I hope you are all having a wonderful summer. Around here, people are going out in public and gathering in large groups again. Re-entry is an intense experience after the last year and a half of social distancing, sheltering in place, not being able to see people's smiles, not being able to hug. How is …
I hope you are all having a wonderful summer. Around here, people are going out in public and gathering in large groups again. Re-entry is an intense experience after the last year and a half of social distancing, sheltering in place, not being able to see people’s smiles, not being able to hug. How is it going for you? Have you been to a restaurant? A concert? A farmer’s market? In an airport? Museum? All of the above? This is an important time in our lives to mindfully process, and to me there is no better tool than writing for doing just that. I invite you to spend a half an hour (at least) writing in your journal about re-entry. See if it sparks a personal essay, poem, or short story. The pandemic isn’t over yet, but just think about where we all were last summer… I’m grateful for gatherings. Cautious. But grateful.
Here’s what I wrote in my journal this morning:
The other night I went out for dinner with two friends who were visiting and wanted to see our little Montana town. Going out for dinner is a big deal for me these days. I used to go out for dinner at least three times a week before the pandemic. In the last year and a half, like so many of us and for obvious reasons, I’ve been a hermit. Reasons that a year and a half ago weren’t really imaginable to most of us. And so I think that there is a collective shell-shock ripping across the country and across the globe, where places have opened up, as we re-enter. Some people are running out to lap up humanity with all their might. Others are tip-toeing back into it. I’m one of those people.
I’m lucky enough to live on acreage in Montana, and so when I’m not making dinner for twenty-year olds, this time of Covid has been one of deep indoor and outdoor solitude. It’s been lovely in so many ways. But I’m an extrovert. I need other people’s energy to sometimes find my own. And the other night, a dinner in town with visitors, where I could see the waiter’s facial expressions as she described the specials, where I could wave and smile at an old friend across the restaurant and go over for a hug and a how the heck have you been???…where I could enjoy my visitors and introduce them to the locals who were streaming into the restaurant like they’d just emerged from a Rip-van-winkle-esque nap…was sublime.
And then it got sort of horrifying. Or should I say, I got sort of horrifying. At least to my Covid-era, hermit self.
Post dinner: “If you really want to see our town, we should at least check out this one bar. It’s where all the locals go. And not just to drink, but to see music, play ping-pong and shuffleboard and pool, eat with their families. All the signs on the walls are failed businesses. I knew most of their owners. People come here to dream, and some dreams die, but the spirit of those dreams lives on in this town always. And this is one of its hubs. I’ve been coming here for thirty years for all different reasons. There’s a graduate plaque to my kids on the ceiling, if you can believe that one. Long story. Let’s just…pop in.” For some reason, I had tears in my eyes. I mean, it was like I was talking about my deceased grandmother. It was like I could walk in that door and see her again, even if just for one hour. See something familiar and playful and loving and the big one: local. “We won’t stay long.”
Famous last words.
But it took a minute for me to open that door. It took more than a minute. It felt like trying to get the courage to jump off the high dive, never mind dive. Or even just to find the courage to walk up the ladder. I stood outside, collecting myself. And then…I took in a deep breath and opened the door.
I was immediately overwhelmed. All of those people. So close to each other. Doing all the things that we’ve refrained from doing for over a year. And the place was throbbing with music. I guess I didn’t really understand that music is happening again. I didn’t really know that crowds like that are happening again: maskless people all in one sweaty Montana version of a mosh pit. I kept thinking: I don’t think Fauci would like this. Maybe I should leave. But then the music and the energy swooped me up into it. I’m vaccinated so I felt safe. But it was more than that. It was that I felt a powerful pull to be part of humanity. To have fun. To celebrate. To retrieve what we’ve lost. And if our country is for the most part legally wide open…well…
It just so happened that the most fun band in our town was playing on the stage. They sing all 80’s tunes with MTV videos behind them, in full Devo-esque costumes. People were going NUTS! 20 year olds who didn’t even know the words were going nuts. Seemed like every local in town was there, dancing on benches, jumping up and down on the dance floor, clapping and singing their lungs out with their hands in the air, like a long war was finally over.
Only this “war” isn’t over yet. And there are plenty of people in our country who aren’t vaccinated. But that’s another story that goes on an op-ed page. Not here. This is about what it felt like to be around unabashed joyfulness, gratitude, community, silliness, spontaneity, and a whole lot of talent: all things we’ve been deprived of for a long time, outside of the goings-on in our own living rooms. I haven’t had that much fun in…well I can’t remember.
So I danced. And danced. And sang. And sang. Until my voice was gone and I was coated in salty sweat and it was time to go home. I woke up the next morning feeling new. Young. Relieved. Happy. And I wondered: can I do this again? Is it safe? Is it stupid? Am I being responsible? Am I being brave?
None of us really knows. What we do know is that we need each other. We need music. We need to dance. We need to connect. We need our community. We need to see those smiles again. This weekend I’m going to an outdoor music festival. We’ll see how that feels. Again, I’m going slowly.
If things shut down again, I’ll do what I did last time: I will abide by the rules. But things are open. And I need to live. Can you relate? Please share your own stories here. We need to help each other re-enter, if re-entering is right for you. And the other night…it was right for me.
