Items lost

 

Five months into the pandemic I ordered a desk and set up my office in my bedroom, 16” from my bed. For the first five months I had been hunched over the kitchen island on a bar stool with my feet in the spice basket, and four feet away Emma worked from the couch - it was not ideal.  Emma came home a day after I started working remotely and, because she was still teaching in Ireland, often taught from her bed in the guest room at 4 am (10 am in Dublin).   During the days, we dodged phone calls and meetings (Emma like to work with music on, I do not), often taking calls in the bathroom or running upstairs if the call didn’t require access to a laptop.  I had grand visions of working from the deck, lovely calming view at the ready, but the reality was that the VPN was spotty out there and the noise factors of wind, trucks backing up, and neighbors also working outside meant the conditions were never perfect. Occasionally I could rock a few hours working on a spreadsheet if the sun and heat cooperated.

The purchase of the $89 folding desk and company-supplied desk chair was a game changer.  Now Emma and I had designated work spaces and could “reserve” the upstairs (with the background always blurred; I didn’t want anyone to imagine me in the bed!) for presentations or zoom calls where privacy was preferred. 

And so the months dragged on.  I popped into the office one day and grabbed a second monitor; we navigated our first remote annual meeting; the weather changed and the siren call of working on the deck faded.  The hours were long, long, long and I had to set reminders to get up and move around as I hunkered down trying to do the same job I had been doing but now with one hand tied behind my back.   Emma and I had lunch together every day, heating up leftovers and watching Love Island or Schitt’s Creek – a lovely time of companionship in an otherwise fraught environment. As 2020 ended, the guest room fold out couch (meant for brief overnight visits!) became more uncomfortable for our gurl.

January 2021 was horrendous. Declan’s apartment was a half a mile from the Capitol, and he could hear all the commotion and terror all day long on January 6. We begged him to come to our apartment that night, but the streets were blocked a good ½ mile from his building; this impacted his ability to get Ubers from months afterward.  For the rest of January until the Inauguration, police boats patrolled the Anacostia 24/7 to ensure that no insurrectionists entered DC via the riverbanks, often puling boats over, lights flashing.  This was one of the most disturbing aspects of the pandemic for me – watching this activity from my desk day in and out during the weeks leading up to the January 20^th.   I remember telling my boss one day that I was signing off because the stress of witnessing this activity was too much.

In February I decided to look for a new job and spend nights and weekends at my desk writing cover letters, not hearing back from most of the places I applied, having the occasional interview via Zoom (nearby bed carefully blurred in the background.) The rest is history – new job, quick realization it wasn’t a good fit, retirement.

Which brings me to now.  

I was sitting in my adorable guest room last week with its whale and New Orleans art, the sassy turquoise couch and uncluttered surfaces.  Up floated the question as to why I wasn’t writing more now that I had time.  I think I envisioned an EB White-like discipline of sitting down each day at the same time, writing for a few hours, and generally being productive. Then the answer came (as answers often do if you create a calm and inviting atmosphere that makes listening accessible): I still had some PTSD when I sat down at my bedroom desk.  It wasn’t obvious, but on occasion I would say to myself, It’s okay. You don’t have to be here for 9 hours. This is just some volunteer work or correspondence.  Hmmm.  I thought I was on to something.  As soon as I could, I folded up the desk and reconfigured the set up in the guest room. Ahhhhh.  Not only is the space inviting and calm, but the negative space in our bedroom is transformative. It’s not a big room and having the desk jammed in between bed and window made it feel crowded.

There’s no association with two difficult years at this desk location - nothing but net (or some appropriate sports idiom). And while the view is lacking, I don’t need the distraction of dancing sailboats or sleek crew teams on the river to do what I need and want to do: write.  And so, encouraged by a slew of classmates at Reunion who insist that I gather my FB musings into a book, I am going to do just that. I’m being intentional and public – please hold me accountable.  After all, I have nothing to lose in trying!

I may flip the desk around to face the whales (painting by the talented Marie Ahearn) but I already feel a calmness and sense of purpose not available to me in the old locale.  Sometime a change in perspective is just what is needed.  And a turquoise couch never hurts.