Welcome to my bedroom, where I’m sitting on my bed (even though I’m fairly certain that, ideally, I’m supposed to be working at a desk for maximum productivity) and sorting through the things I need to get done this week, with my cup of coffee on the windowsill next to me, and the giant blanket I’ve been knitting sprawled out on the bedspread.
It’s grey outside, and I’ve barely been out or done homework for the past week and a half. As a person prone to anxiety and worry, I was concerned about this time. I’m grateful that I’m safely at home with my family, and that we have jobs and occupations that allow us to stay home—that is, undoubtedly, a privilege that not everyone has right now. I was still, however, worried about this period of social distancing.
The author John Green, who has spectacularly thoughtful things to say on his and his brother Hank’s YouTube channel ‘vlogbrothers,’ noted this week that “I just don’t have a brain that’s particularly well-suited to disease pandemics… I mean, I guess no one does, but I’m just having a hard time.” John’s specifically discussing his personal mental health, but I think that his estimation of the situation is fair—everyone I’ve spoken to lately is having a hard time. (I highly recommend the rest of that video, ‘Mental Health Tips From People Who’ve Been There,’ in which he shares ten tips from Partners in Health about remaining mentally, emotionally, and physically healthy and connected during times of isolation.)
Part of my personal anxiety about social distancing and self-isolation stems from the pervasive uncertainty regarding the situation—I can’t know how long this time will last, and I can’t do anything to halt the spread of the virus, apart from staying inside. I can’t plan ahead, as I’m used to doing. I can’t say with certainty that something will happen next month, or the month after, or even in the fall.
About two and a half weeks ago, at the beginning of spring break, before Covenant had moved to online classes, I had a couple of moments of late-night panic. I cried as I worried about how this virus might impact my friendships, about how lonely I might be if I couldn’t go to school or spend time with people, and about how it could collapse my routine as I know it.
Since then, my anxiety, thankfully, has mostly calmed. Now, even if I find myself fearful or sad, I’m not panicked (in part, because I’ve stopped consuming alarmist Instagram posts from irreputable sources). Importantly, I’ve sought connections, particularly when I’m tempted to isolate myself digitally as well as physically.
I’ve made cookies with my dad and shared them with neighbors (while maintaining proper social distancing); I’ve responded to the Instagram stories of people I don’t often talk to; I’ve facetimed friends around the country; I’ve reached out to small businesses to ask how I can support them; I’ve watched live streams of musicians I like, who are commiserating with fans and encouraging people to donate to charities and stay at home; and I’ve watched live streams from churches to whom I feel connected. There’s an absurd, nearly unprecedented, sense of togetherness.
I’ve also spent a lot of time alone in my room, knitting, writing, watching shows on my laptop, listening to music, and feeling lonely. I think both are inevitable in this time—I don’t think that, even with the recommended increased technological connection, there’s any way to dispel the loneliness we’ll all feel periodically in the coming weeks.
A few days ago, singer-songwriter Sufjan Stevens released an instrumental/synth album with his stepfather, Lowell, called Aporia. Though the album makes for marvelous study music, and I’m a huge fan of Sufjan, what struck me most about the release was the note with which Sufjan introduced the album. In a recent Instagram post, he wrote the following:
Be well
Be safe
Stay sane
Stay in place
Love one another
Love yourself
Pray for peace
And good health….
APORIA literally means “the state of being at a loss.” Lord, I feel it. Sending you all love, peace, health and healing. BE WELL!
So I’ve been thinking about ‘aporia,’ and particularly the relationship between aporia and peace, aporia and togetherness, aporia and one of Sufjan’s favorite taglines on his blog, “the world is abundant.” It is still abundant, in the midst of all of this. “Aporia—Lord I feel it,” yet “the world is abundant.”
I’m not sure how else to process this time of distinct tensions. I can feel the tension from my bed on the top of Lookout Mountain. I can imagine how much others must feel the tension, those experiencing risk far greater than the risk I’m experiencing, or loss far greater than the loss I’m experiencing. In a world of abundance, there is aporia, yet there is peace, and there is the promise of peace.
Please stay home (if you can) and stay safe. Let’s pray for peace, friends.