One Good Thing: Do the Medicine

My GOD, we will be in this quarantine for a year, won't we. Will we be the same people on the other side? 

Last year, last Christmas, 2019, 1000 years ago, I was tired. The kids were tired. They had been running at full tilt in new schools, new middle school, new Japanese immersion school-- and the 2 hours of daily commute was killing us all. So when school got out for the winter break, I didn't plan a trip. 

Usually, traveling is our family culture. Since Matt died, we've criss-crossed the country, gone up and down the West Coast, gone to Scotland, Denmark, Mexico, and to the Big Island. 

But we were just tired. I had finished up my masters in instructional design, writing a hundred pages of curriculum and analysis. I was sick, but didn't know it yet. RJ was sick too, and I didn't know it yet, although I suspected. But I knew we needed a break. I figured we'd hole up for the holidays, gather our strength for the year to come. Who cares if it would be lazy, a couple of weeks staying inside, rewatching Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Avatar the Last Airbender, and Star Wars-- basically all the cathartic Hero's Journeys. Tales of tragedy and triumph. 

When the holidays were over, we'd kick back into gear, and make 2020 a year of adventures. I'd be turning 40! I hoped to plan a big trip, hopefully Europe, for my 40th-- credit card debt be damned.

Ha, no. Instead it feels like we're still in that last winter break. Still watching epic Hero Journey stories unfold-- most recently with watching Supernatural and Hilda and Korra, and reading NK Jemison and Trevor Noah and Susan Cooper. Waiting in a weird state of suspended animation. When will this break from our real lives feel like our real lives?

We had our winter break, then Maile was sick for the next month, and I drove the kids to school listening to NPR counting up the cases of the strange new pnuemonia in China. And then, from the start of March, we've been home. Almost 9 months. A pregnancy's worth of time at home. 

Schools closed, trying to get work done from home, trying to be a parent and a functional person and a homeowner. Relationships disconnecting and gradually fading. A big painful breakup. The isolation compounding. 

Anyway. Us, and everybody else in the country. I'm just glad that I'm not in danger of losing my house. No more stints of emergency homelessness, please. No hunger. That's my prayer. 

And I'm hanging on by my fingernails to just a couple of things. 

You know how in ordinary life, there are lists of things you know are helpful? Like yoga, nature, friends, tea, prayer, self-care, blah blah blah. In this long LONG quarantine, those self-care checklist items have taken on medicinal importance. You take your medicine. It's not a luxury to look after your brain and body. It's the only important work. I need these reminders for myself. 

In no particular order:

Just one thing. 

    In the morning, I get up slowly. I'm not a morning person. I'd just rather....not. There's usually a couple of kids with me in bed. It's both cozy and annoying. It's just too much to start the day. There's too much to be done, and it's all on me. Too many left over tasks and unfulfilled potentials-- it's all too much. So.

Just one thing. I can start with just one thing. I've picked this:

Drink water, then hula.

When it is too much, I begin the day with only that one thing, and let go of whatever needs to happen next. I can just begin the idea as though I only have one obligation: Drink water, then hula.

Start. Fill the cup. Ah, I was thirsty and didn't realize it. I ignore the leftover dishes in the sink ("dishes" is not my one thing, yet) and turn on my hula practice playlist. 

Look in the little mirror on the livingroom wall. "Ho'omakaukau! Eia no Kawika..." My body aches, my back is stiff. My shoulders pop, and the movement pushes against the stiffness in hips and knees and ankles. But movement, movement. Kaholo, kaholo, kalakaua, lele uehe, ami... My body warms and softens. I change-- my face and body change. I get distracted-- will we ever perform again? Am I good enough to dance on stage? Shoot, when's the last time I practiced ukulele-- I draw my attention back and back and back to the movement. Bend the knees, push the hip, shift the weight-- smile. Remember the words. Remember the story. Remember the offering that this makes.

Soon the air around me is warm. The kids are up, getting breakfast, underfoot, logging on to school (I stay off screen as I dance in my PJs).

