Too Much Me, Not Enough You

The following is a lament, not meant to bring you down, only meant to express what I am feeling right now.

I miss you, family. I miss you, friends. I miss you, church. I miss you, teachers. I miss you, store owners. I miss you, Orcas folks. I miss you, world.

Sure, we can still see each other donned in masks, but it’s just not the same. And it will probably be a long, long time before it is.

Our island has been really good about mask-wearing and distancing, and I’m so glad for that. But I sure miss being with lots of people.

I recently noticed I don’t smile as much. I don’t laugh as much. The day is more of a straight line than an up-down-up-down ride of variety and spontaneity.

No facial nonverbals to read. No hugs. No chumming around. No seeing what the world has in store for us, at least in the same way we used to.

Normally, Orcas Island is the kind of place where you can wake up, walk into town, and allow the day to sweep you off our feet. Without people, without get-togethers, without celebrations, without family visiting, I’m losing excitement, losing time, losing neuropathways I used to use, even losing memory here and there.

I miss the packed streets of 4th of July; the packed Village Green for Farmers Market; the filled church on Sundays; the summer sailing lessons; the swims across the lake with my visiting sister from Texas; the June family reunion we would have had in California; the birthday celebrations in Texas; the August travel plans that are no longer possible; the cancelled fall sports; the way going to school used to be and not having a clue what will happen when it begins.

Living life with only three other people is equally weird. One adult and two children as the only people to be with at all times isn’t how we humans were made to be.

I love my family. I’ve spent the last 15 years of my life pouring all of my time and energy into them. Ironically, this past year was the first year both kids were in school, and I was ecstatic to have my own time – to write, to drum up work of my own, to think, to learn, to be in quiet spaces attending to no one – the first time I had ever had more than an hour each day to myself. Ahhhh, the coveted quiet – at home, at the library, on walks, in my mind.

Then COVID brought us all back together again. For some families, it has been a reacquainting time stripped of sports, work, and busyness. For us, it’s been more of what we had always experienced – each other.

Quirkily enough, we live in a house with no doors – a circular floor pattern where everyone is part of everyone’s airspace. I’ve always loved it, but it’s pretty strange right now. There is nowhere to go to be alone. No room that is my own. No place to think uninterrupted; no place to write for hours; no space that is quiet. There is always someone talking, humming, singing, listening to music, watching news, absorbing DIY videos, asking me questions – always an interruption that makes long spans of concentration impossible. Those aren’t bad interruptions, it’s just that I don’t do a lot except be available right now. A whole lotta me not doin’ a whole lot of my own projects.

I’ve always felt that momming is of uber-importance. In a time when there are kids whose parents are a room away doing work from home but totally inaccessible, I’m committed to being with my children. We read together, jump off the paddle board together over and over in the lake, bike around town together, seek out new remote drone-flying places together, watch 60 Minutes and Undercover Boss together, converse about current events together, and everything else in between. I am grateful for every single minute of that.

On the other hand, I dream of the library chair where I used to sit and write productively for hours until school ended each day. I dream of finishing the book that requires meaty chunks of time to focus and edit properly. I dream of an office all my own. Even a door with a lock on it. I dream of a quiet house where everyone is so busy in their own projects that they don’t make a sound. I dream of setting up a tent next to the library wall to glean WiFi and brain space.

I also think about how I will ever see my family again. My mom lives in Texas near my siblings and she just turned 86. I can’t fly there, I might bring COVID to her. I can’t drive there, staying in hotels along the way, I might bring COVID to her. I can’t buy a camper van, it’s not in our budget. I’m starting to think that COVID will force me to get my pilot’s license – it’s the only way to avoid other travelers or quarantining myself in my desire to journey her way.

For now, sometimes the only new thing in each day is getting some food item we don’t normally eat, or watching a Jim Gaffigan comedy snippet we haven’t seen. Our friends are now on TV series, and at night when the kids go to sleep I am left with the only coveted quiet time left – not enough to write books; just enough to fall asleep reading one as the worn-out triathlete beside me saws logs.

It’s a good life. A very good life. Sure, we’re making memories. Yes, the four of us are loving each other well. And most definitely, I have nothing to complain about in a time when others are struggling, ailing, even dying. Don’t misread me. But a life of four, full of me, and bereft of lots of you just gets a little too one-dimensional after awhile.

I miss you all.