When we grow accustomed to the weekly momentum of life in America and rely on it to dictate our energy levels and motivation and even direction, when we rely on it to keep us in line, in our lane, like the bumpers in bowling alleys that keep our ball from sliding into the gutter, if we slip up—in whatever way we define our own slip-up (a relationship misstep, a night we stayed up too late, too many days in a row eating junk food or binging on TV)—we can trust that the “road” as laid out by the life we’ve chosen will get us in line again quickly. Otherwise, we would lose the job, the house, the relationship, etc.
But during these strange Covid times of isolation, it’s easy to slip and fall into a hole. Daily rituals become survival mechanisms for mental health. One emotional situation, one bit of difficult news, one too-long stretch without fresh air or exercise or seeing another human being or taking time to do the “work,” and a cloud of doom might easily begin to descend.
But it’s precisely that cloud of gloom, of stagnancy, of darkness, of flatlining, that also serves as a reminder:
That the (inner) work never stops—you can’t take a “break” from the path.
That the disconnection you feel inside yourself is just an indication of being disconnected with All That Is, and this is unnatural, and All That Is will find you again. You’ll reunite.
That this too shall pass.