Surviving the Apocalypse

There’s a hiking trail in the Stanford Hills called The Dish. It’s named for the 150-foot-diameter radio telescope that has been planted there since the 1960’s. When I lived on California Avenue in Palo Alto – not far from the Stanford campus – I had a fair view of those hills and that telescope.

In winter the Stanford Hills are brown. Not an ugly brown, mind you. More a mix of yellow ochre with burnt sienna shadows, while the bare brush and bark of trees draws random but perfect streaks of Payne’s grey across the topography. 

It doesn’t matter how pretty the Stanford Hills are. If you know those hills you also know that months of sodden brown can cause us to take those gorgeous winter hills for granted. We stop looking at their beauty. And it’s right about then that a miracle happens.

The Stanford Hills turn green.

On the morning of the first warm day of the first warm week of spring, you  awaken to a hint of the joy to come. The scent of something rising up from the earth. By lunchtime there are scant traces of green. It happens so fast that if you don’t stay present you’ll miss the transformation. An hour or two from dusk the low angle of the bright sun turns what were brown bumps just the day before into glimmering emerald waves.

To be honest, I don’t remember if the hills turn green in only a day but I can promise you it feels that way.

And anyone who has been witness to the transformation knows, of course, that in a matter of weeks great, green waves of grass will transform again to parched summer straw. But isn’t that all the more reason to celebrate those few short days when the Stanford Hills look like shimmering emeralds?

The last quarter of 2023 was an amazing highpoint for me –  a visit to California and a reunion with friends and students I’d not seen since Ben’s and my move from the Bay Area. 

But the last quarter of the 2023 was a low point for me, too. A decade long friendship was fractured, and then I experienced an unbelievably weird accident that left me questioning everything about my health and wellness as I turned sixty-five and navigated weeks of sciatica and plantar fasciitis.

As I wallowed in self-pity hundreds of young people were gunned down and brutalized at a music festival half-a-world away. Grandparents were slaughtered, arms of young men were blown off and on a bomb-scarred strip of land terrified and innocent people are – over one hundred days later – trying to survive and hoping to one day find their way home. 

And this morning, just east of the snow covered mountains that surround the Shenandoah Valley, I sit in my warm home. I drink fresh brewed coffee, its edges softened and sweetened by glugs of vanilla oat creamer. I watch the flurries drift and absentmindedly stroke the ears of Bruce the Cat. All the while anxiety stokes my fears. 

How will we get through what is to come? 

We have ten months of existential angst to survive before we learn if it’s the end of our nightmare or the beginning of a new one. 

I know that I am not the only person whose mental health has taken a direct hit over the past few months. For a time I wasn’t sure how I would find my way out of my ever darkening and deepening malaise.

But somehow, over the last two weeks, something within has shifted. Just like those Stanford Hills, my mental state has moved from grumbling brown to hopeful green. I know it’s a continuum, and that this change is not permanent, so I’m going to lean into this goodness I feel.

Because the Middle East is still on a short fuse and our former president continues to spew dangerous rhetoric. 

So to support the positive uptick in my mood, I’m using the tools I have that help me stay anchored to the present instead of spinning into the dystopian nightmare I sometimes imagine we’re heading towards.

In no particular order, here are those tools:

  1. Routine – I do my best to keep a regular schedule. This means I rise at the same time each day and fall into bed at the same time. It means I do my best to plan ahead so that navigating life feels easier somehow. And, when I know I don’t have the energetic strength to take on a new task or activity, I say ‘no’.
  2. Humor – I will watch any SNL skit where Jimmy Fallon breaks character. The ‘cowbell sketch’ has always been a favorite. But recently I’ve fallen in love with Gary Gulman’s comedy. Especially his bit about the committee that decides how the full names of our fifty states should be abbreviated to two letters. 
  3. Social engagement – I’m not a party type of gal but there’s something to be said for having at least one person outside of your immediate family with whom you can share how you’re feeling. I’m lucky to have that person and sharing with her helps me to shape a healthier perspective.
  4. Nature – I need to move to feel good and for me this means a walk in nature. On my trail walks it’s not unusual to see a few deer, a raptor or two, or scarlet cardinals flitting from bush to tree. Plus it’s really fun to run into neighbors walking their dogs. Especially the corgis. Nothing will put a smile on my face faster than a waddling corgi butt.
  5. Nutrition – When I feel myself sliding into malaise it takes no convincing at all for me to reach for that second glass of wine, or – and in excess, of course – those foods that bring comfort to me: a non-stop conveyor belt of fat, sugar and carbohydrates. But when our mental health is suffering, good nutrition will provide the energy we need to regain our strength. 

But everyone’s tool box looks different. When you find yourself sliding towards despair, what do you reach for as a lifeline?

Because I think we’re in for a bumpy ride this year. I could be wrong. Still, I’m going to prepare for the worse even as I hope for the best. I have my tools and I have my memory of the Stanford Hills turning green in the blink of an eye to remind me that if I don’t stay present I will miss opportunities to find joy.  And I have the feeling that this year we are going to have to embrace all the moments of joy we can find.

