the essentials

We were supposed to go on vacation on March 15. On March 13, due to travel restrictions put in place to slow down the spread of COVID-19, we cancelled everything. The plane tickets to California. The hotel reservation a block away from the beach. The car rental. The bungalow in the desert. All of it. It was a hard day. I tried not to cry. And then I did cry because I needed to let the grief go somewhere.

We had forgone a vacation last winter because we were busy renovating our bathrooms and time and money were tight. We promised ourselves that we would make up for it this year: taking a much-needed break from busy work/volunteer schedules and countering the demoralizing effect of a long, cold winter. We were so ready for ten days spent in warm temperatures, walking along the ocean, driving through desert landscapes, and eating tacos. Instead, Dean went back to work and I started making phone calls and sending emails in an effort to recoup the money we had already spent on the trip.

Life ground to a halt and picked up speed at the same time. Future plans slowed to a crawl as events and outings were cancelled. Every day a new layer of unsettling information landed on our world, locally and globally, until we were heavy with the weight of it all. I grappled with my disappointment by drawing a picture of a palm tree and storytelling my way through a new version of the vacation that never happened. It was hope deferred onto a two-dimensional representation of warmth and rest. Day by day, I said goodbye to each bit of delight and rejuvenation that did not materialize.

Then the non-vacation was over and I had to figure out what the new normal was going to look like. No more weekly movie outings, no meals at favourite restaurants, no shopping for new shoes, no trips to the gym, no haircuts, no church gatherings, no having friends over for meals, no upcoming concerts and outings, no spiritual formation meetings, no chatting over coffee with colleagues.

By this time, Dean was working from home and that was another adjustment. Instead of having a quiet place to read and write, I now shared space with a boisterous officemate who was participating in video meetings and making phone calls most of the day. I cooked and baked a lot more and the number of dishes seemed to quadruple. Somehow, the laundry piles were smaller. Plenty of online articles suggested that one should make a daily schedule during these unsettling times, so I did that. My list included workouts, spiritual practices, reading books and writing essays, making the best home-cooked meals, cleaning, taking daily walks outside, implementing consistent waking and bedtimes, watching interesting shows I never had time for, and having meaningful interactions with Dean. I hung the ambitious schedule above my desk. Perhaps to no one's surprise, I have never managed to follow more than a fraction of it.

Though this seemed like the perfect time to write, I found it hard to put words together. Just the thought of sitting down at the computer and opening up a blank page was overwhelming. I felt numb. Though I had creative thoughts, I had no idea what to do with them. I had a writing project on the go that needed attention, but I couldn't get any traction on it. I didn't want to write. I wanted to watch medical dramas and baking contests and home improvement shows.

A few weeks into the new normal, I came across this quote from poet Rainer Maria Wilke and it gave me some relief from the constant, internalized pressure to produce and write: "I want to beg you as much as I can ... to be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves ... Do not now seek answers which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then, gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into answer." [1]

So I gave myself permission to live things instead of writing them. No need to comment on the pandemic. No need to offer tips for how to be creative during self-isolation. No need to offer inspirational quotes or thoughtful responses about how to deal with disappointments. Instead of writing things for others to consume, I tried to pay attention. To my body. To my emotions. To my soul. To my mental state. To Dean. To my neighbours. To creation. To the world. To the Spirit. It was enough.

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I realize that my experience in all of this comes from a privileged place. We have a comfortable home which is warm and safe. There is plenty of food in the pantry and in the fridge and we have ready access to grocery stores. We have savings set aside so we can pay our bills even if our income fluctuates. We enjoy good health and are connected to a faith community. We have phones and computers and the internet so can freely communicate with family members, colleagues, and friends. We can order products online if we need to. We have a wonderful system of parks and green spaces within walking distance. There is much to be thankful for. At the same time, I don't want to diminish the impact of living in the shifting sands of a pandemic: the disappointment, the restrictions, the uncertainty, the loss of so many daily activities, the cancellation of events I was looking forward to, including a theological conference I was helping to organize. Loss and abundance are my uneasy, constant companions.

