The clock in the square strikes a happy chime signaling 10 a.m., then curiously shifts to a monotonous, somber bell to count out the hours. Even the clock seems to be disaffected by the persistent agitation that is covid, sighing as it goes through the motions, perhaps emptied of the usual spirit that would fill the space here with communal bustle and hubbub. The fountain nearby splashes meditatively, layering a touch of white noise onto the atmosphere.
I got into the habit of Sunday waffles at the café in Sointula. So, today, I’m in Qualicum Beach, and grateful for the open bistro that unfortunately does takeout only, but has available several outdoor, amply spaced tables. French toast and a large coffee, and sausages. I should have chosen ham.
The misty air puts me smoothly into a coastal mood. I can’t smell the sea here, but I’ll make my way down soon enough, after I get to know the village better.
An article posted on Psyche caught my interest: “How to Wait Well”. 2020 has been a year of waiting, and wanting. For me, it is the continuation of transitions and living fully through the in-between space that seems most natural and conducive toward my larger aims.
It has been a grand year for reflection, self-inquiry, and outright self-diagnostics as the world around us is jarred by unsettling, unfamiliar extremes, upsetting many who’ve come to trust in the worldly operating systems, causing us any number of emotional and cognitive dissonances. An unspoken part of us knew it was coming, yet that isn’t an adequate remediation after months of unnatural existence.
How shall we wait, and how do we do it well? How do we observe the changes without absorbing the effects? When do we get to feel normal, in absolutely abnormal, ceaseless, inhumane conditions?
The clock still counts to twelve only twice a day. That’s all we get. That’s not likely ever to change.
“As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so a life well spent brings happy death.” ~ Leonardo da Vinci