The Unnerving Unknown

Sometimes yoga teachers will cue students to step one foot back behind the other. For instance, students may be standing with both feet together in Mountain Pose and then asked to step the left foot three feet back to Warrior One.

As a young(ish) student, hearing Karl say ‘step your foot back’ filled me with unnerving dread. How was I to know what was behind me? What if an errant yoga block was precisely where I wanted to blindly place my foot? What if the floor had moved? It didn’t take much for me to imagine black, empty space where once there were solid planks of maple worn to a soft, golden patina by decades of practicing yogis. It seems silly now, but stepping my foot back without being able to see where it was going was too much like flinging myself into the unknown.

The unknown can be a scary place. And here we are, flung into the middle of it.  

This is a collective unknown. We are all experiencing the pandemic together, in real time. Some – like the residents of New York City – are closer to it than others. But we are, as the talking heads keep repeating, in this together.

Does that make it any less unnerving? It depends. We’ve all seen images of spring break revelers partying like it’s 1999, and we may have read the story of the B-list starlet who values her freedom more than her health. At the same time an enterprising man, upon hearing the news of the coronavirus, purchased every bottle of hand sanitizer he could find in order to sell them on Amazon for a healthy profit. After a few weeks of relying on people’s fears to make him a wealthy man Amazon got whiff of the scam and busted him. In the end he donated the remainder of his sanitized stash. And we’ve all stared in disbelief at the empty store shelves where once the Charmin Ultra Soft family of bears smiled down upon us. 

The cavalier youth, the freedom loving starlet, the enterprising man and those of us who believe toilet paper will save our heinies if not our lives – we have something in common. If we dig deep I bet even the man behind the sanitizer scam will admit to feeling uneasy about tomorrow.

But aren’t we always standing in the middle of the unknown? We can plan – and boy do I love to plan – but we really don’t know what will happen in the next moment let alone in the next year. 

It’s just that this unknown is too big, isn’t it? Maybe size doesn’t matter. No matter the unknown, our choices for how we handle the stress and anxiety are pretty much the same the same. 

  1. Know the unknown. What is a virus? What’s the best way to wash my hands? What else can I do to keep myself and my family safe and healthy?
  2. Break it down into sizable chunks. What do I need to do today? What can I do tomorrow?
  3. Prepare. Last week I channeled my inner Boy Scout and without being too excessive (except for the vanilla soy creamer I need for my morning tea) bought the foods Ben and I need for a few weeks. And then I made soup. A lot of soup.
  4. Breathe. When I feel the ‘winding up’ I do something my acupuncturist taught me to do years ago. She told me to breathe into my feet. It works. Visualizing the inhalation moving to the souls of the feet roots me to the earth. It re-establishes my equilibrium in a way I didn’t know was possible. Another technique I love is the ‘candle breath’.  Breathe in through the nose and then exhale through the mouth with pursed lips, as if blowing out a candle. Extend the out-breath until it’s a little longer than the in-breath. Your shoulders will drop away from your ears and whatever you anxiety you were holding on to will melt away.
  5. Move. I take mental health walks. When I walk there is a noticeable difference in my outlook and attitude. This week I learned that one walk every other day isn’t enough and so I’m beginning to take two walks – one in the morning and one after lunch. They keep me sane.
  6. Distract. I’m a sucker for sit-com bloopers. Or the cowbell sketch from Saturday Night Live. I’m trying to watch less news and to read more books. The kind with pages. Or I get myself wrapped up in ‘contemplative crafts’ – for this pandemic I’ve taken up making tiny baskets. They take more hours than I can count but their repetitive nature is meditative.
  7. Speaking of things that are meditative: meditate. I have the Headspace App but if you’re not into apps then just set a timer for five minutes, find a comfortable seat and watch your breath. When thoughts come up – and they will – without judgement notice that’s what has happened and then gently redirect your attention back to your breath.
  8. Speaking of the breath, tonglen breath is a beautiful practice that forces me to acknowledge the pain that the whole wide world is feeling now but it’s a practice that also offers me a technique to lighten the pain. Read Pema Chodron’s instructions for tonglen breath here.
  9. Support. I’ve found that it’s possible to keep my distance and still be helpful. Ben’s and my neighbor can’t drive and so yesterday he wrote us a list, gave us a debit card (that Ben sanitized) and I shopped. On my way I dropped off some soup at a friend’s house. Compassion and care for others is a reminder that it isn’t all about me.
  10. Ask for support. We are physically separated but not socially separated. Use your phone. FaceTime. Set up a Zoom Happy Hour. Find out if your favorite yoga teacher is running online classes. I’m so happy I took the plunge and set up my own classes. Staying in touch with my community has been a huge blessing. We know that we’re there for one another. Knowing that is all the support I need.

Stay safe. Stay healthy.