Today’s guest contributor is my 7 year-old niece Sylvie Rose. An aspiring writer, Sylvie likes soccer, Roblox, and fake nails.
That day we had a party at my house. I was 1 and a half. My cousin Nora Jane and me Sylvie Rose were playing tag with my Uncle Jack! I was eating apple sauce at dinner! I was happy and I was wearing my favorite color!
Each of us has built a collection of seemingly small losses in the last few years—cancelled trips, lost time with family, missed events like graduations and weddings. The accumulation of these disappointments weighs heavy and cultivates disenfranchised grief. This type of grief is difficult to identify, and a lot of us feel guilty honoring it. When others have suffered more, what right do we have to mourn our more minor losses?
I believe it is essential to acknowledge disenfranchised grief, to speak it to someone with whom we feel safe, and then to find alternative ways to enact small joys. I’ve recently felt a diffused, latent grumpiness. I didn’t understand why my temper was short, and I didn’t know why I was feeling emotional. When I paused and went within, I realized that my quiet little griefs had brought on a palpable mood shift. The second I acknowledged my disenfranchised grief, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease a bit. It’s okay to feel sad for the lost moments with loved ones and the vacations that never happened. As I let my grief evolve, I distract myself in lighthearted ways. The feelings of disappointment will diminish, and in the meantime, I counterbalance my grief with happy activities.
Memory Travel
With travel severely restricted and very stressful, I’ve mostly traveled through my past. The last two weeks, my 2015 trip to Italy’s Val d’Orcia has been on my mind. I’m reliving the early mornings on the deck, when the sun came up over the valley, the wild boars squealed, and the birds chirped. Day after day, I’ve been seeing the glorious Tuscan hills in my third eye and almost tasting the fruity olive oil we drizzled on our pasta. Rather than leave me with a sense of loss, my Italian reveries are fulfilling and hopeful.
Awaken the Senses
Throughout the pandemic, the kitchen has been my happy place. Meal preparation calls upon multiple senses. I see the bright produce I pull from the grocery shelves, touch the ingredients as I chop, smell the herbs as I rub them between my fingers, hear the vegetables sizzle in the olive oil, and taste the dish resulting from my labor. After tinkering with my winter minestrone soup, I am ready to share my recipe, found at the end of this post. Please make it your own! Dried beans are even more delicious than canned, and dried herbs can be used in a pinch. My winter minestrone will adjust to your whims, your pantry, and your senses.
Work It Out on the Mat
Sometimes the best way to deal with grief is through movement. This week, my yoga mat has been a place of respite. I admit I’m not pushing myself hard. My exercise is slow and intentional. In the weeks to come, I’ll be ready for more rigor. But for now, I just need to process loss and disappointment. I am learning that acknowledging my grief is uplifting.
Inspirations
We’re giving hugs again, gathering around tables with friends, and some people are even planning summer travels. We are “learning to human again.”
I purchased my little aloe plant in fall 2020, when COVID cases were on the rise in the U.S. Tending to my house plants distracted me from the scariness. Months later, I can’t help but smile every time this scrawny pandemic plant catches my eye. He is thriving but on his own terms. This aloe refuses to grow straight. I have gently tried to rectify this countless times. Quietly, yet firmly I have encouraged him to “Stand tall. Reach for the light.”
But this charming aloe is a pandemic plant. He is comfortable hanging over the edge of his terra cotta home. Good posture doesn’t matter to him. He languishes. He is twisted and a little gnarly. I have come to admire his commitment to growing crookedly.
I, too, have carved a twisty path in the last year. Though I have not lost any loved ones, I have dealt with disenfranchised grief—the unnamable sadness that accumulates with continued disappointment and “small” losses. Travel, weddings, family meals. I have felt guilty for feeling sad. What business do I have grieving when I’ve suffered so little compared to others?
As I “learn to human” again, I like to think that my aloe is “learning to plant” again. I have an affinity for his hunched nature. Standing tall is not necessarily easy. Getting out into the world after more than a year of isolation is odd. We are both off-kilter right now, but as the time is right, we are branching out.
Forsythias dotted my early pandemic walks. Against a still-grey landscape, the vibrant flowers announced spring. Hope was elusive as the coronavirus emerged, and seeing the forsythias in bloom gave me brief moments of respite.
One year later, it was jarring to see the lemony forsythia blooms peeking out once again. How had a year of sameness passed? Why was I feeling lackluster as the world awakened? The heightened panic of 2020 and 2021 had numbed me, and I’d been plodding along in a pandemic haze.
This spring, the forsythias were painfully and pleasantly piercing. The bright yellow shrubs shot me back to the scary days of last year, but they also brought optimism and a tiny bit of joy. Forsythias are harbingers of spring. Often the first flowers to bloom, they announce a new season. They instill anticipation. And, for me, they cultivate hope.
The word harbinger comes from the Old French word herbergier—to provide lodging for. If you’re a French speaker, think of the words auberge or hospice—spaces of protection and care. In English, the word harbor echoes the sentiment of shelter. Before this spring, I had never understood that a harbinger could serve as both herald and protector. This spring and last, fiery forsythia flowers anchored my outings. Never had I found so much solace in the landscape. Never had nature been so comforting to me.
In Kentucky, the forsythia shrubs have mostly turned green—already! Though spring colors are fleeting, the season’s marvels continue to serve as an escape from the traumas of late-stage pandemic life. The birdsong invigorates, and the dappled light inspires. The world is alive!
Inspriations
Language is evolving as we grasp for ways to express pandemic life. People are not only staying in, but hunkering down and practicing self-isolation. We’re actively engaged in social distancing so we can flatten the curve. Some are suggesting we crush the curve…
We’re instructed to stay in place or pause, but officials are avoiding the term lockdown. They’re not telling us to shelter in place, but we know we should. Andy Beshear, the soothing and reassuring governor of my state holds daily press conferences where he repeatedly reminds us that we’re safe at home. He and others are finding ways to soften the harshness of pandemic language, all while communicating the gravity of the day’s developments.
My six year-old nieces tell me about boredom during the quarantine and explain that they don’t have school due to the sickness or the cor-on-a-vir-us. My four-year old nephew seems very happy to be home with his family. He told me that his teachers aren’t at school right now.
Friends in France tell me about their gestes barrièrs (barrier actions) and the effet barrière (barrier effect) that results from maintaining physical distance. They know they must lisser la courbe (smooth the curve). France’s shutdown is called le confinement, and social media is buzzing with tips for confinement cooking, confinement reading, and entertaining kids during the confinement.
It is clear that language is shifting. Which terms will stick? What linguistic changes have you noted? As you practice social distancing, how are you passing the time?