Inertia

In a New York Times article about Suleika Jaouad’s memoir Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of a Life Interrupted, author Chanel Miller says:

“As re-entry to unquarantined life becomes visible on the horizon, as the vaccines are distributed into more arms, the gears of life will slowly begin churning. … I am nervous that when everything is in motion, I will not be able to keep up.”

Her confession made me choke up. Over the last two years, I have missed so many things so much that it has ached like a physical bruise. But at the same time I am terrified: Will I actually be able to enjoy a thing again when I can? Will dinner out, tucked into a cozy corner, make me feel trapped? Will the world eventually expect a speed of me that I can’t function at anymore? Will travel feel like the glorious adventure that it used to, or will I panic without everything familiar? Am I re-entering the world having grown misshapen and unable to stretch back out to embrace everything I once loved?

I think inertia is the most powerful fact of the physical universe. Whatever you’re doing – or not doing – becomes easy. Or, at least, doable. Changing that? It’s grueling.

In reaching midlife, I had already begun cherishing quiet time, feeling more claustrophobic in tight crowds, getting more easily overwhelmed by noisy places. I didn’t love these changes in myself. The pandemic largely, in my life of extraordinary privilege, coddled me, keeping me swaddled up.

I want to stretch myself back out. I look forward to the challenge. But I also find myself fearful of discovering just how much I have changed.