Where the Lost Things Go
It’s day 20-ish of our stay at home order here in Minnesota. I don’t know what the exact day is because, for my own sanity, I’ve been trying not to focus on that. Instead, I’ve been working on centering myself on my family, some work, and some self-care. It’s a strange balancing act that changes daily and will continue to do just that.
Today is Easter Sunday. We started out with homemade cinnamon rolls that I stayed up until 1am preparing. If you’ve ever made cinnamon rolls from scratch, you know that it takes some time and patience that in the end is 100% worth it. That was exactly the case this time around and I was exhausted but thrilled with the dough that rose perfectly and the pure joy that came from my husband and my sons with every bite. In between dough rises, I did the things that need doing the night before Easter.
After finally drifting off to sleep somewhere around 1:30am, my oldest awoke at 6:25am because he thought he heard the Easter Bunny. I heard the creak of the 5th stair as he tried and failed to creep silently to the living room to investigate. I didn’t go back to sleep after that. So, in a zombie-like state after getting my escapee tucked back in bed, I read for an hour until both boys woke up at 7:30. We talked about what Easter is all about and that, even thought there is so much to be excited for when it comes to Easter baskets, there was more to this day than candy and toys.
After the boys checked out their baskets and hunted for eggs around the house, we all showered and got dressed for “church”. When we were in our Sunday best (which, for the 5 year old, meant a sweatshirt and sweatpants BUT AT LEAST HE SHOWERED), we ate our cinnamon rolls while watching our church’s Easter service online. Scrunched together on our couch, fighting for space with the boys’ Easter bunnies from their baskets, we snuggled, drank coffee, cried (Brad and me), each ate two cinnamon rolls, and reveled in the joy of being part of our thoughtful, intentional church community.
The afternoon consisted of lots of snow. And naps. And reading the first Harry Potter book. And tablets. And TV shows. It was lovely.
For dinner, we all worked together to make lamb ravioli with rosemary cream sauce. I wanted to cry with joy the entire time and nearly did just that when we sat down in our “fancy” dining room for the first time since we moved into this house. I sat there, a goofy grin glued to my face, wondering how I got so lucky to have these people as *my* people. They rolled fresh pasta dough while I made the filling. We all took turns filling the dough and using the fancy ravioli cutter to make wavy edges. And then we sat down, two wine glasses filled with milk and two filled with wine, to a candlelit “fancy” dinner complete with tissue paper flowers and carrot napkin rings.
This time has been so strange and I, like many of you, have oscillated between contentment and fear, sadness and joy. Being able to press this giant pause button on life has, for us, been a blessing. I recognize our privilege and acknowledge that with every breath I take. There is no shortage of sadness for so many families right now. I wish that didn’t have to happen and I wish there was an easy way to fix it.
With that in mind, I don’t want these lives that are forever altered to be taken for granted. The slowness of this time speaks to me and to my family. We aren’t rushing to anything and we are still enriching the lives of our children and ourselves. They are learning so much that they wouldn’t have if we had continued over scheduling and over worrying and over EVERYTHING.
When this is “over”, which I don’t think is an accurate way to put it because our world will be forever changed from this point on, I want us to hold on to this sense of slowness. I feel more myself now than I have in…maybe ever as an adult? I’ve been making art, cooking what feels right, and spending time with reading and playing and listening to my children. We go on family walks. We sleep differently. We are more conscious of what we consume. It is a better way to live for ourselves and for our planet.
And now, I’m sitting here listening to Jamie Cullum sing “Where the Lost Things Go”, and looking out the window at a snow covered yard feeling grateful for all of it. I pray, with all of my heart, that we do not forget the bright spots if we are lucky enough to have them and that we make lasting changes beyond those required of us during a global pandemic. Because yeah- that’s happening.
I don’t have perfect words for it all, but this sums it up pretty well:
Memories you've shed
Gone for good you feared
They're all around you still
Though they've disappeared
Nothing's really left
Or lost without a trace
Nothing's gone forever
Only out of place
So maybe now the dish
And my best spoon
Are playing hide and seek
Just behind the moon
Waiting there until
It's time to show
Spring is like that now
Far beneath the snow
Hiding in the place
Where the lost things go
Time to close your eyes
So sleep can come around
For when you dream you'll find
All that's lost is found
Maybe on the moon
Or maybe somewhere new
Maybe all you're missing lives inside of you
Where the Lost Things Go from Mary Poppins
