The Sentence by Louise Erdrich is a surreal, eerie novel that combines the concreteness of the pandemic and the social unrest of 2020 with a ghost story set in a bookstore in Minneapolis. Erdrich captures 2020 perfectly in her main character Tookie, who has to navigate both the pandemic and the protests and riots that followed George Floyd’s murder as a Native American woman while dealing with the ghost of a woman who constantly appropriated Native American culture while she lived.
I am a night owl, and I’ve always done my best and most creative work in the wee hours. It’s after midnight. It’s quiet and dark. I can hear myself think and for some reason, in the wee hours, I don’t mind hearing those thoughts.
Last month I started staying up working until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. I get up around 10:00 a.m., pray morning prayers and practice contemplative prayer then I start working between 1:00 and 2:00 p.m. and go until around 5:00. Now it’s time to practice yoga, make supper, and spend time with The Hubby. Then sometime between 10:00 and 11:00 p.m., I get back to work (usually closer to 10:30 p.m. because I have to have my Jon Stewart fix).
After I got over laughing at myself because this schedule did not last for long, it amazed me how much both my schedule and life itself had changed. The largest change has come in managing my clinical depression. I’ve been off the anti-depressants for a few years now, and I manage it with spiritual practices (yes, I still pray the Morning Office), exercise, and eating better. An incredible support network and a wonderful psychiatrist also does wonders for one’s mental health.
I no longer have problems with maintaining mundane, daily activities like taking showers and keeping up with my home because I have created routines to help me with all of this so that I don’t actively have to think about it. Like today, after I co-taught a Citizenship Class, I exercised, took a shower, wiped down the bathroom, and made the bed because that is the Tuesday and Thursday routine. The morning routine is cleaning out the dishwasher while I wait for coffee, so that way the dirty dishes have a place to go throughout the day and don’t pile up (I cannot tell you how much this one routine has changed my kitchen). Talk about life changes.
I also hope I’m not that whiny and navel-gazing anymore. To be honest, I aggravated myself a bit reading that. Talk about first-world problems. Don’t get me wrong: they’re problems, but not near the problems I once thought they were. Perspective is a marvelous thing (as well as good friends telling you to stop taking yourself so seriously).
It Came to Pass
This is one of the reasons I like writing–especially journaling: the memory grows fuzzy, and I forget. I remember when I was in the throes of the deep, deep depression in 2008-2009, I thought it would never end, but it did. Not only did it end, but now I have trouble remembering how deep that pit was. I think that’s another thing for us to remember as we go through this Lent and continue through this pandemic. One day it will be over. In a few years, the memories will start to grow fuzzy around the edges. As we used to joke in one of the churches I once attended: It came to pass.
What does that mean? It’s a phrase that’s all over the King James Version of the Bible: “And it came to pass.” Most of you will know the passage from the Birth of Jesus: “And it came to pass in those days Mary gave birth….” Why did we use to joke about this phrase? To remind ourselves things literally came to pass. Feeling sad over how long it’s been since you hugged your friends at church? Don’t worry: it came to pass. Sheltering in place have you depressed? Don’t worry: it came to pass.
Of course, this goes for the good stuff too. Your internal hermit overjoyed because you have an excuse not to go anywhere? Enjoy it: it came to pass. Are you ecstatic over all of the baking you’ve gotten to do because the pandemic pretty much halted your job search? Why yes, I am enjoying it because it came to pass.
Change is inevitable, even when we wonder if we’ll ever be comfortable going without a mask indoors again. It will pass. Life changes, always.
What has come to pass in your life? Did you think something would never end, and now you now have fuzzy memories about it? What advice would you give someone who was waiting for the “it came to pass” moment?