Oh, friends.
The world looks so different than it did two weeks ago. (Quite literally: if it won’t upset you, take a look at this collection of photos showing just how abruptly the world has ground to a halt.)
Let’s say what is true: things are hard. Things are scary, both in the concrete, news-headline sort of way, and in the creeping, look-over-your-shoulder kind of way. I’ve been thinking a lot this week about what I wrote a little while ago about unknown factors — how too many of them can send us spiraling, because we can’t find something to stand on. And honestly, the uncertainty of this time is getting to me. My anxiety operates at fever pitch most days, the physicality of which includes headaches, bad sleep, and a tight, sore chest that makes it hard to breathe (not a great sensation to have right now!). I cry often; I get irritable, not unlike a cranky child. I thought my one saving grace would be that I’m a natural hermit, so staying home wouldn’t be too hard a transition. It wasn’t — until the other day, when a friend in a less populated area posted a picture of a magnolia tree. Every year on a main avenue in my hometown of Boston, the magnolias burst into being: fragile ivories & shy pinks, their scent intoxicating, their petals peppering the sidewalks. All at once, looking at that sweet familiar tree, it hit me: the heartache, the longing, the frustration. It’s too easy to think of other times right now, times when I took my work, my freedom, my health for granted.
The other thing I think a lot about is what will come after. After the threat has been tamped down, after the numbers start to decline and people start to recover and fear starts to ebb. Because here’s the thing: this pause button on the world feels permanent, but it isn’t. There will be an after. But what does “after” even look like? It seems impossible to visualize.
Fortunately, I came across a “future self journal” by Berlin-based Flora Amalie this week.
“I am on Admiralbrücke with a group of friends,” she writes. “It’s sunny and warm and we’ve been crying and hugging and laughing over our reunion, with each other, and with the world.
Everyone is smiling at each other. Strangers are hugging.
The city hasn’t felt a genuine sense of love and solidarity and relief like this in decades, and you can feel the energy everywhere. The air is buzzing with it!
We stand in line for pizza at Il Casolare, but no one is complaining about the service or the wait today.
We buy späti beers and we have a picnic right there in the street.
A band is playing next to us. There are groups of people everywhere.
Things aren’t just back to normal. They’re better.”
I don’t live in Berlin, but something about this scene feels so familiar. It carries that same bittersweet honey-gold as the memories I’ve been sifting through lately. I like this idea of nostalgia in reverse, a glimmer of hope, a momentary stillness in my gut knowing that there will be a time when I am grateful for the simplest of everyday balms. A walk under sunlit blue, a sweet friend’s face across a coffeeshop table.
But I am a nostalgic down to my blood and bones, and I recognize this isn’t for everyone. Maybe thinking of a future you can’t yet have stings too much. So let’s not think about what and who and where we miss, in the past or the future.
Instead, consider this exact moment, wherever you are. Consider its sights and sensations. Its anchors and its anxieties both. Is it possible to be nostalgic for right here and now? We could find out. We have nothing but moments, tumbling down the hours, one after the other.
I’ll start. I’m sitting up in bed as I write to you. My curtains are open, and the sunlight slicing through the adjacent buildings catches on the chunk of amethyst that sits on my windowsill. I can hear, not-so-faintly, the rolling beat of the music my upstairs neighbors have been blasting on and off for days in this quarantine; sometimes I even catch one of their voices, sweetly off-key, singing along. Construction workers dip in and out of my peripherals across the way, and I wonder briefly how it is they haven’t been sent home, and whether they can afford to be. There is a half-empty mug on my nightstand and the steam rises from it like gauze; the taste of peach is still under my tongue from the last sip. My chest is tight and sore again, I’ve been breathless since I woke up. A harsh voice rises from the building’s front hall: it’s my neighbor, an elderly woman who keeps our packages when we’re not home, yelling to someone presumably across the street to have a good day and be safe.
Gratitude is a tricky word. It can feel overused and buzzy, something embossed in gold on a journal rather than the ineffable thing it is. And it can feel hard to feel grateful right now. Things change so quickly, we’ve seen that this month; as this quarantine draws on I will have rent and loneliness and chronic pain and fear to deal with. There will be moments when everything feels pointless and interminable.
But right this second, I am home. I am healthy. I am surviving. Right this second, with no access to the past and no knowledge of the future, I am grateful. I am grateful that I have a present at all.
Finally, a few of my favorite things. . .
If you are looking for something distracting, even a little escapist, that is where I thrive. A few shining things you might enjoy in this strange timeless limbo:
MUSIC
On Friday I released Honeychild, an EP consisting of three songs first performed by the Ink Spots. Their music has long been a resting place for me, and our current moment seems like we might all need a little soothing. The EP is out on all listening platforms for your pleasure. Make these songs your lullabies if you wish, send them to a quarantined sweetheart. I hope they bring you some softness in this strange time.
LITERATURE
The titular character of Mr. Fox is an author who can’t seem to stop killing the heroines of the books he writes. His muse, Mary Foxe, is tired of being murdered, and willfully tramples the lines between story and reality to get her revenge.
This book turns itself inside out and upside down. I love it because it stretches the limits of storytelling, breaking the fourth wall constantly. You start to root for one character, only to have the rug pulled out from under you when you realize you’ve only been getting one perspective, one voice. As to whether Mary lives, or dies yet again... you’ll just have to read to find out.
FILM
I did tell you I was a nostalgic. I know Groundhog Day can provoke divisive opinions, but in this current climate there’s something to be said for watching a movie whose premise is a man living the same day over and over again. (I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to forget the days of the week.) And there’s something charming about watching Bill Murray’s cynical weatherman Phil slowly transform: he gains compassion, he accepts his flaws and works on the ones that harm others. Maybe a tall order when most days I feel like I’m just trying to get to tomorrow, but it’s a nice thought: That even when we feel stuck, not everything is. We still control ourselves, the way we spend our hours, the way we choose to be with and think about other people.
Stay safe. Stay healthy. Wash your hands. Call your loved ones. I hope that you can find a moment today, even fleeting, where you feel like what you have right now is enough.