Yesterday I felt the weight of the world on my slumped shoulders. The gravity of the times we are living in sunk into me that much deeper. I felt weak and helpless, which as anyone knows, is an awful feeling. I wanted to just curl up in bed, return to the fetal position in which my life began; I missed my mom. Yes, even seasoned mothers need their moms.
I tried my usual uplifting readings, made sure to start the day with a hot shower, drank my cup of coffee. I wasn’t shaking it. These emotions come in waves, or as the Kubler-Ross Model suggests: cycles. Today was going to be a depression day. Awareness of this is an important step toward owning it. I also knew that spending time in this darkness was a necessary part of the process of grief, and although painful, is temporary. It won’t last forever. I began to recognize quickly that I could not carry on with business as usual and I would need to find a good place to be strong enough to lead my children through today.
It is tough to stay well informed and remain optimistic surrounding COVID19. There’s much uncertainty right now in so many realms of life. The virus is hitting closer to home everyday. And I believe it will continue this path for some time. The stories will become more frequent; more personal. Our family and friends will become “numbers.” Except that they aren’t “numbers.” They are our aunts, sisters, brothers, children, cousins, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters. They are our mailman who smiles and waves, the cashier at our frequented grocery store who asks if our child wants a sticker, the nurse who held your hand when you or your child was scared, the cop that helped you that time you locked your keys in the car, the knowledgeable man at the hardware store who helped you purchase the right tool for the job… These are our people. They are on the front lines.
These are our people.
Some of them will get sick. Some of them will die. We may die.
This is a tough concept to face. It’s easier not to. It’s easier to keep our heads down and not let this reality in. But it’s there. Waiting in the darkness, along with the additional hardships that will ripple out from the blow.
But this is not the end of our story.
Remember that this is temporary, despite us not knowing the end. Another writer, Julie Bogart, compared it to child birth with painful contractions building in length and frequency, except at the end, we won’t have a baby. I want to expand on that idea. We won’t have a baby, but we will have given birth to a new life. Despite the agony a mother feels in these hours, where she has no way of knowing how soon this chapter will come to a close and the intensity has a way of forcing her inward to where she’s unable to focus on much else, we know she will smile again, that this moment of intensity will heighten the joy she feels when seeing that new life she created. She is an active participant. She needs support, encouragement, and love to surround her. She can’t focus on the what ifs and worry. She’s dancing a line between life and death. She must trust the process, her partner, and her midwife. She must know the path will be a difficult one, but there are steps she can take to buffer her discomfort. Deep breaths. Loving touches. Music. A candle. A calm space. A clear head.
We are giving birth to a new life.
This new life is coming. Just like the new mother preparing her nursery, we must prepare. How naive it would be for that mother with a swelling belly not to get her life in order and be ready for when that time comes. We would not birth a child, then decide we need clothes, diapers, a crib… Just as we must not do nothing as we wait for the virus to spread and this new life to come. We can get our lives in order. We can plan. We can focus on our well being, which in turn allows us to focus on others.
The following quote is prominently displayed in our home as it seems a relevant and necessary reminder:
“God grant me the
serenity
to accept the things I can not change,
courage
to change the things I can and
wisdom
to know the difference.”
My children and I did an art project inspired by some dear friends of ours yesterday to bring hope and light into our darkness. Something to remind us to trust the process. It used Tempera paint mixed with a splash of water and a drop of dish soap, blue tape, and a window. We made chocolate chip cookies and listened to music as we created our own stained glass. It was a moment of beauty and unity. The results were glorious and moving as the afternoon sun shone through. You can see it in the photo above. I encourage you to bring hope and light into your own homes. Start planning your new life. It’s coming.
Stay home. Stay safe. New life is coming.