What Does Living Look Like, Then and Now?

On Friday, March 13, 2020, the day of my one-year “soberversary,” the world shut down. I’m not a superstitious person, but sometime I will share with you about a Friday the Thirteenth I had years ago that caused a missed flight, missed wedding and a relapse, among other things.

Anyway, back to this year. It was the day our principal called us in and said our school would be closing, probably for the year, so we’d better gather our belongings from our classroom and checkout our technology. I received similar emails and calls from my children’s schools. My husband mentioned something ominous about their scheduled deployment, “being extended a bit.” I felt like the forces of the universe were testing me… and I could use a drink.

But that’s not how the story ended. I pushed through that day (a celebration for one, with congratulations from my lovely friends from my online sober communities) and the days that followed. My husband returned from overseas three months later than scheduled and we reunited in a world that looked a lot different than when he’d left.

We were surrounded by the trips we didn’t take. The favorite restaurants we did not frequent. The movies we didn’t see. The plans we stopped making. And the masked communication when we did go out in public.

Now, with wildfires and heatwaves, camping and hiking trips are out. Anything outdoors is out. And we are expecting blackouts for days at a time starting tonight, as the utility company tries to avoid more lawsuits for causing more fires. On the agenda for closing out this holiday weekend is stuffy hot darkness with no options for eating out or escaping the heat.

I am aware I’m complaining, and thank you for indulging me thus far. But this wave of change followed by a chipping away at the little freedoms and adventures that we took for granted has me wondering about my “choosing to live rather than exist” mantra… and whether it really is a choice.

When I stopped drinking, I promised myself I would no longer spend my days in a state of existence. The world was now my oyster, with hidden meaning and joy around every bend. I have since not only adjusted my expectations, but also learned to try not to have expectations at all.

I discovered that, when you make proclamations on blogs and other public spaces that the world can read, you can expect to be tested.

I imagine a voice, not God, but a Universe-type voice, instructing the Powers That Be: “Okay, she wants to really live now. First, make sure she looks around at her surroundings and realizes she is a middle-aged, middle-income, mother-of-three with a full-time job and no free time on her hands. Then, hit her with a global pandemic. Make sure she has to handle it all on her own, so strand her husband overseas. And finally, just close the world in general so she is stuck at home and indoors, with no chances to meet new people, travel, eat out, go anywhere or do anything new. Now that’s living! (Cue the evil, endless laugh).

Again, thank you for indulging me. I do not actually believe that the universe conspires to make me miserable, nor does it revolve around me and my happiness, or lack there of.

But seriously, I’ve been thinking about the word “living” and what that actually looks like to me. How will I know when I’ve arrived and, does it look different now that the world is so different? Is the definition of living in these days, baking cupcakes for the third time this week and finishing a 1,000 piece puzzle? If so, what was living before it all went away?

I used to feel like living was new experiences. It contained a perfect balance of enjoyment, helping others, and being our best selves. Maximizing life, but in a realistic way because there are very few of us who can afford to embark on an world tour of sensory delight.

So, maximizing life before 2020 might have looked like a family vacation that we’d worked hard to save up for. It might have looked like joining a group from church to feed and minister to homeless people. It might have been dinner and a movie with my husband, followed by a trip to the neighborhood cafe where we composed our five-year goals on a napkin.

Now? Now the world has shrunk down to the walls of my house. It’s ironic that the technology that brought about globalization and “connectedness” is also the medium that makes our hearts ache with loneliness. Yes, I love to see the beautiful faces of my students on a screen but it’s just a screen. Screens and masks and walls enclose our hearts, and faces and arms.

What does living look like now? And how can I make it happen?

And perhaps the more important question: What is this trying to teach me?

Some days, I’ve got nothing. I will show up and faithfully inscribe the date in my mediation journal and sit with complete nothingness.

Other days, I cling to the little things. Small moments packed in luster dust. “Love God and Love People.” If you do that, you are truly living.

But even then, I push back. It’s hard; next to impossible! To love people when I can’t share a smile, or a hug, or hit the streets with hope, or knock on a door to one who’s gone missing. When I can’t help a student write out a quadratic equation in pencil on binder paper, and erase it and try again. When I can’t share a decadent dinner in an air-conditioned restaurant with my husband, and have rare, life-changing conversations because we finally get to connect. When we can’t participate in collective experiences where we celebrate the good, whether it’s a concert or a sporting event or our children in a play.

When even the little moments seem few and far between.

I find myself going back to the drawing board frequently. Back to where I started. I have my sobriety. I have 543 days of clear-headed living to celebrate. And even if all of those days haven’t been spent in my definition of “living,” all of those days have been lived. And a collection of clear-headed days (whether good, bad or in-between) slowly becomes a life. And even a life that shrinks down a series of screens and walls for a time is far better than an existence full of misery and regret.

This is the truth that I return to often. It reassures me that even though I’m not having lots of new or exciting experiences or encounters, at least these days I’m living are authentically mine. At least I can look myself in the eye and not have to come up with excuses, or false promises, or blank spaces of time.

This is how I can love people; by continuing to love myself.

Each day, is mine to live because of the gift I gave myself the 13th of March 2019. And even if the living feels anemic right now, it is still so much more than an existence.