5 Discoveries I’ve (Re-)Made During Isolation
Before I delve into a warm and fuzzy conversation about silver linings, let’s keep it real. The COVID-19 pandemic is legit; it’s frightening; it’s fatal; we’re armed to the teeth with toilet paper and and automatic weapons, shouting at our neighbors, and (temporarily) f**ked eight ways from Tuesday. Bill Gates has been christened the idiot's antichrist and bats have rocketed ahead of sharks as most menacing animal of 2020.
But we know this already, don’t we? If you’re anything like me, you are binge-read troubling news, grasping to make sense of the protests and the premature re-openings, worrying futilely about vulnerable loved ones, and trying to imagine a future with the efficacy of feeling around for clues in a pitch-black room. I’m grateful to healthcare professionals, scientists, and that’s right, Bill Gates, who are waging the battle against COVID-19 and seeking a solution. I don’t know how to do that.
I’d like to share a few things I do know to do—things that I’ve discovered, or rather rediscovered, during this period of isolation. My partner and I have been self-isolating in Scotland for the last two months, since our flight back to Switzerland was cancelled on March 13. He has been sick for much of the time, based on his symptoms, likely with COVID-19, but we don’t know for sure. Though we have been fortunate in the grand scheme, it has been a challenging time to say the least.
That said, I’ve savored some small bursts of joy amid this, mostly having to do with the business of writing and reading, and I’d like to share them with you here.
1) Poetry can still change people and the world. We’ve been told that our attention spans are shot; we communicate in Tweets rather than full words. But poetry is alive and well. I, among many others, was charmed by a list of poems that bring hope, published in The Independent in early April. Stuck inside, I pulled out a big pad of paper and a pack of markers and decided to write several of them out and post them—under cover of night, to make it feel daring—in prominent places around our town square. We had so much fun watching from our second-story perch as people stopped and read the poems, lingering, taking photos, even sharing with other passers-by. A woman reading my green-marker poster of Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is a Thing with Feathers” even stopped me, as I was walking to the post office, and asked me to pause and read it. When she heard me speak, she said “You’re an American, aren’t you?” (Yes.) “So was Emily Dickinson, I believe… so I can just call you Emily.” Any time.
2) There is plenty to see right where you are. The Scottish Borders is the region—you guessed it—right on the border of England. It has a fascinating and bloody history, chiefly because of the hundreds of years of conflict with England, and for about 400 of those years, the destruction of the lawless border reivers. The Borders is also a beautiful, fertile land pocked with charming wee villages and the ruins of ancient castles and abbeys. Of course, everyone born here thinks it’s boring. We’ve entertained ourselves by finding books about The Borders (on our shelves, ordered online, delivered by our local bookshop) and then seeing it for ourselves. Sure, the castles and museums are closed, but we’re allowed to walk anywhere. We found a book called The Scottish Borders: 40 Favourite Walks by Robbie Porteous and have gotten through over half of them. We’ve read stories and poems by Sir Walter Scott, and then ventured to his favorite spot on the river and his long-passed Aunt Janet’s old home. The gentleman who lives there now even allowed us to step inside his front porch and take a look at the bust of Scott, his dog, and his Aunt Janet (all from a proper distance). Whether you’re in Maryville, Tennessee or Kelso, Scotland, or any other small town, you can read about it. Listen to the stories, and get out and see for yourself. There is magic exactly where you are.
3) There is so much power in doing just a little. This might sound a little new age or yoga-lite, but it is so true. We so often put off doing small things because they aren’t enough. I have so often put off calling a friend because I didn’t have time for a long conversation, or resisting writing a text because I couldn’t call. I’ve not sent my Granny a one-line email saying “I love you” because she deserves a better catch up, and I’ve sat on the couch instead of going on the walk around the block because I should really go for a run. Just stop it. For whatever reason, maybe because the terror of a global pandemic requires a bit more ease and kindness with the self, I have been much better about doing small things and reaping big rewards. I started doing "30 Days of Yoga with Adrienne" and after about 30 days, I’m on “Day 13.” So what? I’m still doing it, and I feel better for it. I had only called my sick friend, who is in a rehabilitation facility in Florida, once during the pandemic. So instead of beating myself up, I enlisted five other friends to call him. I texted an old friend in Canada (instead of calling), and got in return a delightful photo of him dressed in a suit, having a martini for “happy hour” with his wife in their living room. Just do the little thing instead of berating yourself for not doing the big thing and then doing… nothing.
4) Reading a bit of a book every day is great for mental health. I have read more in the past two months than I probably did in the ten months preceding the quarantine. We often feel like we “don’t have time” to read, which to be fair, I’m sure is totally true while caring for young children or a disabled parent or working ten-hour shifts at a hospital. But at least for me, reading for as little as fifteen minutes a day, out of an actual book (not online news or even magazines), can quiet what the Buddhists call “the monkey mind” with great effectiveness. I’ve even returned to my old grad school habit of having several books going concurrently, each with a different purpose. This last couple of weeks, it’s been The World According to Garp by John Irving (for story), Almost Everything: Notes on Hope by Ann Lamott (for cheering up), Do the Work by Steven Pressfield (for writerly ass kicking), and The River by Jane Clarke (poems, to accompany a glass of wine). It is a luxury to get to read as much as I have in the last month, no doubt, and sometimes thoughts of “I could be spending this time figuring out how to make some money” creep in, but overall it has decreased rather than increased my stress about being underemployed, isolated, and homesick. Finishing a chapter in a book is a small act that grants a sense of peace and accomplishment I haven’t quite found elsewhere.
5) Your mom was right: write a list. Whether it was a mom or a teacher or a curmudgeonly grandparent, we’ve all been told to write a list. Organization is not my strong suit (literally every single one of my loved ones will attest), but lists are organization for dummies. In a time that makes it difficult to feel like we’re accomplishing much: out of work, stuck inside, limited in our options and resources, it is easy to feel stuck and sedentary. I have recently returned to physical list-writing, including but not limited to: the grocery list, a weekly to-do list, a people to call or write list, and a places to send my writing list. My partner is a champion of list-writing, from big ones on legal pads to little post-its stuck on the window. Checking off the list is so satisfying, and keeps us on track and not feel overwhelmed.
I recently even wrote a list of all of the feelings I was feeling during isolation: anxious, needy, giddy, grieving, hopeful, fat, frustrated … It’s a list that I may never get to check items off, but there, in green ink, in a nice lined notebook, those feelings suddenly looked manageable.