“Normal” was yanked out from under my feet in one fell swoop. One day I was working and the next I wasn’t. I hadn’t planned my last day to be my last day. When I left work the night of my birthday in March, I left my water bottle in my drawer as I did every night. I expected I would be back the next day to take it out for the day, and swapping it out with my lunch box filled with yummy birthday leftovers.
I knew my days were numbered, as I knew the Covid-19 virus was spreading. But I figured it would be sometime next week when I drew a line and chose to quarantine until the worst of the threat passed. When I got home that night , however, the news was grim. There was a confirmed case on campus and Madison was closing its public schools for the next two weeks. My wife was on the verge of a panic attack, worried about contracting the virus given her immunodeficiency. And so I gave notice that I would not be in until schools re-opened. Two weeks turned into one month and then transformed into indefinite. Eight months later, schools are still online and families are still scrambling to manage work and kids.
Every minute was fraught with anxiety and uncertainty. And thus it felt like one giant transition. But for me, this time also birthed a new vegetable garden, time for art, and this blog. I have happily sunk into reflecting on the natural world to remember who I am.
I couldn’t not work forever, and so at the end of July, I started a new job as an animal caretaker for teaching and research animals for the School of Veterinary Medicine at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. I am relatively speaking safe from Covid, spending most of my days alone caring for animals. I honor and give witness to the lives that advance our understanding and treatments for human and animal medical conditions. My work supports research on such diverse issues as influenza, Covid, sleep apnea, organ transplants, glaucoma, cartilage regeneration, prostate cancer, diabetes, multiple sclerosis, chronic pain, brain controlled prosthetics and alternatives to induced coma.
The transition back to work, adjusting to a new schedule and settling into a new job has been fulfilling and exhilarating, but also exhausting. Writing has not been happening. But days are finally becoming a little bit more predictable and my stamina for the physical work and the sheer toll of working full time is building. Space is finally opening in my mind and heart to recommit to my writing practice.
This week, as usual, my work week involved lots of time in small rooms with no windows. On Wednesday I was fine with this. It was a cold, wet, grey day. At times, the rain came down in heavy sheets, the kind of heavy rain where all the rain drops seem to meld together into a big solid mass rather than maintaining their identities as individual drops. I was fine being somewhat removed from that reality. Cold and wet is by far my least favorite weather combination. My body physically contracts and I become fixated on wanting to curl up under a warm blanket, snuggle my puppies and drink hot chocolate.
Beyond the weather, the week filled itself with emotional and logistical challenges. To avoid being swept away by these storms, I needed to stay centered and grounded. My fingers mindfully traveled from one mala bead to the next. My mind returned over and over to one of the mantras in Thich Nhat Hanh’s pebble meditation, Breathing in I am a mountain, Breathing out I am solid and strong.
But ultimately I needed more than this. I needed my feet to feel the ground and my face to feel the warmth of the sun. I needed to smell fall in the air. I needed to hear the birds talking to each other. And I needed to see the leaves dancing in the wind. For these are things that yank me by the scruff of the neck, shake me to full attention and plunk me firmly down in the present moment. No more day dreaming. No more getting lost in convoluted threads of thought. No more numb distraction. I remember my energetic roots and plunge them back deep into the earth, and once regrounded, I am able to once again sway gracefully in the wind like supple willow branches.
So we set out on a walk around Governor’s Island, not an island at all but rather a spit of land sticking out into Lake Mendota, the largest of Madison’s five lakes. Typical of fall transitions, although the day blessed us with sunshine at first light, by mid morning when we left for our walk, clouds had rolled in and the winds had picked up.
Transitions surrounded us on all sides. Sky, water and leafless trees created a landscape from 50 shades of grey. The lake surged into rows of white caps, and trees swayed and creaked as the wind raged to usher in the transition from fall to winter. Below the water’s surface the lake is churning and turning over, the colder water sinking to the bottom. Under our feet, the forest is covered with leaves that will decompose and transition into new soil. Above us, berries still hang from some of the trees, waiting to be eaten by birds and other critters and then transition into new trees wherever the berry pits are dropped.
Some transitions are not tied to seasons and happen on a longer time scale. Fungi are recycling wood back to soil. Lichens and moss attach to trunks and stones, breaking down bark and stone to create more soil.
And so we walked along, witnessing transitions, high and low, fast and slow. Our responses to the blustery cold wind blowing so hard we had to lean into it to stay upright were as varied as the transitions that engulfed us. My wife leaned into it, woke up, and felt more alive. She was invigorated and inspired, transported back to childhood and the power of the ocean waves. I, on the other hand, leaned more toward the squirrels inclination to hunker down and settle in, to honor this as a time of rest and rejuvenation.
Invigoration, inspiration, rest and rejuvenation powered our footsteps forward along the path. We listened to the chickadees calling back and forth to each other. We contemplated the trees leaning into the wind in order to stay upright and those hanging onto the side of the bluff for dear life. We felt the soft padding of leaves underfoot.
And even though our responses were so varied, we both ended in the same place – grounded and reconnected to the natural world. An eagle soared overhead as we got back in our car to head home, invigorated, inspired, rested and rejuvenated by our walk, ready to face life’s transitions with grace and ease.