In the last few weeks of online school, in the long weeks before we would leave Sri Lanka for the first time in almost two years, Elise coined a catchphrase for these times, "Everything is nothing."
I'm not exactly sure what this means. You'd have to ask her. It is possible she may not even know what it means. But it does seem strangely and apocryphally appropriate.
I think the term first came into use as we were trying to predict whether or not a government curfew would be imposed or lifted. There was no logic. Except whatever a government official said, the opposite usually held true. A headline proclaiming definitely no lockdown to be imposed, invariably meant we were certain to be placed under a lockdown. News of a lockdown lifting, would be followed the next day by news the lockdown was extended. Hence, "Everything is nothing."
Yet, somehow we managed. Inexorably, the school year ended. Sam made a video of himself cooking a chocolate souffle for French class. He missed honor roll by three points. Clementine earned six Exceeding Expectations marks. After some initial struggles, Peter put forth an admirable effort in his PYPX final elementary school project on the street dogs of Sri Lanka.
On the last day of online school, Peter heard there was going to be a class party. He joined the class meet as he usually does for his lessons, but no one else was in the chat. Their cameras were off. Their microphones silent. Peter sat, waiting for the party to start for a full five minutes, before realizing there wasn't going to be a party. In the end, the class party -- like so many other things this year -- had been canceled. The kids were given screen-free time instead.
Elise find him some minutes later in his room, crying. Disappointment raised its ugly head again. Like a fire-breathing dragon, snuffing out hopes and dreams and thoughts of what should have been, reducing them all to piles of smoldering ash. Everything is nothing.
But like the great Phoenix of fables of old, it will be from these ashes future hopes and dream and thoughts of what will be are born, stitching themselves together, healing like a wound.
The last few weeks were tough. I'm not going to lie. When you can't escape the same four walls, it's easy to lose the forest for the trees, because it's all trees. There is no forest. You'd have to get outside to see that. And it's easy to stop trying, to ignore the bickering of children, the chores that need to be done, the dishes that need to be scrubbed in sinkfulls of soapy water and clean clothes that need to be folded and put away. It's easy to just go through the motions, the same motions you went through yesterday and the day before that, and the same motions you will go through tomorrow and the day after that. Tiny anxieties become magnified in the petri dish.
Despite the lockdown or -- perhaps because of it -- Elise and I took to running up and down our street, two ships sailing past one other in the early morning light, the orange street lights throwing our shadows up against the walls and garage doors, running with impunity past policemen sleeping in their booths and guarding the end of the lane, dressed in shiny aluminum PPE, knights at the watchtower.
There is a echo in these days. The lines don't move, and the colors don't fade. It leaves you feeling empty, the world gone shallow, gone lean. Like standing on the platform but the train won't leave. We do just enough to stay alive. Everything is nothing.
After almost two years in Sri Lanka, we're venturing out. The thought is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. It’s scary to leave the place that has sustained us through all this, but the lockdown is forcing our hand. We're past due for a new adventure.
No comments:
Post a Comment