Waiting for Morning

It has been just over a week since the formal plan to limit the population from leaving their homes unnecessarily has been rolled out. Other than trips to the groceries and pharmacies, all ‘non-essential’ services have been curtailed. For us, it has been three weeks since schools have closed and we have made our very abrupt, very unforseen transition to stay-at-home, school-from-home, work-from-home life. It hasn’t been without its challenges, but we are managing this ‘new normal’ as best as we can.

A few days ago I found myself roaming around the house aimlessly, wrestling with a feeling that I just couldn’t shake. I felt unproductive. I felt lazy. I felt anxious. But that wasn’t it. There was more to this feeling that I couldn’t pin down. It hovered over me. It sat on my chest. It weighed down my shoulders. After much time searching my thoughts, I was finally able to give this feeling a name:

It was grief.

Being able to identify the source of my angst allowed me to delve deeper and to realise that I felt a profound sense of loss.

Loss of freedom.
Loss of routine.
Loss of certainty.
Loss of control.

I found myself looking back on what I consider to be ‘simpler times’. Times in which I could make plans, both exciting and trivial, for the day. Times in which I could rely on structure. Times in which I could interact with the people whom I hold dearest without fear of causing them harm.

I’ve heard it said so often in a very short space of time that life as we know it has changed. I believe that this phrase has begun to play on our psyche.

How can we deal with these feelings of loss when we aren’t even sure what tomorrow may hold?

It may not seem like much, but I’ve realised that I can focus on what I do have.
In this moment. Right here. Right now.

Although in the midst of a crisis, I have my health.
Although physically distant, I have endless connection.
Although confined to this space, I have boundless time.
Time to ponder. Time to learn. Time to grow.

My gaze then shifts from within these walls and settles on what I see happening in every corner of the world.
Despite loss of stability, I see generosity.
Notwithstanding heavy restrictions, I see innovation.
In spite of a sense of helplessness, I see dedication.
Even when faced with a dire prognosis, I see sacrifice.

All at once, a seed is planted deep within my heart. A seed of hope. It may be watered by tears of fear and grief but it takes root. It may be sewn in arid and dark conditions, but it begins to grow. With every act of service witnessed, this seed sends out its sprouts.

This seed that is planted will blossom.
This seed that is planted will flourish.

I can’t tell if this is life anew or the resurrection of a fallen, dormant form, but it lives. It emerges with great flourish. It thrives. And the message is clear:

Even the vast and lush forest is sewn in isolation and darkness.

Through new growth there is a living hope.

Sorrow, grief and darkness may last for the night, but great joy comes in the morning.

And so, I sit here, no longer in a place of grief, but in a place of gratitude. A place of peace. A place of expectant hope.

And I wait for morning.