When the Dust Settles
Last Monday morning, Mom texted me a link to a poem in the Atlantic titled ‘Say This Isn’t The End,’ by Richard Blanco.
It begins:
... say we live on, say we’ll forget the masks
that kept us from dying from the invisible,
but say we won’t ever forget the invisible
masks we realized we had been wearing
most our lives, disguising ourselves from
each other. Say we won’t veil ourselves again,
that our souls will keep breathing timelessly,
that we won’t return to clocking our lives
with lists and appointments. Say we’ll keep
our days errant as sun showers, impulsive
as a star’s falling. Say this isn’t our end …
Somehow, the poem was both deeply sad and still hopeful. It described the many aspects of life that have changed over the last several months. The author shared his wish to return to mundane life, like getting his hair cut or chatting with the cashier at the grocery store. He also longed to be able to embrace family members and never wonder if that hug will be the last. The words washed over me. I reflected on the last several months, and all that has changed, in my own life and in the world around me.
When we stockpiled our toilet paper and set up our home offices, we knew that something was coming. We still hoped, even believed, that this would all blow over. But it won’t just blow over. The pandemic has done more than force us into our homes, separate us from our friends, and take our health and our lives. It has pulled the cloth from our eyes and revealed the cracks in our world, both in our society and in our own daily lives. Sometimes it feels like the world is breaking and falling apart, but that's not true. The world was already falling apart. We were too distracted by our own lives to notice. The question before us shouldn’t be ‘when will this all be over?’ For some of us, it will never be over - some of us will be left with holes in our lives that can never be filled. But even for those of us who do not lose loved ones or our own health, our lives will still never be the same. So the question before us should be ‘what world do we want to create?’
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this question. I’ve thought about it in terms of life after COVID. I’ve also thought about it in terms of allyship and how I need to step up to support my Black brothers and sisters and friends. Over the last couple weeks I’ve critically examined my own thoughts and actions, and while I don’t have answers, asking these questions is a start. So I ask myself “Am I just hopping on board the white guilt train when I buy my own copy of ‘White Fragility’ and ‘So You Want to Talk About Race’?” “How can I be a part of the solution rather than perpetuate the problem?” While this month in specific has been a wake up call, so have the last few months. “Who do I want to be when the dust settles,” I find myself asking.
I want to be braver - to stand up for myself, and for others, more. Rather than become distracted by meetings and chores, I want to finish my cups of tea before they go cold. I need to tell people what they mean to me, and not wait for the world to end to reach out. I must find ways to be more conscious about inclusion and diversity, like intentionally reading more BIPOC authors. After years of talking about it, I actually want to run a half marathon. While some days - and weeks - over the last several months have been unexpectedly challenging, I want to set aside all the hurt and focus on all the joy that is in my life instead. I want to actually do these things and not just want them. So this time I will. I will walk fearlessly into tomorrow.
This time hasn’t just revealed what’s wrong or weak in my life. It has also illuminated those things that are precious and strong. These are the things that truly define me. These are the things I can never, will never, lose. And they are who I want to remain when the dust settles.
Even when I’ve gone back to working at the office and moved into Austin’s apartment, I still want to walk regularly with Mom and coo at the neighbors’ husky puppy as he trots to the edge of his yard to watch us. I still want to collaborate on music and practice photography with my brother. I’ll daydream of fairies as I run through misty country roads in the morning, past the cow farms and gullies full of wildflowers. Evenings when Austin and I cook curry and watch reruns of West Wing or the Office will still be my favorite nights. I’ll remain sensitive and sincere. I’ll still cry when I hear powerful Christmas Carols or listen to Dad preach about our infinite worth as Children of God. When we are sitting in our kitchen or driving in the car, I’ll still turn to Austin, and marvel at how much we love each other and how much joy we’ve brought into each others’ lives.
Richard Blanco’s poem ends like this:
I say this
might be the end we’ve always needed
to begin again. I say this may be the end
to let us hope to heal, to evolve, reach
the stars. Again I’ll say: heal, evolve, reach
and become the stars that became us—
whether or not this is or is not our end.
These last lines captured so many of the thoughts pent up inside my head. I don’t want to think about life after Coronavirus. Focusing on ‘after’ implies that we can return to ‘normal.’ How can we ever go back, when the effects of the pandemic have changed us forever? They should change us forever. It shouldn’t have taken a pandemic to realize the gaping inequality in our country and it shouldn’t have taken the murder of George Floyd for millions of people to rise up against racist systems and demand change. There will be a time when the world calms, but I don’t want to think of it as an after. When we reach an ‘after,’ we can forget what brought us there. I do want to think about life beyond. Beyond doesn’t mean we forget. It allows us to take in what has past, and accept that it changed us. The question before each of us is who we will choose to be when the dust settles.