In times like this, we are forced to consider what is essential and what is not. By all accounts, I have access to all the essentials: food, shelter, safety, and good health. But there is more to life than sustaining a heartbeat (though that is vital) or having sustenance (totally necessary) or having a measure of security (I wish this for everyone in the world). In addition to having our physical needs met, humans crave those things which the ancient Greeks identified as the transcendentals: truth, goodness, and beauty. These are the things which give life meaning and I would venture to say, are necessary, even in a crisis. So, even though I am not an essential service provider by the government's definition, I seek to contribute truth, goodness, and beauty to the world in whatever small way I can. And here is why.

Truth. Without it, we have no compass. Truth is what trains us to engage with the world as it is and ourselves as we are. Truth keeps us from fooling ourselves with fanciful fiction and deluding ourselves with defensive denials. Truth keeps us from falling into the temptation to hear only those things which are pleasant to our ears, things which confirm our biases or reinforce our self-importance. Truth challenges us to acknowledge that life is bigger than our limited experience. Truth demands humility. Truth asks us pointed, probing questions and expects us to respond with thoughtful, honest answers. Truth makes us say, "I don't know," more often than we would like. Truth demands that we own up to our part in contributing to the problem. Truth commits us to responsibly handling the barrage of information coming our way, taking the time to discern between reliable sources and propaganda or self-interested opinions. Truth asks us to be people of integrity who practice repenting (changing our thinking) as often as necessary. Truth is not a weapon but only and always to be used in service to others. Truth is always related to goodness.

Goodness. Without goodness, we become islands, isolated from the world. Goodness connects us to both the well-being and the pain of others. Goodness is generous, not transactional. Goodness is gracious, not forcing others to live up to our unrealistic expectations. Goodness is never "me first." Goodness makes us good neighbours, no matter who that neighbour is. Goodness recognizes the value of each person, not just the rich, the CEOs, the influential, the out-spoken, the beautiful, the highly-qualified, those in the majority, the respected. Goodness cheers for the underdog, the struggling, the overlooked, the weak, the invisible, the poor. Goodness gives up its advantage so that others can benefit. Goodness is faithful even when others are unfaithful. Goodness stands against fear, against bullying, against injustice, against prejudice, against misinformation, against self-protectionism. Goodness opens doors for people instead of locking them out. Goodness does not insist on having its own way. Goodness is not primarily concerned with personal freedom but wants the whole community to flourish. Goodness is beautiful.

Beauty. Without beauty, life would lack meaning. Beauty is the life-blood of the soul. Beauty is ubiquitous and extravagant, present in every corner of creation. Beauty can be found in a badly-drawn rainbow stuck in a window so that passersby might be encouraged. Beauty is evident in a masterpiece where each dab of paint is carefully placed by a skilled artist. Beauty is a baby's first smile. Beauty is an elderly man's hand gently caressing his dying wife's cheek. Beauty never demands attention but waits to be noticed. Beauty is the gift which we can receive anytime, anywhere, if we are willing to look, listen, and pay attention. Beauty often leaves us speechless because it bypasses our mind and goes straight to our heart. Beauty is buds on trees, blue skies, the sound of birds chirping, and the shoots of plants which survived the winter. Beauty is herds of goats in the Swiss Alps, lambs surviving difficult births, an indoor squirrel who loves to wash her hands, a household of rescued animals which includes two foxes and a possum, and a man and his cat travelling the world on a bike. [2] Truly, the world is a beautiful place and every blade of grass, every blink of the eye, is precious and worth noticing and celebrating.

Truth, goodness, and beauty. May you find these essentials in your life today.

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1. Rainer Maria Wilke. Letters to a Young Poet.
2. These are all Instagram accounts which I follow.

Image: Wheatfield with Crows by Vincent van Gogh. Image from theartstory.org.