Traffic and Assholes
I have a confession to make: I like the quarantine.
The past couple of months have been weirdly magical. 2020 was already on track to be my most productive year ever—and I’ve had some really productive years. But when the quarantine hit, my life changed for the better.
It seems unlikely that anyone would thrive in the midst of a worldwide pandemic, and yet here I sit, and here I grow, a lot like that pesky weed that keeps cropping up in the crack in the sidewalk. In the most odd environment, life is present.
Sure, it’s been difficult, and I am absolutely not trying to downplay the tragic toll that COVID-19 has taken. I openly acknowledge that this crisis has unearthed some great injustices, caused pain and mourning on a scale that many of us have never witnessed. I pause to pay a respectful tribute to everyone who we know deserves our praise, and to affirm every single person who needs to get back to work, who has struggled emotionally, financially, and physically. Heck, I’m one of those people in some respects.
But the quarantine, in all its difficulty, has been a panacea to me.
I was already in control of my life; in the past 3 years, I had decided and determined to change my professional life, to embrace creativity in a new way, and to spend my time and life energy on doing things I love. And, hopefully, things that matter.
And yet, I was still subject to the stresses that haunt us all. Too much to do, too little time to do it. Not enough time to get to the meeting, to the service, to the store. Traffic and assholes. A lingering and pervasive feeling that something, despite our best efforts and good intentions, is just not quite right.
The control the quarantine has given me is of a more personal, visceral nature. Yes, I’m still pressed for time. I have even more things to get done, if you can believe it (sometimes I can’t!). The psychological burden of being a creative agent in a world that suddenly needs everything online has been a heavy lift. But I am no longer a slave to the world’s definition of the rhythms of my own life.
I’ve been able to go to meetings without spending more time in my car getting to the meeting than I spend actually in the meeting. I haven’t had the hurried-drive-through-must-have-coffee or “OMG I’m starving when am I going to have time to eat—better get some Taco Bell while I can.”
When I’m tired, I rest. When I’m sleepy, I sleep. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m energized, I work. When I’m over-worked, I stop. Yes, I still have deadlines—and big ones!—that are hard to meet and require a herculean level of stamina and dedication. But here’s the thing: I’m in charge of the seconds of my life as well as the days, months, and years. I’m in charge of the great metaphysical arc of my life, but I’m also in charge of the microscopic moments that comprise it.
I’m free. I’m free to move to the rhythms of the universe, of my creativity, of the muse, of my body. I feel like this is the way it’s supposed to be. Before the Industrial Revolution, before the American Civil war, before the Renaissance, back before he Middle Ages…back, back, back in our collective consciousness, way back when we were tribal and self-sufficient, it was a given that mankind had dominion over all the earth, including its own soul and body.
And I don’t want to go back to living any other way.