Scenes From A Transition
Hey hey,
The adrenaline surge has worn off. The finish line is moving further, just out of sight. The looming looms on. The weariness is setting in. It's been two weeks. Week one was a flurry of activity — our collective anxieties manifested outwards towards toilet paper, pasta, workouts, workouts, workouts. It felt frenetic, like the start of a race. Those of us with a practice of quiet (or WFH already) watched the rest of us come out of the gate fast and energetic. Both quietly hoped their strategy was the right one. There isn't a right strategy here. Strategy left us a while ago.
Scenes from right now:
I'm moving tomorrow, oddly enough. The wheels were set in motion before Shelter In Place. I've been in my neighborhood for 14 years, this apartment building for 10, this unit for 5. It's an unceremonious way to say goodbye. Transition without the regular recognition; no final gathering of friends and memories. This period will be marked by starting in the home I've known, but ending somewhere new. Everything's a metaphor these days.
I take a break from packing to host The Assembly book club. A group of 24 women gather on zoom. Talk turns from the book to how we're holding up. We admit to being scared to go outside and scared that we'll treat strangers with distance forever. Or the other way around — won't we want to hug everyone? Will there be a party? We are more productive and connected to our families. We are worried about losing ourselves (or our kids) to screens. We are unable to draw the lines between work and personal time. We are committed to daily movement. We are inexplicably tired. We are trying to know ourselves better. We are napping. Oh, we are napping.
Packing up a life means admitting that certain things are over: sizes, styles, hobbies, regularly wearing high heels. We accumulate and we shed. This is a season of both. As I organize, I (mostly) get rid of things that may never fit me again. It's not do you spark joy? It's do you spark self? What if I show up just like this, forever? What does it mean to consider a phase not shaped by trying to reshape my body? A life without the gaze of others allows us to chip away — even a little — at the expectations of shoulds and supposed tos. It feels new and weird to mean it this time.
It's hard to find a comfortable soundtrack for my solitary walks and runs. I get antsy with my regular podcasts. My mind wanders and I lose the storyline. It's possible this is where I take a break from constant learning and just listen to myself think. Or I'm overloaded. My brain is a puddle and familiar playlists cause the right amount of ripple.
I call my friends. No one has any good advice for anyone else. We just share what's going on and what feels like it's work. In these moments, we keep going. Keep talking. Keep moving in a way that is safe to you and those around you. Keep doing the things that make us feel connected, even if that's as simple as watching Tiger King at the same time as everyone else. Maybe this week let's pick a show that's a little less unsettling? Ok, crew. Onwards.
I truly hope to see you soon. Hang in there. This is me reaching out to you, so you can reach out right back.
xo,
Molly
Permission Granted
Brené Brown's new podcast Unlocking Us — starting with the most recent episode, which gave me some framework for thinking through this collectively weary moment.
Roberto: a soup. This recipe is my favorite format — do this, or that, or whatever. In times like these its good to remember that soup is just (usually) warm liquid with some stuff and flavors in it. Simmer, enjoy. This pairs extremely well with the bread I imagine you are baking.
So you're cooking more, you say? Caraway and Our Place. Designed thoughtfully for small kitchens.
Two different people recommended the poet David Whyte to me this week. I took that as a sign. He's been reading "microbursts" of poetry on themes on his instagram and they're delightful.
Find a local restaurant (like Che Fico in SF) donating meals — there are lots of them!
Watching: Feel Good on Netflix. Reading: Wow, No Thank You by Samantha Irby.