The Subtle Art of Actually Giving a F*ck
I pulled my rolled aquamarine mat and laid it on the moist grass, drizzled by the nimbus clouds that covered the sky not long before we arrived. Spring is here.
We found ourselves an umbrella under the sprawling pink blooms of a cherry blossom tree. I lay down, crossed my arms under my head and looked up, there was a blanket of the same pink flowers contrasted against the deep blue sky behind it. If you listened closely, you could hear the petals touch each other as they were swayed by the cold wind.
For the first time in almost sixty days, it felt normal again. At least almost.
***
It was quiet later in the night. Just like every night of those past sixty. I thought maybe I was missing the noise usually supplied by the streets around me. Or maybe I was just longing for the fact that the noise meant normal.
For the past month, I have been trying to write stories but the absence of movement before my eyes had my mind struggle in drought. I could not draw inspiration from anything around me no matter how hard I tried. Sometimes, I would stare at the parking lot from my window, wondering if there was a story there waiting to be found. It was silly but I was desperate. All I needed was one to get my train moving.
I thought again of that afternoon on the lawn. It has been sunny but the rain had left a subtle frost that had us slightly shivering. The image of the pink and blue contrast was very vivid in my mind that when I closed my eyes, I could see it.
Was this the story I was looking for?
***
I was obsessed with the idea of wanting to write something unique and significant, something that would stir. I had overlooked what was already before me. I realised I did not need to look far, our mundane lives were in itself a story.
It has been sixty days since we have been re-stuck in isolation. Arguably, the longest we have ever experienced in our lives. To some, we are just a meme, but to us who have been struggling with trying to perceive the glass half full, it is an everyday battle. A battle that’s unlikely to end soon. So if we cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel, how do we hold up?
We count the small wins.
***
In a world where we only count the wins that integrate into our identities, we tend to forget celebrating the small ones, the ones that actually get us through the day. Why is this important? Simply because we deserve to feel good.
When we struggle, we direct our attention to look at the bigger picture, forcing us to stomach the circumstances because we were told that it is not the destination but the journey that matters. It is in the same context that I understood why being in lockdown has relatively been a struggle for me. I was far too focused on getting out of it that I forgot to pat myself on the back for making it through it.
However, in the process of looking at the bright side, I think it is also very important to not belittle our feelings, that we should just brush off the negative emotions we unconsciously collect as we are led to believe that those do not help us at all. On the contrary, the feeling of isolation, anxiety and sadness are what validate our being human, so attempting to rationalise and disregard them is not only futile, it is imbecile. We can control it, but we can not stop it. What do we do then?
We count the small wins.
***
If it’s not the lockdown, it’s something else. There’s always something else, and it’s easy to say just brush it off and condition our minds to choose our battles; to autopilot and disregard what’s negative and bin it immediately. But this grounds us away from reality and in return, induces false positivity. It’s a band-aid solution.
On the other hand, counting the small wins helps us look at our reality at a granular level. It’s not just merely looking at the glass half full, small wins are not just perceptions. They are part of realities that are often disregarded.
Counting small wins isn’t new. In fact, I have heard it so many times that it has already jaded me. But lockdown has forced me to count these little leaps so I can get by.
There are days in lockdown when circumstances drive a sedentary lifestyle and although the intent to repel is there, the willpower required seems herculean. So I tried to go back to running again. It’s one of the things that I find satisfying in or out of lockdown, hoping that this would refuel my shortage of endorphins. I started doing 3 kilometers but it always felt daunting to think I had to do more to beat the previous day’s. Every meter that I needed to do more felt insurmountable and in between sprints, I would stop to gasp for air and pant heavily. But 3 kilometers became 5, 5 became 7, 7 became 10 and before I knew it, I would be too much in the zone that I would aimlessly run not realising I had reached a completely unfamiliar street. Some of those are routes I would recommend but there are those that I find too dodgy for me to intentionally go. The point is, I kept going until what was hard wasn’t so much anymore. I was winning. I didn’t realise it then but I do now. I was winning against circumstances I thought did not have a silver lining.
***
Our minds are influenced that winning is always a gratifying event. They make us feel good. They make us feel happy and it’s a domino effect. If we feel good now, it lingers for a while and before we run out of that temporary euphoria, we count the next small win until that bliss becomes an addiction. The kind I don’t suppose anyone would object to. Soon that becomes a habit.
***
That afternoon, I felt better than most days of the past sixty. On the dewed grass, under the cotton candy tree, distantly reacquainted with friends and although the sheer breeze was a bit uncomfortable, it felt normal and what was normal was beautiful.
Pondering about that dreamy moment, it enthralled me beyond the lockdown. It gave me a different perspective and it in itself was a small win.
I realised that every time I choose to count the small wins, it was already a story. This time, it didn’t matter who I was telling that story to. I was enough of an audience to validate that my wins, albeit small, count.