Late one winter afternoon, I walk crunchily down a road on a forested point of land that thrusts into Merrymeeting Bay. My snowshoes make more noise than I’d like; I certainly won’t be sneaking up on wildlife today. On either side of me is water, glimmering through the trees. Tides and currents have broken the ice that covers the bay into jagged bits. These catch light from the lowering sun, throwing up rays of rose and purple on one side of the point, yellow and gold on the other. I stand and watch the shimmering colors for as long as I dare. The Northern Lights, I think, the terrestrial version. The sky deepens to purple and I hurry on, ahead of the looming dark. Cool air sings through my lungs, fresh and sweet.
During any other winter I might have missed this show, tethered to my desk as I finished the day’s last tasks. But I can dispense with all those later this evening—may as well, in fact. There’s not much else to do.
I’m a fairly frequent traveler and normally might not be at home for more than a couple of months in a row. Of everything that’s changed for me during the pandemic, this is one of the most profound: my presence here, here, rather than, say, visiting beloved family or returning for a spell to my former home on the North Carolina Outer Banks. Jetting off to France to continue my exploration of the village from which my family takes its name. We live in Maine now, in the fullest sense of that word. There is no escaping to somewhere else. How long until it’s again safe to travel? Are we really only halfway through the pandemic?
I try not to dwell on all I’m missing out in the world, though sometimes a restlessness rises in me like a trapped bird. It’s the height of spoiled indulgence to be distressed by having to stay home when so many people are suffering such hardship, I know. So I tamp down my wanderlust and reach out again to those I miss, hoping I’m not bothering them, rationing my phone calls and Zoom sessions like a medicine that’s in short supply.
And I walk, forcing myself outside, trying to exercise my way out of emptiness and frustration. I live in one of the most comfortable possible places to spend a pandemic: lots of countryside to hike; fresh food available from neighboring farms; and, thankfully, a mild winter making it possible to walk or ski with friends. To sit around outdoor fires, staying carefully on the other side of the flames from our companions.
With no road trips, no new scenery to take in, I try to watch closely all that goes on around me. I can manage this most days for approximately fifteen seconds. With fewer distractions and errands pressing in on me each day, I should be able to focus my mind more keenly—right? Probably not, it turns out, and possibly the opposite. The constancy of days at home seems to be immersing me in a mental fog. I keep reminding myself that I’m also unhappy when commitments take me away from home for longer than I’d like.
I try to take note of all there is to see here: the lengthening daylight (coming more quickly now), the snow buntings and other birds I’d be unlikely to spot down South, the trees and shrubs I only glanced at, back when they had leaves and would have been easier to identify. I walk more, which occasionally yields sights like the ice-bound Northern Lights. On days I’m especially antsy, I venture outside to chop away Japanese honeysuckle, a pretty but predatory shrub that, if allowed, will take over every inch of of our land.
Still it’s not enough.
There have been times in my life when, after reading about people being held prisoner for long periods (Nelson Mandela comes to mind), I’ve wondered if I could stay sane under such conditions. I like to think I’d be mentally strong enough to invent strategies to hold on: constant meditation, say, or devising a clever code to communicate with other prisoners. They couldn’t keep me in chains, not my truest self! Yet here I am, in the most watered-down version of imprisonment imaginable, and I can’t even muster the energy to straighten up my desk. All I want is to be is somewhere besides home.
In the introduction to his book Staying Put: Making a Home in a Restless World, Scott Russell Sanders writes, “My nation’s history does not encourage me, or anyone, to belong somewhere with a full heart.” When I first read those words, my heart fully belonged to the Outer Banks, and might still if those thin strands weren’t being drowned by rising waters and unbridled development. I tell myself that I’ve dedicated myself entirely to this new home. But is that true? If so, what can I see in it—what can I absorb—that would be difficult for me to notice in normal times?
Like it or not, this pandemic is another opportunity for each of us to move more mindfully through the world. Why not treat it as that, since we’re going to have to get through it one way or another? What can I learn in the process? There are more lessons than I could ever list (including this one: The very idea that I might gain insight from all this irritates the heck out of me, Why might that be?).
I’ve come to allow myself an occasional pandemic melt down, and why not? At such moments I go off by myself to silently scream and flail my arms. I’ve done a version of this for years, actually. It’s quite therapeutic, a part of my spiritual practice that quickly restores my equilibrium. And I can rest easy knowing that, unlike normal times, should anyone catch me in one of my raging sessions now, the person would likely give a sympathetic nod.
The days pass. Light is slowly returning. I hold on to that with all my strength. God knows, we pray it’s a light that comes from more than the season-rounding slant of the sun.