A new year is a time of transition, and as we move into 2022, I’ve been reflecting on the pandemic and things I’ve learned so far.
It’s amazing to think what we’ve all been through in recent years. Last year was better than 2020, but still, it was another doozy. Just one year ago, we were still in the middle of a long, strict pandemic shutdown—Ron was here with me every day, grappling with teaching from home. The January 6th insurrection had just occurred, part of a failed coup attempt that shocked the country and the world.
Even now, it’s disturbing to write those words. A coup attempt, right here in this country.
A few weeks after the insurrection, President Trump finally left the White House after months of trying to overturn the election. Once Biden was sworn in, I felt as though a weight had lifted from my entire body. Within days, it somehow seemed as though the Trump administration had been a nightmare from a totally different era, in the distant past, while at the same time, I felt nowhere near recovered from it.
All of 2021 was like that. There’s been a feeling of strange, disoriented time, and of shell-shocked, post-trauma stupor.
The months after Biden’s inauguration saw an easing of drama from the White House, but the country and world continued to lurch through Covid-19, natural disasters, and political turmoil. Now, at the one-year anniversary of January 6th, the news is filled with dire warnings about the future of our democracy. The majority of Republicans still believe the “big lie” that the 2020 election was stolen, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Republican leaders are still not stepping up to tell the truth.
And yet, despite these ongoing worries, for me this has been a year of recovery. I’ve been slowly recombobulating. My frayed nerves are settling into a new state of calm and grounding, so that by now I feel my feet solidifying back under me again. I hope that’s true for many of you too.
What I feel about the country’s future can’t exactly be called hope, but it isn’t despair either. It’s more like a slow, gentle, compassionate determination.
The pandemic has taught me a lot about dealing with long-term stress. Much of what I’ve learned has been through trial and error—I’ve noticed ways I didn’t respond well to pandemic stress and seen what I could have done differently, and what to do better going forward.
My disease had already taught me that action must be balanced with self-care, because if we burn ourselves out helping others, we won’t be able to help anymore. But the pandemic has also taught me that action, when done right, can be a form of self-care. I’ve so often felt helpless and overwhelmed with anxiety, but I’ve discovered that when I can find ways to help, those feelings ease.
I see it as an act of love and patriotism to find the right balance between self-care and action. A burned-out electorate is no good for democracy. When ordinary people become overwhelmed, they disengage from politics and leave extremists to take over. The bridge-building group More in Common describes an “exhausted majority” in the political middle that is tired of polarization and has largely disengaged, and that describes many people I know. I’m often exhausted too.
The lesson is that one of the best things we can do for our country is to nourish our own souls, so that we can continue to stay politically engaged or renew our engagement if we’ve been taking a break. And paradoxically, taking breaks from politics can help us stay involved with politics in the long term.
This week, the New York Times published an editorial called “Every Day is Jan. 6th now.” They advocate an all-hands-on-deck, full-throttle movement at all levels of society to save our democracy while we still can. I appreciate the attention they’ve been giving to the crisis we’re in, but they’ve given no attention to political self-care along the way. That omission concerns me. I fear that many who read their alarming articles will feel so overwhelmed that they’ll turn away, sticking their heads in the sand for self-preservation.
For each of us as individuals, every day can’t be January 6th. As we picture how to save our democracy, rather than imagining ourselves sprinting toward a burning building, I’d like us to instead see ourselves moseying forward at a steady, even leisurely pace. That may seem counterintuitive, but as the saying goes, this is a marathon, not a sprint. Moseying will leave our bodies and souls intact.
In the movie Roma, there’s a scene in which Cleo, the maid, moves through a room tidying up. Cleo is indigenous, and to me, what strikes me about the scene is her pace of work. It’s very different from the pace I’m used to as a white American. She drifts through the room, turning off lights and picking up scattered pieces of clothing, looking content and almost dreamy. She doesn’t move with the brisk purposefulness of so many American workers. This is her life. She lives and works in this house, and the work is constant; it’ll still be here tomorrow. There is no rush.
There’s so much wisdom in that pace. I think it’s a clue about how to save our democracy in the long term. Yes, we need urgent action now, but what we also need is an engaged citizenry: ordinary Americans making politics a part of their casual weekly or monthly routines. We need people to do the undramatic, everyday things, simply showing up to friendly meetings with neighbors, perusing the news, calling representatives now and then, and volunteering.
So I’m committing to a certain level of political and social action in 2022, and I’m hoping to do it with this unrushed, moseying feeling. I plan to keep writing this blog, which is part of my contribution. I’ll keep supporting Braver Angels and other bridge-building organizations. I hope to volunteer at least a few hours a month this year, and especially to support refugees from Afghanistan and other countries. I will keep following the news, and I’ll probably do more phone banking and postcarding as the 2022 election approaches.
The problems of the world are all much bigger than me. But there is a lot that needs doing, and the pandemic has taught me that when can I find small ways to help, I feel better about my worries. When I know I’m doing what I can, I find a modicum of peace.
There are several more pieces of wisdom I’m bringing with me into 2022. Gentleness, including with myself. Many people’s nerves are frayed. I want to forgive myself and others for not being perfect. Mindfulness, which I’ve been practicing more lately, taking little breaks from work to meditate or breathe.
I’ve been finding healing in small, simple, close-to-home pleasures. I like spending time in the yard, surrounded by plants and earth. It helps to read books made of paper and get away from plastic computer screens. I like looking at, and touching, wood and stone and handmade things, and objects whose surfaces are raw and unfinished. Cooking food from scratch is a comfort. I hope to do more of all these things.
May you find your own balance in the new year, taking breaks when you need them. May you move at a sustainable, moseying pace—a pace that keeps you healthy and steady, and thus allows you to stay engaged when and how you can.
