a year of writing
We left our home in Toronto a month ago, trading elevators for empty mansions. Now we’re out in the suburbs with my brother and his family, struggling to make sense of remote work and raising children in isolation. There’s renewed gratitude in the little things. Family dinner at a full table. A video call with old friends. Opening work meetings by checking in with everyone. Blissfully ignorant babies, high on cupcakes.
Yesterday morning I threw out my back. It seems to happen every few years. It makes me feel old. The story is always the same, I bend over for some trivial task and lightning strikes across my hips and lower back. Last time it was to drink from a water fountain. This time it was to push my son’s highchair to the window so he could eat breakfast with an unexpected April snowfall. But something feels different this time. The back pain is intense, but it’s not bothering me too much.
Maybe I’m getting used to it. Or maybe it’s my mindfulness practice. More likely, it feels less severe because it pales in comparison to a deadly respiratory infection. As this virus continues to spread, it’s scary to think that none of us know how many are infected. We only know how many tests we’ve run. The future is always unknowable, but we often forget just how much the present is unknowable, too.
Brave healthcare workers and essential service providers are out there doing their best for all of us. Scientists are hungry for clues like detectives hunting a serial killer. Some politicians call for unity while others hunt for opportunity. Viral videos depict people defying physical distancing recommendations in acts of blunt, brainwashed miseducation. Talk show hosts broadcast from their living rooms; it somehow feels both authentic and apocalyptic at the same time.
The vast majority of us are on the front lines in quarantine, trying to figure out what to with ourselves. Yes, these are the front lines. It’s our job to do what we can to lessen the burden on healthcare workers and essential service providers. And amidst all this chaos, I’m stuck in bed with a sore back. With so many people suffering out there, my pain feels selfish and trivial.
I already felt guilty about not being able to help with this health crisis. Now I feel guilty about not being able to help out with the kids, either. I pull out my laptop and try to keep working, hoping my remaining clients will be okay with audio-only in an age of video calls. A calendar alert pops up: “1 year since first post on attention activist”.
A year ago today, I wrote the first email to this list. It was a different world when I set this reminder. I remember my mindset clearly. I had a loose book outline and some vague ideas about publishing something one day. As the year went on, those initial plans all started to evaporate. Whatever was left of them completely vanished in light of this pandemic. My plan for this newsletter is now simplified down to two steps:
Keep writing.
See what happens.
I’ve let go of any expectations. It’s clearer to me now more than ever that I am not writing in pursuit of any specific outcome other than authenticity and connection. It’s been a meaningful, almost therapeutic process for me. I hope it’s felt the same for you. Thanks for reading, I’m glad you’re here.
I try not to ask much of you, but I thought I’d make an exception for our anniversary. If these emails have been engaging, helpful, or inspiring for you, it would mean a lot if you shared a little bit about why. I’d love to know why you’re out there, still reading. I’d love to know what you’re getting out of this so I can provide more of it. You can reply directly to me with some feedback, or if you’re willing to help grow the list, you could write a public note to your family, friends, or followers.
Alright, I just set a reminder for April 25th, 2021. See you there.
Jay Vidyarthi