Small and Simple Stories of Support
Lately, it’s been hard for me to sit quietly and center myself long enough to write well. I’m so distracted. Competing thoughts and worries about the world push away most good story starts. I tell myself it is reasonable to expect my working memory (and executive functioning) to be a little off in an extended pandemic. This brings to mind something small, yet worth sharing, about a clear message sent now and again by my nervous system,
Stop. Just stop.
In May I planted sunflower seeds late in the growing season. They sprouted quickly. I protected my seeds from predators which seemed to help. I covered the oval plot with netting, thwarting the birds and rabbits, after pushing the tiny, black ovals into enriched topsoil laid over layers of existing Michigan clay. The seeds took root and became plantlings. I shifted the netting from the top to the perimeter because the needs of the sunflower population changed.
This is called being responsive.
The world is hard again and for most people it never got easy. In times like this, the sturdy and resilient among us shine like beacons in a storm. We need these people desperately, yet seldom do we use the currency of our voices to lift them. To turn the tide, let me tell you about one such person.
The man who built our home cut corners with precision. Not the actual joints of the building, rather, he skimped on materials and labor and did just enough to prevent all the imperfections from being revealed during a home inspection while simultaneously fooling unsuspecting buyers. They say the best teacher is your last mistake.
We begin our lives tethered adoringly to the people who care for us, then broaden our circles of influence. We make hundreds of choices each day about how, or even if, we will invite other people into our lives at school, at work, and in our neighborhoods. Living alongside others can be lovely and it can be hard. Lines are drawn in the sand until blown in new directions. I think it’s about reaching toward adaptation with an outstretched hand…
There is a lightness to being fully vaccinated. A little like a revival, it’s also a path to something new. I’ve changed, we all have. Rather than trying to fill the silences, I’ve learned to create small spaces of welcoming for aloneness. I never liked being alone but I do now. I’m returning to myself and find I have grown, which is a pretty good trick for a gal my age…
A year of self-regulation and being alone a lot amplified any tendencies we had to be introverts so re-engaging feels like work. Dan and I were taking steps to re-enter society and spread our wings like hatchlings who stayed too long in the nest, we rubbed our zoom-weary eyes and started to rev up, gaining speed daily. And then quite suddenly, we lost our internet, landlines, wireless, and cable for the weekend, which stunted liberation in ways that surprised us like an unmarked speed bump on an unfamiliar road…
The arc of the idea was this: Winnie struggles with loud sounds. If I can give her a way to understand the source is not a threat she may feel safer. She could build on that new knowledge and experience over time. Naturally, I cannot explain an event or answer questions the way I would with young children but the idea held possibility…
I have grown fond of laundry. Actually, all repetitive tasks are largely underappreciated. Rhythmic and cyclical, laundry can be both calming and productive, simultaneously getting something done while pushing away any cramped, worried thoughts carried around all day like held breathe. I really can’t think about those things right now, I’m busy doing the laundry…
