Photography by Lori K. Tate
My daughter loves those little excavation kits where a toy is packaged in a shape made out of sand. She carefully chisels the sand away to get to the prize. As I digest how much our daily lives have changed in the past week and will continue to change, I think about Margot chiseling away sand until she gets to the mermaid, which is of paramount importance to a 10-year-old girl (second only to unicorns). In so many ways the coronavirus and the adjustments that come with it are doing the same thing to our lives.
With each day, we’re chiseling away more sand to discover what’s really important. Any other spring we’d be talking about basketball brackets, spring break and summer camps. Now we’re texting friends to find out if they need anything while we make a quick run to the store. Instead of worrying about our kids’ word checks and upcoming EOGs, we’re collecting food for those most vulnerable students who depend on school more for a safe haven than an education.
Scraping away the sand allows us to see things we normally don’t take or have the time to see. Last night my son and I were snuggling when he said to me, “I kind of like this because I can pay more attention.” Graydon went on to say that he liked not rushing around to activities and being in a hurry. I had to agree with him. It’s nice having the time to soak in the moments of the day instead of frantically anticipating what’s next. I desperately want to hold onto that when this is all over.
When I drop off our kids at school, I want to remember the days when I couldn’t. When I meet a friend for coffee, I want to remember when I could only text her. When I pass the peace at church, I want to remember sitting on my patio listening to the sermon. If I don’t, I’m missing the gift of perspective that this virus is spreading. That’s a symptom I don’t mind contracting.
During the past few years, I’ve made a conscious effort to practice gratitude. I’m by no means on Oprah’s level with this, but I’m so thankful for my life. Last summer when my mother was dying, I was grateful to spend a couple of hours at the pool with my kids, something I would have taken for granted prior. Just having a conversation with a friend about something as silly as sandals was a treat in the midst of Hospice visits. I learned so many lessons when cancer hijacked our normal, and I treasure those lessons as much as I treasure my last moments with mom.
One of the most important lessons I learned is how adaptable human beings are. Look around at people who have been thrown huge curves — a child with cancer, a family who lost their home to a fire, a young wife who lost her husband in an accident. They didn’t ask for these challenges, but they rise to meet them, just as we are all rising to combat a virus that is paralyzing our world. None of us asked for this, but here we are, left to work together to survive a public health crisis.
We have no idea how long this will last, and that’s scary, bizarre and disturbing all at once. I just hope that when the shelves are full at the grocery store again, we can keep this sense of community that ironically grew from our separation. We need to realize that even when we’re not facing a pandemic, we’re all in this life together, scraping away sand to see a better day.