This tunnel is invisible, but hems me in as I pass through, allowing no alternate routes, no rest areas, no detours. I’ve been running this tunnel since March, since before my mother died. And I’m tired. But so is everyone else.

I didn’t get sick when I traveled to my mother’s bedside. And, from what I can tell, no one at the funeral, all of us hugging, crying, and laughing, got sick either. At least that I know of. We were the last group of non-residents to enter my mother’s nursing home before they went into lockdown. 

The tunnel shifted the trajectory of my new job, which I accepted just days before my mom’s death. I work every day, not crazy hours, but a marathon demanding a level of intellectual and creative stamina I haven’t experienced since graduate school. I’m on Zoom non-stop, I smile a lot, wear lipstick, and work hard to bring up the collective energy. I’m ready for this-in a way I’m built for it- because when life throws fear and chaos at me, I double down and throw a party. Plug in sparkling lights, cue the music, rustle up performers, and offer my guests a fully stocked bar of top shelf spirits. Whatever it takes to chase out the darkness and offer a sense of hope. 

But this tunnel. Step away from your neighbors, lean back when they laugh, don’t breathe too deeply. That woman got too close when we discovered we both spoke Russian; we came together, talking excitedly, until I realized we were two feet apart, unmasked, and total strangers. We backed up, repelled like magnets. That runner just breathed on me, the sickly clerk touched every package in my basket, my husband brought in the mail and opened an envelope. The internal noise.

And yet. The quiet. Our neighbors’ lawns have never looked better and the vibe on the street is peaceful.  I go online, put things in a cart, then stop before needless purchase. We get weekly deliveries of produce from local farms. Neighbors shop for each other. I spend time with my family and friends on Zoom. I take baths, read books on personal development, or just for pleasure. I gaze into the woods and watch fireflies light up the night sky. I sip cocktails on the deck with friends, socially distanced. We talk about therapy, favorite tv shows, places we’ve traveled to, cancer treatments, psychedelic drugs, and what’s going on in the world. Sometimes we don’t talk, we just sit in the draft of a fan, and say nothing.

My world is constrained, but also limitless. I’m letting my introvert freak flag fly. Last year I visited rooftop bars in Asheville; this year, I’m visiting mountain tops, traveling to spots on my bucket list of hikes, wandering the woods, listening to the wind in the trees, birdsong, squirrels rustling among the leaf strewn forest floor,  dogs barking, the hum of traffic on the Parkway, my husband’s easy laughter, my breath, in and out, in tune with the earth’s rhythm. I step off the moving walkway, look around and decide, this is not going away.

We’re in this for another six months, maybe a year, perhaps more. There’s no end in sight you can count on. And so, without map or compass, here’s my wayfinding manifesto:

• Slow down, stop beating the walls, and use boundaries as goads 

• Be fearlessly creative, turn the snow globe upside down and shake up the world

• Form a support group for mutual check ins

• Stick out a thumb and hitch a ride on a friend’s journey

• Spend a little extra at the grocery store and cook up a feast

• Clean out the closet that reproaches 

• Pet the cat that approaches 

• Sing songs with family on facetime

• Unroll the mat and stretch out the stress 

• Pick up an instrument and make some music

• Bring out pens and colored pencils and paper and draw 

• Go to a bookshelf, open a book of poetry to a random page, and read 

My mother would add, keep dark thoughts in the day (where the light diminishes them), and live every day as if it’s your last. A pinch of dance, a sprinkle of love, and a dose of humor, in equal measure. 

It’s time to get reacquainted with what nourishes our souls. Time is the gift of today.