Choosing to Stay Home

The rain and the waiting and the forgetting of days—all this that we are dealing with together from our separate homes—remind me of a time years ago, a time of habitual rain and endless waiting and how it didn’t really matter whether you called today Tuesday or Wednesday. A time when I lived on Kaua`i as a stay-at-home daughter, an available bride with no groom in sight.

Under the stay-at-home order, I am returning to the long stretches of afternoon stillness, quiet moments that turn to hours, a deeper familiarity with my walls and windows, time to read books without the focus to read them. Pen in hand, nothing to say. Aimless walking in neighborhoods that seem to have no neighbors. 

Then, back on the island, my room was a retreat—to listen to the soft rain of the hills, write stilted poetry, read about worlds that never matched my own, write letters to friends who lived an ocean away. Walking was an exercise in finding peace—to notice the greens of the lilikoi trees and of the eucalyptus, listen to bugs in the grass and the incessant buzz of weed-whackers, find a rhythm in breathing. I found ways to make do.

And now, as spring surfaces in Michigan, I’m reminded to not think of home as a prison, to think of these walls as safety. Thankful for the moments here. Thankful for video calls. Thankful for health. Thankful for home-cooked meals. Thankful for books. Thankful for the safety. 

This time, the safety is real, the danger is real. I am reminding myself of this to ward off the depression of before, when the danger was a delusion, when the world wasn’t as scary as I was told. 

This time, staying at home feels more like a choice, like something I can do to keep others safe. It sometimes feels terrifying, triggering, to find myself alone again. But I know it’s not the same now as before. This time I know it’s temporary. Being alone for a time is a small price to pay for the protection of others.

And maybe I’m saying nothing of importance in all this, so I’ll throw out this thought: we are resilient and imaginative and adaptable. Once I had to persevere through years of a life without agency, a life of loneliness. Once I had to imagine a new life, crafted out of rumors and internet searches and the comments of concerned family members. Once (and still) I had to adapt to starting over in “the world,” learn new skills, survive trauma-induced anxiety. 

In the future, we might say, once we had to persevere days and weeks and months of being alone. Once we had to imagine a future out of the tools of our uncertainty, build hope with our creativity. Once we had to adapt to a world of pandemic, but then a world post-pandemic. Once we survived.

All things are possible.