On Being

What does it mean “to be?”

A simple Google search will autofill “to be” into a plethora of options:

• How to be more productive
• How to be less of yourself.
• How to be authentic
• How to be happy
• How to be mindful
• How to be ___ (fill in the blank with any choice verb)

We need to be more. We are not enough. While I am a proponent of self-care and mental well-being, I often worry that even in the culture of wellness, the predominant idea is that we all need to be doing more of something. I have to say, I am a busy lady. I’m living in NYC. I can be zen, for like 2.3 seconds! (Then it’s GTFO of my way lady! I’m trying to get to work!!!) I’m a professional who was always on the go, working, then trying to fit in a fitness routine, walking the dog, seeing friends, grabbing drinks, exploring the city, going to shows, walking in the park, planning the next trip, organizing a dinner party… You get the point! I was bad at sitting on my butt. One of my friends told me “I need to take a vacation, after I vacation with you!”

I have mentioned my need to “do all the things” and fill my time with things that end with an -ing. The last 9 months have put life on hold. I had planned several trips, many bucket-list items, plans for visiting family and things I’d be doing at work. Tickets were bought to shows, and plans were made for weekend get-a-ways, baseball games, and summer activities.

My time in NYC was limited, and I was initially (and selfishly) angry that MY wants were not being met. I worked so hard to “get here” and now, here I was, with the time, money, and company to do all the things I always wanted to do! The life I envisioned in my mind was not going to happen.

What I have to say though, is that had it not been for this time to slow down, I would have continued to fill my days with dinners, classes, wellness routines, work, and friends. I was not comfortable in my own skin, but living amongst the chaotic backdrop of NYC filled the holes that needed patching. It was like sand running through a cracked teacup. My “busy life” filled in the cracks for a few seconds, but then just as quickly, it was barren and cracked again.

Despite all my resistance to finding peace and comfort in solemnity, it happened eventually. I started to enjoy taking walks in the park with no where in particular to go. I actually wasn’t in a rush to get somewhere, so I was there. Taking in the there-ness. I noticed the birds (apparently, they do exist in NYC). I learned how to make croissants and left them for friends. I baked bread and learned about dutch ovens and cast iron pans. I started a gratitude practice, writing down a few things that brought a smile to my face, folding up the paper and putting it in a jar to be read one day.

I actually lit candles in my home, played music and took in the sunset gracing the spectacular city skyline with it’s final rays gracefully giving way to the twilight every night. I often sat with a glass of wine in the corner of my apartment, which I so desperately wanted specifically for the view, feet up, just taking it in. I rolled out the yoga mat, and did yoga on my own. I read books, I painted, I cooked. I no longer felt like I was missing out on invitations to dinner, drinks or shows. I just was existing in my own way without the pressures of fitting myself into the fabric of the people who I was surrounded by.

One of the most wonderful things to happen to me during this time is that I learned that the people who are meant to be in my life, will be in it. I have always struggled with this concept, and given my neurotic type A personality paired with frequent moving the last few years, I had a constant and gnawing fear that I would be someone forgotten, unwanted, or just a passing moment in someone’s life with no reciprocity in the feeling of the importance they held in mine.

It was easy to tag along when friends were grabbing drinks. NYC was no longer doing that. Despite my fears of “not making friends in NYC,” my relationships actually grew closer with people in NYC, and friends scattered across the country. We made effort to plan time to talk, walk in the park together, watch a movie, or check in on each other.

In a lot of ways, being forced to do less, allowed me to give space for others to do more for me.

Despite the havoc and chaos that COVID wrecked, it also brought my sister back into my life. We were on a rocky road the last few years, (Ok.. that’s a lie, it was more like, the road was Mt. Kilimanjaro). But given that both of us are healthcare providers, we started checking in daily, albeit politely and with notable distance, it was consistent. Over time, we started regularly scheduling time to call and Facetime, being mindful of each other’s schedules. Eventually, it became our new (which used to be the old) normal.

Sixteen blocks or 1200 miles distance did not matter to those that I am close with. We found time to connect, with intentionality. I finally learned what people meant when they say that home isn’t a place. My home isn’t in one place, but is and will continue to be scattered in the hearts of those those whom I have met on my path. It’s not what I imagined my life would be, but reading it aloud, sounds perfectly serendipitous.

This last year helped me find my home – within myself, my family, and my friends.