A Sweet, Maybe Sappy Story of Love in the Time of Covid-19

I know it’s Women’s History Month. And Equal Pay Day is right around the corner. And so is the coronavirus. So I am going to hit the pause button on wondering why there’s no Men’s History Month (duh, patriarchy doesn’t need more celebration), and I’m going to hit the pause button on Equal Pay Day (it pisses me off that we’re still talking about the gap).

Instead I’m gonna tell you a story about my shelter-in-place day so you can have a heartfelt belly laugh and find some joy in this crazy moment. 

My husband and I are 61 (medically translated: old) and now live in the pacific northwest on Orcas Island. We’re isolated. We have neighbors, but still. We’ve been told to shelter in place, and we’re thinking, “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” 

And then at the same time those same wise medical folks say it’s important to get some exercise. Another duh. Walk, hike, swim, yoga, run (scoff on that last one). Be active. 

So we take a walk from our house to the beach. Like NYC and SFO and LA, it’s a ghost town here. Unlike those cities the population is around 5K. AKA, scant humans. On the way back from the beach we pass by Mijitas Mexican Kitchen. One of our new favorite haunts. It’s closed except to pickups as all restaurants are, but music is blaring from the outdoor speakers and the song playing is Falling Slowly.

We stop and listen: 

I don't know you

But I want you

All the more for that

Words fall through me

And always fool me

And I can't react

And games that never amount

To more than they're meant

Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home

We've still got time

Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice

You'll make it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me

And I can't go back 

Moods that take me and erase me

And I'm painted black

You have suffered enough

And warred with yourself

It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home

We've still got time 

Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice

You'll make it now 

Falling slowly sing your melody

I'll sing along

We listen to the whole song and I have a break with reality and grab my husband, hugging him tightly, and I say, “Ack, I love this song and I love you, Charlie,” and he says, “I love you so much.” I’m sobbing on his shoulder, which in turn causes him to well up. And then like bad dogs peeing on the carpet we look around, worried about having broken the social distance rules so publicly and a couple of actual real people pass by and one of them says, “You’re gonna be okay. I’d hug you too if I could.”

We outgas our relief in mix of blubbery thanks and apologies and soldier on home. 

It’s so sappy, I know. And I know like I know gravity that you know this kinda moment.

We are all holding so much stress and anxiety. We listen to news, we read news pings on our phones, we talk logically and productively about what to do and how to behave, and then there’s this little teenie tiny space for how it all feels. Where the feels of this change is finding residence in our collective and ancestral psyches. And in our hearts. And in our bodies.

Let’s just be with that. It’s hard. Yes, yes, yes, this too shall pass, but we’re not there yet.

Be with it. Come back to your body. And be in love. Please.

In the meantime, for those of you who are newly remote workers, here’s a trick I’ve learned working remotely as a coach for 13 years. Dress for work. Wear your shoes. Get up, make coffee, have breakfast. Get in your car. Back out of your space/driveway… and turn around and back in. Go to work as normal in your not-normal home office that may become your new-normal office. For those of you who commute on buses and trains, do the same by getting out the front door and walking a few blocks and back. Not perfect. But who/what is right now? You get my drift. Adapt. Daily.

And cry when the moment moves you.

Lisa Gates is owner of Story Happens Here, a leadership coaching practice dedicated to helping unapologetically ambitious women own their story, control their narrative, and rise up.