June 9, 2020
Despite constant reminders that all is decidedly not well in our world, life in my town appears to be returning to normal. The businesses on our main street have been open ever since the demise of Safer-at-Home. Kids are back on the playground; locals and visitors alike are back in our bars and restaurants. My place of employment has need of me again.
Re-opening has been a less measured process here than in some counties, one of which lies just across the river. (Sure hope the virus doesn’t catch on.) Even there, though, I get the sense that people are looking for any excuse to go back to “normal”.
Normal is as yet out of reach for me. I knew my job would look different this year, but I surprised myself with how strongly I resisted the changes. One week in, I still feel displaced and uneasy. The special appeal that this job once held for me is starting to fade. Chalk it up to a global pandemic combined with the loss of my precious at-home routine.
I know I’m extremely lucky to get to choose where I work, or don’t work. I don’t mean to complain so much as to comment on the irony. At the start of the CoViD-19 outbreak, it seemed for all the world that I was being kept from doing what I loved. This included returning to my seasonal job. Now, two short months later, it feels more like my freedom will end with the end of social distancing.
Just as surprisingly, I’m proud of the way I handled isolation. Recall that I was struggling not to dismiss this era as unproductive. While there could be long-term negative effects that have yet to make themselves known, over all I moved through this spring with grace.
My garden provides a handy metaphor: progress was slow at first, but as the weeks passed the very air became filled with growth and promise.
I assumed that having my life altered by world events could only be a bad thing. Instead, it has put me in a decent (if not good) position to face the future.