Okay.

It’s day three of the 21-day lockdown (which, by the way, I fully anticipate being extended beyond 21 days, so refuse to put my hopes into a countdown) and I find myself going from okay to  not okay and back again multiple times a day; multiple times an hour, even.

I woke up to the sun shining in my windows this morning; this always gets me out of bed quicker with a sense of optimism for the day.  Okay.

I sip my coffee on the patio, my Jay pacing around me, back and forth, a high-pitched whine every other breath or so coming from him, unable to understand why we’re not going on our usual morning jog.  I think about the fact that a few weeks ago I was so excited and sure this was going to be my marathon year; something I’ve always wanted to do but life prevented, until now.  I’m registered and everything, so committed to this goal…. Not okay.

I have a lovely chat with a friend, whom I haven’t talked to in years, but have a shared history and it’s so nice to be heard, understood, and have the time to invest in reconnecting with others.  Okay.

I organized my pantry, freezer, refrigerator, and kitchen cupboards. I made some really delicious soup, and plan to make bagels soon. Okay.

I took out my anxiety on my flower beds yesterday; ripping and pulling and piling and pruning away all the creeping weeds choking the plants I love, and destroying all that awful rosemary the person who lived here before me must have loved.  I was sweaty and it was sunny and it felt great. Okay

And when I was all done pulling and piling and pruning, I sat in the yard and cried. Not okay.

I video chatted with my mom for the first time, it was awesome. Okay

I’m excited to have space and time to really focus on some work projects, and I feel the difference the lack of work stress has had on my body in the last few days. Okay.

I scroll through the increasingly depressing news headlines, wondering at what our future holds.  I think about my own privilege, that which is causing me the most grief is the losses of experiences few on the planet will ever get to have. It’s realizing that this uncertainty, this wondering at the future, what it looks like and how all this out of our control will affect what little we can control; the people in Syria live with that uncertainty every day.  And in Palestine, and in Yemen, and in millions of other homes, towns, and regions across the globe.  And what do I do with that? Not okay.

I know I’m not alone in this; nearly everyone I talk to identifies the fact that we're all on the spectrum between okay and utter despair, or fear, or grief, or doubt, or lonely, or anxiety, or whatever else big feel happens to be at the front of the pack at that moment in time.  The world looks very different to the one we knew; and sometimes that can feel overwhelming.  But also, I’ve done hard things before, and I’ll do more hard things in the future, and someday this will be that one thing that happened that one time.  And until then, I’m going to look forward to that first hike, first jog, first dinner out with friends once the lockdown is lifted; I’m going to focus on what I can control instead of what I can’t, and seek out and enjoy the benefits of a slower pace of life.  One of which is a much improved flower garden.

There were more plants in the garbage pile than in the garden once I was finished! (it was embarrassingly bad...)

Lockdown.

The President of South Africa announced on Monday a strict nationwide lockdown starting tonight at midnight, with military enforcement.  This was not surprising nor unwelcome; our (widely under-reported, I assume) infection numbers are growing rapidly and from a public health perspective it’s the right thing to do.

When it was first announced, I felt a huge sense of relief; my work and life in South Africa has been ten of the most stressful months I’ve ever experienced, and while I love it, I’ve been on the edge of total burnout for awhile.  To be able to breathe for a bit is such a gift and to force myself into a simpler life made my introvert heart very happy. At first, they indicated that jogging and dog walking would be fine; it’s a beautiful end-of-summer season here in South Africa, and I have a great setup to work from home, with my Jay to keep me company, 21 days at home and in my neighborhood felt like quite a gift.

And then they took away jogging and dog walking and suddenly I felt the whiplash of lockdown closer resembling a jail cell than a welcome relief. I need exercise for my mental sanity, and my Jay will whine incessantly for a walk he can’t have; I can see both of us falling into that dark, seedy combo of depression and anxiety. 

But it is what it is, and I’m giving myself regular pep talks; I’ll throw a ball for my Jay to chase in my (little) yard and I can walk laps around my house and garden. I’ll do yoga every day and yard work will get me outside, at least on sunny days.  I have a lot of work I’m excited to have the time to really dig into, as long as we don’t have problems with our internet provision.  I constantly find myself wavering between positivity and negativity, anxiety and hope, with that nervous pit in my stomach a constant companion.  If I let myself open it up, I get all the what-if questions: what if I should have evacuated? What if all hell breaks loose? What if I get sick? What if my family gets sick and I’m a million miles away? What if this thing gets much, much worse?  What if lockdown lasts for months?  So much unknown, so much uncertainty, so far from home.

But I do want this time to be fruitful and beneficial; so I’m making a plan that includes meditation and yard work and cooking and working and relaxing and reading and thinking about how, when this is all over, I’ll take a beach vacation and hopefully set up a life that isn’t quite so stressful on the daily. I also want to set up some video calls with friends and family; even if I haven’t talked with you in ages, if that’s something you’d like, please do contact me!

