Eeyore Stamps On A Blue Day
As I sat in my writing room one morning a few days ago, early autumn light pooled at my feet. With the window open, the air was fresh and cool, relegating a long summer of heat and humidity to months past. I burrowed into an oversized chair near my desk, and tried to reject—due to my extreme unhappiness—my current mood: without doubt, the promise of this bright day simply could not lessen the funk I’d been in most of the week.
I well understood that my malaise was hardly different from what so many other people world-wide were experiencing, but the latest COVID recommendations had nevertheless hit hard. Mask mandates, restrictions on dining out, social distancing from even the ones we loved. My world––which had expanded so broadly after two jabs of the Moderna vaccine––had begun to shrink. Now I was wrestling, once again, with the prospect of a limited life.
The steady thrum of reported Delta Variant deaths and news of the shortages of hospital beds across swaths of the South had been jarring in particular. Wouldn’t the months ahead only bring more bad news? Wouldn’t pessimism overshadow my efforts to enjoy even the smallest pleasures in a day? All of it presaged a future that appeared grim. How I needed a booster shot: not one of the vaccine, but instead a dose of resilience that could be scored close to my heart.
Who would have thought? I mumbled into the silence of my room. In the late spring, amidst all the social media hoopla and the government’s assurances that the end of the epidemic was near, I’d been invited to deliver a webinar about post-pandemic anxiety—to offer tips, as a psychologist, on the best ways to adjust to the expected “new normal.” Six weeks later, of course, the buzz had shifted again: break-through infections and quick contagion among the unvaccinated became an overarching theme of everyday life.
But back in May and early June, I hadn’t imagined that we would soon be confronting the Variant’s threat. Or how heated the country’s vaccine wars would become. Now, as my eyes scanned the patterns of shadow and light on the walls, dejection overwhelmed me: how naïve I had been only five months before. A part of me even wished I hadn’t participated in the webinar presentation at all, although this was plainly irrational. On the other hand, I also wished—an unreasonable wish as well—that I’d had the foresight to know that the program should have been billed as: “Adjusting to COVID, Part Two.”
Sinking deeper into the chair’s cushion in self-defense, I had a fantasy—how about offering to lead a “Round Two” seminar later in the fall? Then I laughed at myself. Considering my mood, it was obvious that I was currently better suited to be a participant rather than a presenter.
And, just as I knew that it wasn’t reasonable to suggest that I head up a pandemic-themed webinar at this juncture, I also understood that my wish for a resilience that was injectable––a booster inoculation that would protect me from my isolation and helplessness––was just that. A fantasy. But I also realized, as I at last began schlepping through my day and got up to make my coffee, what a mistake it would be to expose myself, without some kind of protection, to the voice of my inner Eeyore. Thinking or behaving like Winnie-the-Pooh’s perpetually gloomy pal was a role I easily slipped into when feeling mentally spent. And always, this was to my dismay. I wanted more for myself—and for those around me whom I loved.
So, as my day slipped by, and with this warning about turning into a A.A. Milne character, I searched my mind once more for a mental reset: a way of thinking that would help me to build my stamina and so regain perspective. What I wanted was to breathe in hope. Taste inspiration.
Pie in the sky stuff? I wondered the next morning as I mulled over the ways in which I might kick-start some path toward these mind-sets I craved. But my focus wandered then, and I began aimlessly shuffling through a stack of “maybe later” newspaper and magazine articles that I’d piled high on the family room table a few weeks before. Soon, and quite unexpectedly, I became immersed in a process of sorting these pieces by topic. Before long, an essay written by an author I admired snagged my attention: Margaret Reinkl’s “I Don’t Want to Spend the Rest of My Days Grieving” (New York Times, 8/9/21.)
The article, written with style and beauty, addressed the issue of how we adapt—or how we don’t—in the face of adversity. Reinkl’s column drew upon her usual keen observations about man’s threats to nature and her concerns for the planet, all the while elucidating her more major and important point: “I also remind myself sternly to attend to what is not dying, to focus as much on the exquisite beauties of this earth as on its staggering losses.”
The essay underscored for me two key reminders that I hoped would guide me in the days I now faced: first, to reframe my perspective; second to change my outlook. And so, despite how much I’d still welcome a quick fix, I’m ready to accept that I’m not going to fulfill this vow with magic, and certainly not with the help of a vial of vaccine. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to declare defeat yet.
Nevertheless, yesterday did not have an auspicious beginning for my new resolution: the ubiquitous stories in the Chicago Tribune about gang-related shootings once again drew down my mood; and that morning, I had also learned that one branch of my extended family––seven vaccinated members all––had contracted the Delta Variant while spending time together. None among them was untouched, all suffered from everything like headache to fever to going to bed with worse symptoms. I was worried that their condition might deteriorate. Outside, it was gray and chilly, and rained most of the afternoon. Additionally, the foot I’d broken weeks before was aching.
Still, my day turned out to be both busy and productive. Hard at work at my desk, I made numerous phone calls and wrote texts to kin who were in need of cheer and love; I did research on how I could best support a non-profit initiative that will provide services to Chicago children impacted by their city’s violence. Despite my sadness over all of this, I found myself energized because I was able to help—even if it was not in the most direct manner. Help is help, no matter how you craft it, if the aim is to offer useful or necessary alternatives.
Not every day, I am certain, will be as emotionally successful as yesterday’s was. But last evening, as I arranged myself in a comfortable ball in my writing room chair, I felt my spirits lift just a bit, and smiled with gratitude for the day’s small triumphs: in the end, how easy it had been to keep my tribe close, and how satisfying was the outreach I’d made to a disadvantaged group of strangers. Empathy had been the boost my immune system needed. Discovering once again the pleasure of connecting with others and doing good would surely help stave off the future blue days experienced by this particular Eeyore.