The Year of Living Monotonously
Last February I was maskless - bouncing around the boroughs meeting with my social work advising students at their various field work sites. I’d bundle up and hop on the subway, giving myself enough time to get lost. If early, I’d have time to pop into a coffee shop and leisurely linger, naively unaware of the lingering health threat. When I arrived at each site, the student’s face would light up when they eagerly greeted me.
This February there is no subway hopping or coffee shopping. My students (and clients) and I have been meeting virtually, the light in our faces dramatically dimmed.
We’re coming up on a full year of dimming the lights, dulling the color, and dampening our energy. We’ve adapted and readjusted to the decreased commute, the online learning, and the at home workouts. Some may be loving it. Some may be resenting it. Either way we seem to be half-living - stuck in a suspension of life as we once knew it.
Suspended, but not stopped. Yes, life was rudely interrupted mid-March when we suddenly found ourselves rearranging our routines to accommodate a very non-virtual virus. But time hasn’t paused to wait for us because time isn’t that generous. We’ve had to make choices on how to continue living without increasing our chances of dying. Sobering indeed.
Pre-pandemic, living and working in NYC presented risks at every corner. We were living dangerously without even trying, the stimulation and vibrancy of the city distracting us from much concern. Now we’re living monotonously without much distraction at all.
We understand that caution is necessary, prudent and considerate. We have a collective responsibility to each other. And we don’t want to die. But we do want to live. And we want to live in color, under the bright lights of Broadway, in lively restaurants, among the hustle and bustle. We want to see it, hear it, feel it, and taste it.
New York is for the hungry, for the determined, for the eager. We don’t end up here by accident. We are here by choice. It is the city that brings us to life, even in the wake of death. A year later, we are still breathing, yet certain moments have us gasping for air. Pandemic fatigue and stay at home burnout is real. Our limits are real. We are virtually crying out to be rescued.
Where do we go from here? We can escape from New York, but we can’t escape from reality. We can only rely on the connections that have sustained us to keep us afloat, no matter how physically and socially distant. We can learn from what we have discovered about ourselves during this unexpected year.
What I’ve learned is this:
The quietness that surrounds us may at times seem deafening, but it will not silence the most important sound of all – the beating of our vibrant and feisty hearts.