This year showed me
What has this year showed me? That I can adjust. It only takes a few months for a global pandemic to sink in and become a normal part of my words, my vocabulary. I watch shows on Netflix and cringe when I see people in tight groups — where are their masks? Haven’t they heard? Thrice-a-week plans turn into random and reluctant Zoom happy hours. Money spent on gas disappears. I rotate between three pairs of leggings and two sweatshirts. Gloves at the grocery store. Cracked hands from scrubbing so hard. I’ve adjusted.
And it is interesting — how things are so terrifying, unfair, unknown. But they also become etched into normality. An increasing death count, stay-at-home-orders…these things are all still here but they’re padded down there. Tucked into bed, under the covers. Part of life now.
In other ways, the pandemic has shown me it’s impossible to know what’s ahead. And being present and grateful for the little things, well, matters. Amidst the fear and uncertainty of 2020, I recently woke up to an animal crying. It sounded like a bird but with more force. I thought it was a lion scream, until we walked out on the porch and shone the flashlight up the hill: a fox. I returned to my coffee and book for a moment and then listened to my body asking for movement. I practiced yoga next to the big window as the sun finally moved up and over the mountains to the east. Or rather, until the earth tilted just enough to meet the sun.
We’ve adjusted to our offices being in our home, letting the dogs run up and down the mountain, plowing the driveway after a snow. We’ve adjusted to our circle becoming smaller, for now. Thanksgiving was steak for two. Six-packs of beer last a while longer. I haven’t stepped on a plane in a year.
But now … I can look at the sky like I haven’t before. At night, on the deck, with Denver air pollution in the far distance, we can see satellites and planets, shooting stars and the international space station. I sense the quiet in my teeth, I feel the mountains for miles. I’m trying my best to love what I have right in front of me, for a moment not reaching for more.
