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Published: January 18th 2021
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The first trip I ever took was at four years of age, on foot, alone. It took a long time for them to realize I was gone, but this was the fifties when kids were put out like laundry, tossed about by the wind, then brought in again.
Like any journey, it began with the first step, but after that I had to wing it. My arithmetic skills were simply not up to the task. Instead, I concentrated on my feet marching along the sidewalk in black Maryjanes. One. Two. Three. Four. I remember the trudge as if it happened yesterday. There was a busy intersection, broad as the mighty Mississippi, and a large grassy field with a playground. The jungle gym shimmered in the sun and I was tempted to stop at the swings. On the edge of the sidewalk there was a slug struggling along, and then a lady with a ponytail who gave me no notice. l stepped on a springy patch of grass to pick a dandelion, tasting the bitter sap on my fingertips. I walked past some shoebox houses that looked familiar but not quite right, and felt the tang of cut grass in my
throat. One. Two. Three. Four. It was terrifying and exhilarating, but I never once considered turning back. I even took a short detour, cocky but fairly confident that I would end up at my destination. And what a welcome I would get. Adulation all around. Fanfare and confetti.
Since that time, I've travelled a lot. But no journey has been as strange as the one we're presently on. In the words of NY Times columnist Fran Lebowitz, "... it's a very startling thing to be at my age... and to have something happen that doesn't remind you of anything else." Despite her pragmatism and her powers of observation, Fran, I assume, is experiencing the same emotions as all of as: this is a year of our lives that we aren't getting back.
Living with the amorphous threat of a lethal virus has turned even the most intrepid of us into unapologetic agoraphobes. Hermits, even. Inside is definitely safer than outside. There's a well-worn track between the refrigerator and the couch. All our clothes double as pyjamas. A knock on the door can set off a full-blown panic attack. Garbage day comes at alarming frequency but at least it's
an opportunity to get some fresh air. Someone coined a word that works for every day of the week. Blursday.
Kidding aside, I have tried to accept the bad with some good. Take boredom, for example. For children, learning how to work through boredom is an important developmental milestone. Teresa Bolton, a child psychologist in Britain who specializes in the connection between boredom and imagination, believes kids need tedium to help them develop "internal stimulus” that leads to creativity. What if "Mommy, I'm bored," wasn't a battlecry to pull out the playdough and fire up the movie channel? What if it was viewed instead as an opportunity to let the brain rest between activities?
By extension, it's possible that boredom serves an important adaptive function that can be good for us adults. When New Year's rolled around, I briefly considered making some resolutions. Read more books, eat less sugar, download Ted Talks, take up Opera. Quickly, I remembered that these were the very same ambitions I had in March and we all know how that turned out. Instead, I resolved to have no further ambitions. It will be an experiment in constructive monotony. I'm curious to see what
mischief I can get myself into.
Having the time to focus on what's essential and important in our lives must a good thing too. I've noticed that we've been putting less emphasis on how we package ourselves and more emphasis on how our souls connect. The irony here is that the longer we stay home, the more homeless we look. And when we do venture out, armed with masks, shields and hand sanitizers, it feels like an encounter with a braver, kinder world.
But constructive monotony and hitting the reset button on traditional values are luxuries compared to what a lot of people are going through. We are sitting in the cheap seats when it comes to suffering. We aren't sick or risking our lives for the sick. We aren't unemployed, overextended, homeless or hungry. Remember how parents used to say, "Come down here and I'll give you something to cry about?" My parents didn't believe in corporal punishment, but their meaning was clear. Stop your whining.
So I promise to stop, I do, right after I kvetch about how much I miss snuggling with my grandchildren. And how I hate the kind of rain that sneaks
up and attacks from underneath the umbrella. And how pointless it feels to wave at my mom through her nursing home window, not able to reach out and give her a hug. I think of all the hugs going to waste.
In the time freed up from complaining, maybe I should duplicate that walk that taught me so much about life. Where I trudged for what seemed to be an eternity before I recognized the house with its pebbled exterior, and scrambled up the front steps using the last reserves of strength in my chubby little legs. There was a moment of shocked silence when the door swung open, followed by an alarming and inhospitable shriek of surprise. My girlfriend's mother reached out and grabbed me by the arm, her face white beneath her golfer's tan. I was deeply indignant but not deterred. Nothing she could do or say would diminish how proud I was of myself at that moment. It's been my North Star ever since. And reinforces everything I've learned over the years.
You can never be sure of the outcome so you might as well enjoy the frigging journey.
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Hele Spiro
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Thanks
Thanks for capturing so well the challenges we face in these pandemic times and those we faced in childhood. I enjoy the warmth and connection and candor in your writing.