Five years ago, or maybe 500, I used to wake up and make coffee, leash up the dog (who at that point was still just a puppy), and stroll leisurely through the South End of Charlotte before starting my day. Mug in hand, humidity rising with the sun, smelling the spring blooms on the trees as I walked from our apartment down the Rail Trail, past our favorite brewery and Atherton Market opening up in the distance.
Since then, the dog has gotten bigger and there’s no way I could walk him with an open cup of hot liquid in tow. There’s also a toddler who always wants to go on an “Ender walk,” so pretty much every walk or run has become a bit more of a production than it ever used to be.
Yesterday I went on a run by myself for the first time in almost two years—no dog, no stroller, just me and all the songs I’ve ever “liked” on Spotify. It was warm and sunny and the air smelled of eucalyptus. There are no breweries or local markets housing our favorite coffee shop in our very suburban neighborhood, and spring always makes me miss the places I love the most, but this felt different—bigger. I don’t just miss Charlotte, or college days, or dinners on our Minneapolis patio, or our Roanoke wedding weekend, or those first few months after we moved to California, or newborn days with Sophie.
I miss all of it, and more.
Mindless trips to Target. Impromptu coffee or a bagel with my friend Mary after teaching three Pure Barre classes on a Wednesday. Seeing Sophie walk out of her classroom proudly holding a painting or craft in her little hand. Walking to the playground and seeing her sprint across the park, her blonde hair flying behind her. Going out for an early dinner before bedtime. Getting on a plane to visit friends, or driving to the airport to pick up my mom. Grocery shopping without any fear or Lysol wipes.
It’s pretty weird to think that one day my now-two-year-old daughter might not or might only barely remember this time that I feel is changing us every single day. It’s hard to not feel guilty about the extra TV she’s been watching, the mornings at school she is missing, the friends she just made and got comfortable with who she asks for every few days.
And then there’s my own grief, trying to keep my privilege in check while missing my “old life,” longingly wondering when things might go back to normal.
I had to run an errand yesterday and as I drove over the Dumbarton and looked across the water to the skyline of San Francisco, I was struck by the thought of this empty highway, the foggy bay, the deserted city sidewalks. The streets are empty and (most) people are safe at home, bored; but hospitals across the country are bursting at the seams and health care workers are struggling to keep up. On a Saturday morning at 11:00, when people are usually out to brunch or on a hike or a bike ride with friends or family, they hesitantly go out to grocery shop for the things they had been putting off, or pick up prescriptions, or mobile order coffee and awkwardly receive it from a table set up outside the store, hand sanitizer at the ready.
“Normal” life feels really far away still. And I’m scared. But I have hope. It’s hesitant, and it comes and goes, but most of the time I can find it if I dig a little.
It is not lost on this former Catholic that today is Easter. I really love Easter. I had an English professor in college once share that he was Methodist but really only “in it” because of Easter. “I don’t even care if it’s true—what a story!” he would say enthusiastically, like it was the best book he ever read. And he’s right—it’s beautiful. The love, the sacrifice, the joy and hope for better days ahead.
I’ve been praying more recently. Trying to step away from the news and sit quietly, believing that this time is not forever. Sending love and peace to all the people who are way more affected by this pandemic than we are. It’s our current reality, but hopefully not our new normal. Letting go and accepting that besides staying home to flatten the curve and voting, this is not something I can control.
This time last year, Sophie was excitedly opening her first Easter basket and we were getting ready to drive to Half Moon Bay for a really lovely afternoon with my aunts and uncles and cousins on the coast. I wish we were doing that today, but instead I’ll be texting them, reminiscing on a much easier spring day last year, putting a French toast casserole in the oven, and remembering to be grateful that we are safe at home together.
“But there will come a time, you’ll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.”
