Letting the Seasons Change
The trees look different as the seasons change. Why shouldn’t we, too?
Through the long Covid winter here in New York City, I was pretty disciplined about certain things. For instance, I made a point of spending time outside every single day. I’ve always liked that Scandinavian expression, that there’s no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes. Though we may not have gone skiing this year (another post-Covid thing to daydream about), this winter gave me plenty of excuses to dig out my thermal shirts and long underwear; only now instead of gliding down a beautiful mountain, I was wearing them during outdoor brunches and Central Park walks.
I was also disciplined about working not-from-home at least once or twice each week. The New York Society Library has had safety protocols in effect so that members could work in the library (limited capacity, strict enforcement of distancing and masks, private rooms available for booking, etc), and this was a godsend for keeping my squirrelly-ness at bay. Whenever I could snag one of those private or semi-private spaces, I would pack my bag, walk to the library, and settle in for the day.
There were lots of upsides to these stubborn little rituals. The fresh air was good for me. Outdoor walks and meals were also the only option for hanging out with friends. And when I work at the library, I’m infinitely more productive. More than anything, these rituals broke up the daily grind. They made my world feel just a little bit bigger than the confines of this apartment. But there were drawbacks, too, thanks mostly to the ineradicable fact of it being winter in the northern hemisphere.
The library, for instance, has the very sensible policy of not allowing food or drink within the building (sensible not just for the sake of the books, but also because eating and drinking means taking off your mask, and, well, Covid). Which meant that, on the days I worked at the library, I took my lunch break outside. I’d get way too cold if I sat still while eating lunch, so I developed a strategy of eating-while-walking. On those January and February days, I would bundle up and head outside and eat my sandwich or salad or whatever while taking a brisk walk along the Bridle Path. And even on the days when the wind was howling and my fingers grew numb from the cold (it’s not really feasible to hold a fork while wearing mittens), I told myself: Look, you’re doing it! This isn’t so bad! And I told myself: Besides, spring will be here soon, and then this will be so much more pleasant!
This thought pattern often repeated itself while I was engaged in my various, stubborn, please-God-let-me-survive-the-winter routines. You’re doing it! This isn’t so bad! And just think, soon enough you’ll be doing this in warmer weather! Date night at Sant Ambroeus in thirty degree weather (initially burning my tongue on the soup because it was too hot, but by the time it cooled off, it was just … cold) because we needed to have date night. Taking a walk with friends during a bout of icy rain (sidewalks like skating rinks, almost wiping out a dozen times) because we needed to see our friends. Eating a partially frozen almond-butter-and-jam sandwich on my walking lunch break (the wind blowing my hair into my mouth while I was trying to chew) because I needed to work at the library. I was determined not to be chased inside, and I expected that determination would only strengthen as the weather got warmer. If I was disciplined about getting out of the house and seeking minor sources of variety in the depths of winter, who knew what riches would await me, come springtime!
But as the days have grown longer, and the temperature has warmed up, a curious thing has happened. Just when it has become so much easier, so much more objectively pleasant to carry out my old routines—the routines have dropped away. Some days I get out for a walk in Central Park, but a lot of days I don’t. I stop by the library to check out and return books, but it’s been several weeks since I last worked there. As spring has officially arrived, as the world becomes gentle and glorious—mild sunshine, cherry trees in blossom—I have suddenly and unexpectedly become content to spend a much greater percentage of my time in the confines of my apartment.
This shift kind of just … happened. I didn’t really understand it. It felt both surprising and unremarkable. It probably occurred in early March, around when the clocks moved forward, but the unremarkable quality of it means that the line is blurry, in my mind. I only knew that I was no longer possessed with that same sense of stubbornness. Morning would turn to midday, midday would turn to afternoon, and I still hadn’t gotten out for my daily walk, and that was okay. For some reason, those old routines no longer felt like such a burning necessity.
Recently, I was talking about this with a friend. Let me make a brief digression here and say that, if I’ve learned anything during Covid, it’s that there is literally nothing too mundane to talk about with your friends. We’re starved for novelty! Find the fodder wherever you can. Tell me the petty updates about your co-worker. Please. I mean it. Make a mountain out of that molehill! These conversations are important. Perhaps our lives have grown smaller and quieter, but they are still our lives; we still need to puzzle over them, question them, seek to understand them. It’s so much easier to perform this puzzling when you have a good sounding board. (A truth I have learned over and over again during the pandemic.) Anyway, I was talking about this with a friend, this sudden and unexpected shift in attitude. “I was so stubborn about these things,” I explained. “Through the whole winter. And now it’s spring, and I’m just … not.”
Up until that moment, I’m not sure that I ever actually used the word “stubborn” to describe those routines. I suppose, in my head, I always thought of those routines as inherently necessary. As rational. I had to take walks because fresh air was good for me. I had to go to the library because a change of scenery was important to my writing. But I hadn’t admitted to myself that these routines were also, fundamentally, a coping mechanism. To finally use that word—stubborn—made it clear. Something in my understanding clicked. “I think I was trying to prove something,” I said. “Like, I didn’t want to let winter defeat me. So I was stubborn about those things to prove that I wasn’t letting winter win.”
Stubborn date nights and stubborn walks and stubborn frozen sandwiches. These were my ways—tiny, silly, vital ways—of clinging to a sense of agency. What I have learned, through these past months, is that it doesn’t matter how small that sense of agency (of liberty, of freedom) actually is. Even the tiniest amount is better than nothing. We had been warned, last year, of the darkness that awaited during our Covid winter. I don’t think I ever really appreciated just how dark it would get. The case spikes that made previous case spikes look like child’s play. The insurrection at the capitol. The relentless sadness. There were days in January and February when I’d be standing in the kitchen, making my lunch, and out of nowhere I would feel such a crashing wave of existential despair that I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know the source, and I didn’t know how to fix it. The darkness simply arrived, without explaining itself.
I couldn’t prevent it from coming. I couldn’t prevent those crashing waves of despair. I had no control over those things. But I could do my best to keep myself afloat through all of it. How? By remembering what agency feels like. How? With long johns and mittens and N-95s and multiple pairs of wool socks. With afternoon walks that ended in darkness. With frozen fingers and frozen sandwiches. This my choice. I was still free to do this. In those dark days, it wasn’t enough to simply believe in this option. I had to prove to myself that I had this option. This faith required a demonstration. It was my stupid, pig-headed, life-giving form of personal protest against the pandemic. I’m not letting you win, fucker.
But the dark Covid winter is coming to an end. The seasons have changed. It makes sense that my routines have changed, too. Last week the park was crowded with people taking pictures of the cherry blossoms. Now I can go running in nothing more than a t-shirt. Now we can eat outside and not even require a heat lamp. I’ve received the first dose of the vaccine. I’m getting the second dose this week. Soon, the options of the old days will again be at my fingertips. Those small, glorious, life-giving chances to decide. Do I feel like getting a haircut? Or a manicure? Do I want to go to a museum? Do I want to hug my friend? It’s suddenly so much easier to believe in these options; to remember what agency feels like. I’m going to make it through. We’re going to make it through. The world hasn’t finished testing that faith—not quite yet—but with every passing day, it gets a little bit easier to keep hold of it.