I spent the first week of April making a mental pro-con list from hell. I cried myself to sleep nightly. Called my boyfriend in tears daily. Went on a three mile walk along the riverfront agonizing over what in the world to do.
I wanted to go home to spend Easter with my family. The board decided that if I were to do this, I would not be allowed back to the Sycamore House program for an indefinite period of time. I felt like I had to choose between being with family or participating in an intentional community which I had come to value dearly.
I understood, but I was livid. Livid and lonely and scared. More scared than I cared to admit.
The trouble with social distancing is that it is in fact very isolating.
We tried valiantly to reframe it as “physical distancing” not “social distancing.” Nonetheless, I was alone with my thoughts a lot. Because it was April I thought I would try to write a poem a day. I have tried this creative endeavor more times than I can count and never finished. In the end I only wrote nine poems. But it was nine more poems than I had planned on writing.
Every week as a part of our program we have a Friday Formation time where we come together and talk about spiritual and vocational concepts. We have been reading a book together called An Altar in the World which discusses spiritual practices. The first Friday in April we discussed a chapter called "The Practice of Walking on the Earth". We were invited to take some time outside to walk and come back and share our reflections. I ended up with this poem:
Crying is my favorite form of prayer
Jesus wept
And so do I
That’s sort of the whole point of this religion thing isn’t it?
The humanness of God
Was never more real to me
Than walking through the city
Where the mechanical chirp of the cross walk blends with bird song
And buds begin to blossom
Behind parking lots
My blue car sits lonely
Every day I am thankful and terrified
And today the parking lot, and the birds, and the discarded water bottles and latex gloves make me want to cry
And pray
And maybe those are the same thing
And maybe two conflicting things can be true at the same time
And maybe that’s enough
I paid more attention to Harrisburg in the week before I left than I ever did while I was living there. There is something about leaving a place that makes every piece of litter, every tulip blossom, and even every revving engine feel like a reminder of home. They stood out to me as reminders that even when things feel completely unprecedented, they aren’t.
There was a pandemic in 1918. The disciples sheltered in place fearing for their lives after Jesus’ death. Someone was here before me. Someone will be here after me.
I have made difficult decisions before. I will make them again. I have come to view in between times, times for waiting, evaluating, deciding, and preparing, as sacred and holy. Because even when we can’t gather together to participate in the things that link us to primal human emotions, we still all experience them. We are still all inextricably linked by moments like transitions. From child to adult, from life to death, and even from home to home.
So on Good Friday I walked outside, gathered twigs, and made an altar. I picked tulips by the riverside. I cooked dinner for my housemates. And then I packed up my car and drove back to Virginia.
Ultimately, I was very glad I went home for Easter. We live streamed church while drinking coffee and eating brunch. My mom hid my sisters and I each an individual plastic Easter egg. We went for a walk, ate dinner together, and even took a photo in our Easter dresses by our front door. But there really is no substitute for in person connection. I think that is what makes it sacred.
I cried a lot in April. I also wrote some poems and took some joy in quiet springtime moments. It is hard to find space wide enough to hold all of the joy and pain in the world. Thankfully, even when it feels like it, it is something I will never have to do alone.