Dear 2020- a letter to a year of contradictions
Dear 2020,
I hate to mince words, but you were a shitshow. Or, as my piano student Rick would say after a particularly botched rendition of a piece, a bloodbath.
You were a year of contradictions, the blending of wonder and grief. Fear and joy. Anxiety and relief. Deprivation and abundance. Confusion and clarity.
You also opened doors.
You were a year of fear and joy. The delight that engulfed me on that Saturday morning, November 7th - when Joe Biden was officially declared the winner of the presidential election – was quiet at first, yet pervasive. Joy like waves rolling onto shore, building in strength. A giant, long exhale throughout the day. By the evening I felt light and floaty, a sensation I hadn’t even realized had been absent for four long, painful years. Shoulders and neck finally released from the vise-like grip I hadn’t fully understood I’d borne. Tension that had settled in in November 2016 and refused to leave, like an unwelcome, dirty, manipulative houseguest I was powerless to evict.
Aaah, take a deep breath. At long last, a brighter future is imaginable, a palpable freedom from the weight of a King Lear-like madness. Doors will be opened. Perhaps it’s not too late to reverse global warming, to save the climate for my children and grandchildren. Perhaps healthcare will be provided for all, not just those who are privileged enough to afford it. Perhaps children will find safety and stability with their families in a country that will welcome them with open arms, instead of imprisonment in cages. Perhaps….
November 7th would have been my mother Judith’s 88th birthday, had she not succumbed to pancreatic cancer. She was what used to be termed “bleeding-heart liberal” – a true snowflake, marching in civil rights protests in the 60’s, campaigning for Kennedy and McGovern. She would have been overjoyed at Biden and Harris’ win. This one’s for you, Mom. And me, and your grandchildren. Happy birthday.
You were a year of anxiety and relief. In January, my 21 year-old son Josh was on a ship in Asia doing Semester at Sea, chased by a virus that closed port after port, changing their itinerary almost daily. At first, my anxiety centered on Josh’s unhappiness at the changes, the cancellation of embarkations in Shanghai, Malaysia, the Seychelles. My anxiety then shifted – would he be stuck on the ship for God knows how long, like those unlucky passengers moored off the San Francisco coast? Relief – that even though my trip to meet him in South Africa for a bucket-list safari was cancelled, he would be coming safely home.
You were a year of deprivation and abundance. 2020, you deprived me of travel. A calendar full of interesting, soul-filling trips and events that were cancelled, one after the other. South Africa in March. My nephew Aaron’s wedding in Carmel in April. A writing retreat with my sister She Writes Press authors in Scottsdale, Arizona in May. A singing teachers’ conference in Nashville, Tennessee in June. And the grand finale – a three-week National Geographic trip to see the King penguins on South Georgia Island.
In writing those words I’m a little embarrassed. I fully realize how lucky I am. So many have lost so much more. Loved ones. Jobs, businesses, ability to pay a heating bill or put food on the table.
I’ve chosen to view these months at home as a gift, a reminder of my great privilege. A lesson in humility. Therefore, I choose to see abundance, not deprivation. Abundance in my garden, a freezer now full of diced tomatoes and sauce made with heirloom Black Krims, Early Girls and my favorite, Valencias – a fruit so orange they seem hand-painted. Abundance of fresh-baked loaves of sourdough bread, topped with poppy, anise and sesame seeds. Abundance of family time, playing Scattergories and Rummikub with Josh, daughter Hannah and husband Richard, laughing together, teasing, friendly competition. Abundance of time and space free from planning and preparing. Because who knows what next week, next month, next year will bring. I choose to open my heart to the doors opening before me, with curiosity and gratitude.
A year of confusion and clarity. I’m still working on this one. Life seems even more fragile now. People dying from this virus – my age, younger, healthier. The reminders of life’s fragility forced me to look harder at how I want to be – who I want to be – in these remaining years (a mid-life-Covid-inspired crisis). I’ve realized that I want to focus more on my writing than on my teaching. I want to start another book, nurture my own creativity, less on the creativity of others. To keep my voice active and present, not so much through singing - as was always my outlet in the past – rather on the written word.
I’m not sure yet how that realization will take shape. I do know that I am open to the change and moving toward embracing it.
2020 - my enemy, my friend, you were a year of contradictions. I choose to see you as a year that opened doors to a world of possibilities.
With wonder and gratitude,
Rachel