Then the next thing. The next-- just one thing. Coffee. Cereal. I can get that far.

Nature Church

When we had to be places-- school, lessons, clubs, activities-- the days and weeks took on rhythm. Without anything external, most of that structure has dropped away. Only one thing has stuck: Sunday Nature Church.

Sunday, whenever everyone is more or less awake, we find shoes (most of the time matching) and socks (most of the time, not matching) and we head to a hike. Before the fires, in the summer, we would venture further out. To the coast, to the waterfalls. But even now, when it's gray and misty and rainy, we put on our raincoats and masks and go stomp along the river and watch for birds, or climb up the buttes and notice the usnea lichen and the red-ringed fungus. 

Honestly, it's always beautiful, even if it's raining. The air is clear and it clears my head to be out in the leaves and branches. And also, it's always a struggle. Someone always yells, or cries, or gets tired, or forgets to bring the snacks. 

But it's become a habit. It's not a fight to get everyone out. It's just what we do. And it's good. We usually remember to sing, to oli at the entrance to the forest, and ask permission to come in. And then listen for an answer. 

Use the Tools, a Teeny Bit

I feel like I've heard of a lot of helpful tools-- mental health tips and tricks. Spiritual little exercises. And I have always stored them away, like recipes saved but never returned to. Now -- this long isolated time-- is the time to return to those tools. And one for me is ceremony. People have been generous enough to share ceremony, protocol, songs, chants,  and prayers with me. 

I finally get why it's called a spiritual practice.

Some time-- must have been in May? RJ and I started doing Yoga every day. Just those short 20 minute videos-- Yoga with Adriene-- she's so engaging, and she starts off so simple. And we did yoga most days. And...it got a little easier. The deep lunges got less painful. The teen mood got slightly less stabby. It wasn't a "turning night into day" kind of transformation-- more like, turning up the brightness on your screen by a click or two. Just a little. Enough.

Would more be better? An hour of yoga a day, a robust meditation practice, a clearly defined spiritual path? Sure, yes. Definitely. 

But 10 mindful breaths in the shower is better than nothing.

A minute or two to list gratitudes is better than nothing.

Once is good. Even once helps. And spiritual practice gets better with use every day. 

Executive Function Malfunction

Gosh, if I didn't know I had ADHD before, this long weird time to observe my brain in a padded cell environment would have been enough to convince me. I can take a step back and watch my intention and attention dart, skitter, refocus, give up, berate, brainstorm, and fizzle out. It's exhausting. Medication helps a bit, but the trade off is migraines with blind spots and auras. 

So the less I have to decide-- the fewer steps I have to take-- the better. 

I print out a checklist list of Basic Human Things to Do Each Day. Really. It's basic stuff: brush hair. Wear clothes. Drink Water. Eat breakfast. Feed the Chickens. Sweep the Floor. Play and/or read with each kid. Then if there are appointments or Major Other Tasks I can add them. 

The list already made the decisions for me, I don't have to. If the inside of my brain feels like a burning wad of fiberglass, sparking and reeking to high heaven, no worries. Follow the list like a zombie. Anything urgent will probably break through.

This daily list-following can feel zombie-ish, but maybe I can reframe that. Take the judgement out of it. My list is habitizing my executive function. It's routinizing the tasks that, if I had to CHOOSE each of them, every day, I would completely freeze up, melt down, and burn out. 

This way I just make one choice: Start the list.

Do one thing. That's my life-raft, for now.

Things will change. I will miss the luxury of all this indecision, all this opportunity for messing up the kitchen with my kids, of marathoning shows after dinner and squealing about ships and fandom and actors with them. Maybe I will miss the pause that this has been for my kids-- they have put on hold that headlong rush towards adulthood. It's been a year off from the painful adolescent wrestling with peers. 

Here's hoping that the truths this weird time is showing us-- the fissures in our coping skills, in our preparedness-- will help us be kinder and wiser in the future. And if not, that's okay too. I'm okay if we all just make it through intact, even if we are the same crazy jerks who started out on this quarantine journey together. We'll still go hike on Sunday.