succumbing to the nonchalant mood of the times, as an absence of deadlines or concrete plans led to levels of detachment I had not experienced since my sabbatical years. The imminent threat on our well-being pushed previous priorities to the background, stripping life from anxieties which, now, seemed inconsequential, almost incongruous. With our attention focused on the bare necessities, we began to appreciate the importance of the physical proximity which we had always taken for granted. Ultimately, and despite our dismay for the health-related and financial repercussions of this pandemic, we started to explore the boundaries of compassion and creativity. Thus, the change began.
Looking back, I realise that most of my time was spent on meditative observation of people rather than engagement in specific actions. Usually, I refrain from surfing through the social media or listening to the news; now, I found myself in a state of ecstasy, devouring with passion every available update, comment, or article, not so much to get informed on the medical details or restrictive measures, but, instead, to study the kaleidoscopic unfolding of human reactions and emotions. With remarkable tenacity, I read and listened, babbled for hours on the phone, reconnected with old friends, or disconnected from others, all the time accumulating knowledge that felt profoundly fulfilling. I will not claim that the virtual connections were sufficient. On the contrary, the lack of physical contact weighed heavily on me, to the extent that today I am taken aback by our carefree, touch-including habits, preserved, like a relic, in the movies. And yet, those two months, consumed in a virtual “people watching” pastime, turned into a thorough contemplation on the emotional nature of our species, unlocking understandings too subtle to grasp in the past.
My sloth was occasionally embarrassing, especially when comparing to individuals like my sister who, being a working-from-home mum, ended up juggling more responsibilities than she could handle. Or, when thinking of the pressure that health workers, scientists, politicians, and policymakers around the world were facing while trying relentlessly to beat the odds against time. However, I soon realised that part of this seeming lethargy reflected the stupor that we all experienced, amplified by our interconnectivity. The intensity of this sensation was breathtaking, and for the first time, I felt distinctly the weight of the global consciousness that each one of us, like a minuscule Atlas, carries on the shoulders. Despite the creativity, games, arts, and crafts that flourished – if one should trust the overwhelming number of posts on social media – there was no frivolity. There was anguish instead, and this, unavoidably, took its toll on our mood and energy.
As weeks dragged away, we accepted the crisis and embraced the rituals of our confinement. The silence in my home matured, it got purer, and the thudding of the seconds from the clock synchronised with the beats of my heart. In this metaphorical cave – the place where, in all archetypal tales, our deepest thoughts are hidden – I became an observer, a member of a larger fellowship of observers, committed to noticing, collecting, and assimilating the emotions of humanity. By groping the space between fear and empathy, despair and hope, or denial and resilience, I felt that I contributed to acknowledging these feelings so that we, as a whole, could move forward. Finding myself in a less heroic, and yet important, role, I surrendered to patience, reminded once more that choosing to purposefully do nothing for a while is an art: often unappreciated, but sacred and profound.
The transformation unfolded slowly, transcending my own frontiers, as the quest for new meanings spurred me towards expansion. My heart stretched immensely to hug the world, and a newfound appreciation towards all those who bravely weaved the threads of this alternate reality often brought tears to the eyes.
So, where did the past two months go? I would say they were consumed in gratitude.
Ultimately, they were invested in love.
Photo credits: © Konstantina Sakellariou.
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