Nearly all my friends needed a Covid test the week after Christmas, but none could be found. Between the two of us John and I checked twelve drug stores. One friend went to a hospital and discovered it would cost a hundred dollars to be tested without her new insurance card, and another drove to a rural Wal-Mart but had no luck.
After possible exposure, we canceled dinner plans and a family holiday gathering that week to be safe, even though both events would have been small. Our fledgling New Year’s Eve tradition, born in 2020, seemed primed to repeat: Chinese takeout and champagne. Everywhere we looked people were getting sick.
But the world hurdled onward anyway, which felt reckless and confusing to some, and welcome to others. Very little has been canceled this month at the community level, so we are all left to evaluate individually—again—what feels safe. My everyday conversations with friends have been punctuated by words like viral load and immunocompromised, a sign of the times if I’ve ever heard one. Cultural messaging around January 1 promises a fresh start and the opportunity to reinvent ourselves, but instead we were handed a tired, disorienting mishmash of the past two years.
As it turned out, John and I did not have Covid over the holidays, but we postponed plans to be in New York as numbers soared, which felt like an eerie repeat of March 2020. In the days leading up to January, I noticed Lucille Cliffton’s “i am running into a new year” circulating on social media as it always does. No, I thought. I do not want to run.
“This Monday was the Monday-est of all the Mondays of the year,” one friend said when I asked how she was doing a week into January. I laughed and responded, “I know. I like to walk very slowly into a new year.”
***
Mother Nature models deep rest in this season; our gardens and woods are quiet on the surface as root systems deepen, strengthen, and prepare for seasons of growth ahead, and animals hibernate to stay warm and conserve energy. I like to imagine I am doing the same. Treading carefully and intentionally through midwinter, I am in no particular hurry to rejoin the collective thrust forward.
When stillness calls, I try to answer. Talk of resolutions and reinventions spins around me, but I am turning pages by the fire, tending black bean soup on the stove, and taking walks at midday when it’s warm. I am focused on ease, yet everything gets done. This season conjures imagery of sweet dreams and slumber, heavy grey skies and fields padded in white, painting a picture that reminds me to look deep within myself for whatever comfort and guidance I crave.
Despite our place in Mother Nature’s tapestry, our threads of existence undeniably interconnected with the whole living world, we yoke ourselves to timelines and outside forces that are not concerned with natural rhythms at all. We bend our will to productivity culture’s demands, markers of success driven by god-knows-what, words like “Q1” and “first day of class.” To some degree this is unavoidable; we are beholden to systems beyond our control.
Yet we can find little ways to resist the churn and honor our needs where it counts. We can close our eyes and take a few grounding breaths or call a friend to say hello. This year started with snowstorms from Tennessee to Michigan to Maine that coated half the country in ice, as if the sky itself were whispering, slow down, take it easy, there’s no rush.
***
The first weeks of the year may have been framed by storms of all kinds but when I pause to look in the mirror I see pillars of clarity that did not exist, at least with their current strength and resolve, two years ago, before this pandemic. In other words, I’ve grown. The people moving through life beside me now are able to offer generous support and nourishing space for growth, and see me in my fullness, for example, while others faded to the periphery. I understand, however dissonant it may feel, that I can find peace in the juxtaposition between personal happiness and collective anguish. I discover great joy in everyday pleasures.
We have learned, these past two years, at great cost and with no other choice, what carries us through difficulty. So with little consensus and persistent fatigue we march onward.
When driving in a snowstorm, however distracting and swirling it may be, we know to keep our eyes on the road. We insist. And living through a pandemic is no different. When chaos resumes we direct our focus—again and again, if we must—to whatever measures of safety, happiness, and connection have held us no matter what.
Between you and me—
Lala has entered the chat. I’m back! How are you holding up? This coming week is a big one at my house—John was invited on short notice to conduct a concert with the orchestra where he’s held a viola seat for almost ten years, in the city we’ve (mostly) called home, and has been preparing nonstop. It gives us the rare opportunity to experience a career milestone while surrounded by people who are incredibly special to us. Now is probably the time to invest in waterproof mascara.
John’s preparations have put us in a place where every walk and most conversations revolve around a particular piece of music—what it means, how it relates to the human condition, and how that meaning might be conveyed, and felt, through musical choices and performance. This is the place, I’m realizing, where we are happiest and most ourselves. An intersection where our skills, interests, purpose, and contentment converge.
I am juggling a few projects of my own and making sure everyone gets fed. But all is well: I am also reading Lily King’s stories and testing Laurie Colwin’s recipes. I am revisiting old dreams with new perspective. I am waking earlier and laughing more.
Wishing you great joy this week. Yes! Even now.
Take care out there.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. The best gift you can give her is to personally recommend this newsletter to a friend. If you read and enjoy this work and have the means, please consider becoming a sponsor. Every gesture of support is appreciated.
I loved this line: I am focusing on ease, yet everything gets done.
Lauren, again, on point. My life this year has been FULL of changes that are taking me back and forward, closer to myself. You seem to weave threads from a garment that I've worn and then put away for a few seasons and then remembered how well it fits all over again. I've rediscovered love for myself and others and this slow walk into the new year is exactly the pace required. Thank you always for your words.