I haven’t been feeling particularly anxious lately, which I can attribute to both my being busy since starting classes and to my settling into some semblance of a routine. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been anywhere, or seen pretty much anyone besides my family and a few neighbors. While I’m very grateful that my family and I are in a position to be able to stay home and shelter in place, I’m beginning to feel lonely. Based on the general mood I’ve observed on Instagram, and a few texts I received this week, it seems that I’m not alone. Online classes have mitigated the loneliness to some extent, but not drastically—rather, I find that, because I have more time, I’m constantly seeking interaction with the outside world through Instagram, text, or email. I’m making a lot of playlists, and doing a lot of reminiscing. The book of Ecclesiastes, which I’ve been studying in Dr. Jones’s Wisdom Literature course this semester, would likely tell me to enjoy the lot that God has given me now, rather than looking to the past or pining for the future; it would not, however, tell me that such a task is simple. I’m not sure what liturgical behavior looks like while we’re sheltering in place all over the country, in turns lonely and okay, glad to be with family or friends and missing family and friends.
I’ve been making coffee every morning, though. I get up about an hour before my online classes begin, throw on some makeup, pull on an oversized sweater and a pair of leggings, and head downstairs to boil the water, weigh the coffee, and watch it drip slowly through the Chemex. I portion it into two mugs, put oatmilk in mine, and bring the other to my dad while he sits in the living room on a video call. Dr. Jones commented, last week, that sometimes the lot that God has given us to enjoy is simple, like a cup of coffee that you made, that just happened to be really good. And you ought to just enjoy that cup now, he noted, rather than worrying about how much coffee will be available later on in the quarantine, or wondering if you ought to start stockpiling coffee.
I keep making coffee, which isn’t a metaphor or analogy for how we ought to perform so we feel less lonely or anxious. I still feel lonely sometimes; I still feel anxious sometimes. I just keep making coffee, because I enjoy it, and because my dad enjoys it, and it lends some structure to my mornings, and it keeps me awake.
I’m not sure what liturgical practice looks like during this time. It might well mean daily, structured prayer, or readings, or checking up on people, and I’m not as good at any of those as I’d like. I’ll probably feel happy, and lonely, and uncertain, and I’ll probably keep making coffee. I’m learning to be okay with that.
Let’s keep praying for peace.