All We Had To Do Was Nothing

Ryan Yao on Unsplash

When I look back on all this, what will I remember?

Will it be the sound of birdsong ringing out across the otherwise silent city?

Taking long lungfuls of unpolluted air?

Frolicking with the dog on carless cobblestones?

Will I think back to board games played virtually with family abroad, the banter and closeness transcending physicality in ways we never imagined because we’d never bothered trying? The online yoga sessions with friends from distant lands; the creativity and community we created together at a moment’s notice that pulled some people back from the edge of the abyss.

Will it be the year I witnessed spring in slow motion? When I finally saw the spindly, ugly-duckling trees open the season with a delicate white blossom, before gnarly bushes pushed out a million bright yellow v-shaped victory signs, while the fat cherry buds like clenched fists waited stoically for the perfect moment to release.

Will I remember what it feels like to experience grief and pain and suffering on behalf of the whole of humanity, and to let it be — to not brace against it — because all we had to do was nothing, and there was nothing to be done?

Maybe I’ll look back on all this and the thing I remember will be death, or debt, or loss, or all three. The damage will be too close, too permanent, too painful. Maybe I won’t make it through; I won’t look back at all.

But if I do make it through, scathed but in tact (which is the best any of us can hope for), how do I want to remember this time, and how much can I control the memories I’m making?

Right now, everything is okay. Time is passing, life is happening. If I can stay focused on the present moment, maybe I can learn something. Perhaps this won’t all be in vain.