I’m back under the oak tree, listening to the birds and watching the picture-perfect clouds drift by.
Thoughts are turning more and more now to how we get out of this, and what happens when we do. Many friends I have aren’t looking forward to back-to-normal. Who could blame them? Adapting into the lockdown was sudden and rough; adapting out of it could be difficult again. Will all the things we’ve learned be lost? Will we look back on this time of family and freedom with fondness as well as frustration? Or will everything just click back, much the same as ever it was?
I’m steeling myself for disappointment there. The ocean current will be for a swell back to the familiar, and it wouldn’t surprise me if it sweeps in on us all.
But I’m hopeful too. I’m hopeful that I can slow my own life down in light of what I’ve learned, that I can say no to things, that I can abandon the dull in favour of the bright - that there is no normal to go back to for me. I’m hopeful that I can treasure those around me more, and dare to let go of my old familiar safeties. There are so many adventures out there that I have missed. I might not be able to stop the tide, but I reckon I can do my best to push against it.
Sigh. This feels like the kind of thing to be writing at the end of lockdown WATIO. We’re not there yet; there are a few weeks to go.
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The oak tree seems greener than the last time I was here. The grass is longer for sure, and golden yellow buttercups poke and wave between the blades. I like the way it all moves with the breeze, softly swaying like the waves of a great green ocean. The wind shimmers through the oak leaves like the gentle purr of a faraway sea, and wood pigeons coo from the branches.
Some say the Viking king Cnut was arrogantly trying to push back the tide; others say he was proving that he couldn’t. Either way, there are more sensible ways not to get your feet wet. You don’t have to go with the ocean. You can choose. And I think that’s what I want to do.
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