Cozy Cottage in the Woods

There is something in the air.

Fall, yes, here in the northeast, with its vibrant colors and golden light and harvest moving towards fallowness and slowing and pulling inward feeling. And something else, too. Naming it has eluded me for the past few weeks, though this morning, I burrowed my face into my spouse's neck and said, "I just want to be in our little cottage in the woods with light streaming in making cookies." They said that sounded just right, and in that moment, I realized that I still haven't made the adjustment out of quarantine, at least not fully. (Either that, or I'm ready to retire two years shy of 50.)

We got so used to be home together all the time. There were very few decisions to make, and even though we were basically trapped ("shelter in place" sounds nicer, though), there was a sense of purpose in the confinement.

Now, the world has re-opened. News of not only breakthrough cases but also deaths among fully vaccinated folks tell us that the coast is not clear.

And yet most people have to varying degrees resumed everyday life. This includes me, don't get me wrong. Everyone in my family is a full-time student, in person. I work at home, but that was true pre-pandemic, too, as I'm self-employed; I've been leading groups and seeing clients remotely for many years now.

I go grocery shopping and don't hesitate to run errands or grab take-out. Some of my favorite moments recently have been when I've bumped into someone I haven't seen in a long while, or chatted with a stranger or store clerk. I really missed these interpersonal connections. So there's no question being vaccinated moved us into a whole new stage of the Covid era.

But that's not the whole story. Next week, much of my extended family is gathering in NYC for a memorial, to celebrate the life of my uncle who passed away (not from Covid) last summer. I was going to go, but as the date got closer, realized I am not comfortable being in a church with so many other people, especially with wind instruments. Plus, I had been planning to take the train, stay in a hotel, and of course would also need to eat several meals... it was just too much to wrap my head around. I’m disappointed not to be going, but also clear about the reason.

Likewise, every time I think about whether it's time to start planning in-person retreats again, I kind of freeze up. Even with vaccines and testing, the stakes just feel too high; I imagine how it would feel if someone contracted Covid while at something I had planned, and even though of course we're all responsible for our own risk assessment and comfort levels, it's just too much to wrap my head around.

 So, we are back to living life, and at the same time, the parameters don't feel clear to me. My impulse, then, is to hunker down, especially as the air grows crisp and days shorter. "This is why," I continued as I whispered in my wife's ear, "my whole house thing isn't just me being obsessive." Some ancient part of me wants to know where home is and then to stay put forever, even as some other part of me yearns to hop in the car or on a plane, to visit friends, to see new places, to explore the world. The two parts feel emotionally at odds with one another, when the reality on the ground is that neither is even all that relevant.

 At the moment, my son is a sophomore in high school. In a few years, he'll have graduated. We will be free in that sense to begin scoping out where we'll go from here. In this moment, there really isn't anything to do but be where we are, appreciate the fact that we continue to be physically well, that we continue to choose each other, that our kids and grandkids are all living their lives, that we have a secure place to live, even if we are renting and doesn't satisfy my deep longing for a home of our own, and that we are both doing things that feel meaningful.

The desire for less and the desire for more are equally present. Resting in the presence of both seems to be my work in this season. So, if you need me, most likely you'll find me right here on the second floor of this old yellow farmhouse. I'll be tapping away at my keyboard or talking with someone on Zoom or reading the writing in the groups I have the privilege of leading, or I'll be snuggling with Chalupa or baking a cake or checking for new Zillow listings or Googling “cozy cottages and bungalows for sale” or curling up in the middle of the day, not sure if it's seasonal depression or hormonal middle age or pandemic or some low-key combo of the three.

Maybe someday that cozy cottage will materialize. Or maybe it won’t be a cottage at all, but something even better than what my imagination can conjure. In the meantime, I will be ebbing and flowing and staying low to the ground and doing my best to be steady, to be honest, to be present to what is right here in front of me. So much goodness, really. So much life.