Today I went on one last lovely hike with my Jay, enjoying the fresh air and exercise and the soul-filling beauty of nature.  I just sat by the creek, listening to the waterfall, breathing in as much peace as my lungs could hold, pressing down the fear, the anxiety, the doubt, the questions, holding them at bay for as long as possible.  And now we do the next right thing, for as long as we need to; breathing in and out, sunrise and sunset, holding on to hope that this b-grade low budget sci-fi movie we find ourselves living in has a wonderfully anticlimactic ending sooner rather than later.

In the waiting.

I’m sitting at my computer, waiting for the face of the President of South Africa to appear and begin to speak in my livestream feed.  I’m beginning to regret not getting TV services while here, but my internet is pretty good and I can find most things I’m looking for, including tonight’s Presidential address.

South Africa jumped from 273 to 402 cases in the last day, and I’m 100% sure that the actual infections are wildly un- or under-reported.  We’re ahead of Italy in terms of number of infections for week 2 of the outbreak in this country; not a race I wish on anyone. That could be because there’s more testing here than there was in Italy in the beginning; let’s hope that’s true. 

Most flights in and out have been cancelled. I’m expecting President Ramaphosa to announce even stricter social distancing requirements; which, in my opinion as a public health expert, are necessary and probably too late. Let’s hope not. 

I’m used to living a long way from family and friends; I’ve lived in Africa almost continuously since 2009, but I’ve always known in the back of my head that if things get really bad, I can always go home.  And I have.  I went home on a last minute trip several years ago to say goodbye to a loved one with cancer; I’ve gone home for holidays, for time with family, for just a break from being an expat in a foreign land.  So I’m used to living far away, but this feels a lot more vulnerable, to not be able to leave if I want to.  It’s a bit unsettling.

I could have left and I chose to stay.  Any American staff wanting to leave were able to, before the flight restrictions set in.  But I have a great house here, a dog, a fridge full of food, a pool in my backyard, security guards at my door in minutes, and I just couldn’t imagine trying to deal with quarantine and working somewhere else, in an apartment or hotel room somewhere, alone, abandoning my dog, no car, etc.  And I’m a low risk individual, so I’ve chosen to stay.  I’m gonna hunker down like everyone else in the world, and hope this blows over sooner rather than later. 

I wonder what the President is going to say, waiting here for him to start speaking. Some speculate that he’ll call on the military to enforce stay-at-home orders.  South Africa has the highest population of people living with HIV/AIDS in the world; every one of them immunocompromised, meaning if the outbreak continues to spread, we’re likely to have a high mortality rate.  It’s so much unknown. 

It’s 7:45 and the 7:30 address hasn’t started; this is pretty common here.  Waiting.  When I go through some cross cultural learning sessions with Volunteers and their South African counterparts, I give them the following scenario:

A meeting is scheduled to start at 9am. 

And then I ask: when will the meeting start?

My American Volunteers all say 9am.  Their South African counterparts laugh and say anytime between 9 and the end of the day, or maybe tomorrow. They are used to waiting.

The uncertainty is unsettling, but makes me think about how confident we usually are in our everyday lives that tomorrow will look just like yesterday.  I have no idea what tomorrow looks like now, and in reality, we never do; how is this changing my outlook on my days, my hours, the inhale and exhale of life in my lungs right here, right now?

I’m not sure.  Things to think about.  I think I’ll have a lot of time for thinking in the coming days.  For now, I’m breathing in, breathing out, thankful for another breath, and hoping that somehow we see this through to the other side and emerge from the shadows stronger, more centered, more grateful versions of ourselves.  In the meantime, I'll try to get comfortable in the waiting.  

Jay is patiently waiting for some food to drop... He's better at waiting than I am. 

Standstill.

I knew that at some point I would want to dust off this blog and start writing again.  Today is the day.

It's like we're living in a movie, isn't it?

For those that need a refresher, I've been living in Pretoria, South Africa for about ten months now, running programming and training for Peace Corps.  It's been quite a ten months.  I've got some stories that maybe I'll start sharing and some that I hope are never spoken again.  I have a deep love and respect for Peace Corps, having served as a Volunteer in Benin 2009-2011, and I haven't really left Africa much since then.

In my ten months in this role, I've managed some significantly stressful events.  Consolidations, behavioral issues, staffing challenges, even the death of a Volunteer.  I thought it couldn't get any more stressful than that.

I was wrong. Welcome to March 2020, where Peace Corps evacuated all 7000+ Volunteers from across the globe in a matter of days, while up against an ever-changing landscape of flight cancellations and border closures, staff anxiety, increasing infection numbers, and questions about what this all means.

So here we are.  The photo above is today's newspaper, and I bought a copy thinking this is one of those moments I'll want to tell my grand-nieces and grand-nephews someday.  This is my generations' second life-transforming event; I remember distinctly the vast differences of life before and after 9/11, having been in college at the time, and now I believe our lives will be segmented once again to life-before and life-after the virus.

And I welcome you to peek into my little corner of the world.

Love, Krissy