As a creature of structure and routine, even small changes to my normal schedule are stressful. Changes to my environment doubly so. They imbue tension in my nervous system and disrupt my ability to function. So why did my recent vacation go so well?
I spent five days in Pennsylvania with my grandparents, the only blood family I have left (an epithet I do not consider lightly). Somewhere familiar but not my safe place, with an entirely different schedule and routine, I did not go haywire. Instead, I quickly settled in.
The key is that I was being given space to slow down. For the first time since fleeing to Minnesota over two and a half years ago, I was on a real vacation. I was away from my normal space with all the pressures it carries. There were no overbearing parents (mine or someone else’s) and no triggering people.
I did not have any looming tasks or responsibilities. The only things expected of me were my company and the occasional game of pinochle. I was physically distanced from everyone else I knew, truly secluded from all the pressures I always imagine weighing me down.
So instead of my normal pastimes of “not getting enough done” and “running away from my thoughts”, I settled into the quiet. I read, learning a delightful amount about mosses. I watched crappy TV and played card games. I spent three hours at a bar, not worried about having to do anything after.
It was a fantastic surprise, to be able to slow down. I only wish it could have continued when I got home.
We went mini golfing during the eclipse. Because of this, and the fact that it was 2 pm on a school day, the course was nearly empty. This was good, as all three of us had difficulties navigating the course with our pain. We appreciated the opportunity to take our time.
The area we were in got about 95% coverage. None of us had eclipse glasses, though, so this fact was nearly lost on us. I considered buying some, but I think my demand avoidance kicked in with how much people hyped up the event, and I couldn’t bring myself to. So instead I settled on putting a bright orange ball across uncanny-valley-grass as the birds grew quiet.
I did get one small, accidental glimpse of the eclipse. Eventually, another family arrived at the course. The dad said to his daughter: “look at the moon!” Without thinking, I glanced. I averted my eyes at the last moment, not wanting to risk my vision. But that one moment was enough.
I understood firsthand how so many beliefs about the swallowing of the sun came to be. After all, it is a thing that happens and can be seen with the naked eye. It is truly something phenomenal to witness. I only wish I could have enjoyed it more, that the excitement of everyone else wouldn’t have dulled my own wonder.
It makes sense that grief would be at the forefront of my mind during this time. In a period of slowdown, emotions I’ve been dodging for months fought their way to the surface.
And there’s something about the start of spring that always does this to me. I absolutely adore spring. The world wakes up again, the days are longer, color returns to the grayed-out landscape.
But all this growth always carries with it an undertone of sorrow. As I watch everything bloom and feel the joy in that, I cannot help but think of people I’ve lost. People I’d like to be celebrating this joy with.
It’s been months, so I keep telling myself I should be over it. But I’m not, and ignoring that isn’t going to help. So I keep grieving. Hoping that one day, that name won’t hurt as much as it does now.
I’m writing this on my couch, returned from vacation and once again immersed in my normal life. I’ve already made another journal and plunged back into work.
Part of me still yearns for that slowness. I know that there are ways I could create more space for quiet, reflection, and stillness in my life. But I am a creature of routine, and that quiet is not yet part of mine. It’s a change I don’t feel prepared to make.
But do we ever feel prepared for our most successful leaps?
Ashton Rose 