![]() I’ve suffered from anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember, so my list was informed by decades of surviving black moods and big sads. ![]() Every day, I pledged, I would eat one meal of raw fruits and vegetables, meditate for at least a few minutes, practice 15 minutes of yoga, take the dogs for a walk, read a book with my daughter, and clean a nebulously identified “something” (this is the box that missed the most ticks). To combat this feeling of sudden loss and the rising swell of dread, I downloaded an app that let me create a daily checklist for the things I deemed essential. Every day, we were at home, a never-ending weekend with never-ending chores. My husband was no longer leaving the house to teach and my daughter was no longer able to attend daycare. My yoga studio-where I spent hours every Monday, Thursday, and Sunday-had closed down. All of my usual markers of time had gone. The funeral stands out like a glint of metal in the sand, unexpected treasure.Īt the beginning of the pandemic, I focused on creating daily rituals and healthy habits. I do remember when my daughter took her first steps-June, I think?-and I remember the day I went for my first swim of the season-April, it was terribly cold-but other than that, my hindsight is fogged, blurred by repetition. I remember there was snow early on, but was it March or April, I couldn’t tell you. The rise and fall rhythms of workweek and weekend, on hours and off, sunlit and moonlit, have all blurred together into a stream of sameness. When I look back on this year, it’s amazing how much the days bleed together. So many people weren’t afforded this melancholy joy, so many people had to go without.įor the past 10 months, I’ve been following the suggested pandemic protocol and spending my time away from family and friends. We were happy to be with each other, grateful to have this day together, to be able to bury my grandmother next to her husband, to be able to stand under the maples and oaks and to say goodbye. For the most part, we weren’t terribly sad. Few people cried, though there were some misted glasses. ![]() But instead of huddled groups, we were spread out awkwardly, our chapped hands shoved in pockets and our faces obscured with fabric masks. It looked like something from a film, quiet and somber. The cemetery was golden, green, and gray-the colors of October in Massachusetts-and the mourners were dressed in black.
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