Staying alive - Lockdown Day 329

Having taken to crocheting as a way of getting through the Covid-19 pandemic, I’ve consumed a lot more media than before, because I watch online media while I crochet. It passes the time, entertains me and sometimes – depending on what I watch - educates and inspires me.

Last week, I watched a Brené Brown documentary on Netflix, called The Call to Courage.  One of the things she said was, “I get so busy, sometimes, chasing the extraordinary moments that I don’t pay attention to the ordinary moments – the moments that, if taken away, I would miss more than anything.”

Firstly, you should know that when I watch a documentary, I have my journal and pen at hand, to jot down things that make an impression on me. This was one of those things.

I started nodding and thinking about the ways in which this topic had been presenting, recently. On a personal level, it’s when my children - now in their 20s - talk about their childhood memories: the things they remember with love (and often laughter) are the everyday things - the family routines, the skew fringe cuts I gave them, the delicious chocolate cakes at every birthday that were made with a ready-made cake-mix, the songs we sang at bedtime, the music we played in the car, the way they fought over who’d sit in the front passenger seat until we came up with a system…. The best memories are of the ordinary moments. Yes, the extraordinary moments do form part of our memories, but without them we wouldn’t remember our lives any less richly.

If I think about my own childhood, I remember my mom sitting in bed, memorising arias for a stage performance, or sing-alongs around the family piano, when we lived in Durban. I remember, at age six, going to my first day of primary school, feeling bereft when my sister had to go to her class, and being shocked that my teacher had a huge, maroon manila envelope with my name on it. How did she know my name?! :-) Other Durban memories (age 6 and a half to 11) include going to our church’s youth club and making tie-dye T-shirts with a young, vibey youth leader, picking green mangoes and eating them with a mixture of curry powder and salt, and regularly walking to the local swimming pool, about one and a half kilometres away, with a bunch of neighbourhood kids. I remember attention being given to my accent when we were new in Durban and again when we returned to Cape Town, four and a half years later.

Yes, I could probably write a whole blog about the extraordinary moments, but the point is they fall into a different category for a reason: they are rare and we often only became aware of them as extraordinary in hindsight.

Another thing that was triggered for me about ordinary moments was the way in which people acknowledge deceased loved ones. During this pandemic, we have all experienced more deaths than at any other time – whether people we knew directly or the loved ones of people we know. On a daily basis, we read messages on social media of yet another person who has succumbed to the virus. (In fact, over the festive season, I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I went off Facebook for a while.) And yes, sometimes people do indeed write about the extraordinary accomplishments of their deceased relatives, but most of the time the memories shared are of the ways in which the person touched others’ lives through everyday acts of kindness, words of wisdom or just their general capacity to include and accept everyone. Sometimes it’s about the food the person cooked, or their favourite flowers.  

One of the things I’ve been working on, probably for more years than I’d like to admit, is to stop comparing myself with others. I am unique. You are unique. We don’t have to look like each other, be interested in the same things or be good at the same things. I hate it when my uniqueness is found unacceptable because I don’t subscribe to a certain assumed norm. Imagine how peaceful, courageous, creative and happy we’d be if we accepted ourselves fully, without focussing on the bits we’re told should be more this or less that? Oprah once said something like this: “Why are women always shoulding all over themselves?” Funny, but true. There’s a context, of course - men don’t have half the prescriptions placed on them that women do, both in the workplace and in broader society.

I am unique, and perfectly acceptable with all my flaws. I know the theory so well. But we live in a world that bombards us with messages that equate success with being not just “better than”, but “the best”. If we’re not running our own companies and employing loads of people by a certain age, or haven’t written a book, or haven’t appeared in a magazine, or are actually showing visible signs of ageing after being alive almost 60 years, we’re somehow lacking. But you know what? Sometimes success is a lot less glamorous than what we’re encouraged to believe. Sometimes it’s choosing to stay alive and keep living your truth, despite successive traumatic experiences. Or staying in your not-dream job, because you have a family to support. Or being able to pay your rent for an entire year, without defaulting once. Or being a loyal friend, in a world where trust is easily broken and deception has become the norm. For some people, plagued by depression and anxiety, success can be just getting out of bed, taking a shower and facing another day.     

And so, on Lockdown Day 329 (in South Africa) of this unusual and devastating time in our lives, I’m going to continue following the safety regulations and trying to avoid contracting the virus. At the same time, I will continue trying to function optimally in the different parts of my life. But I can assure you that, whenever I’m not “on duty”, as either an employee or someone who runs a home, with all that that entails, I will most probably be sitting somewhere, on my own, either playing my guitar or crocheting and watching something. Keeping it simple. Keeping it real. Keeping it creative. Staying alive and sane, during a pandemic.

Right now, more than ever, it's the ordinary things that are keeping me going - one day at a time, one song at a time, one crocheted row at a time, one blanket at a time. This makes sense to me. This brings me joy. 

As long as you do no harm to yourself, to anyone else, or to Mother Nature, do whatever makes sense to you. 

It’s not a competition.