Grounded
I sit on the expanse of grass, feeling each soft blade under my legs. The sun is lower on the horizon now. Late afternoon light filters through some trees on top of a hill in the distance. I close my eyes and deeply breathe in the fresh air. Two more hours of work left in my day. I cross two traffic lights and walk the three minutes back to my house.
You could say I’ve been a wanderer since I was 16. Venturing to Manila for college from my hometown of Davao City, I’ve since moved from city to city and country to country, sometimes not staying longer than a few months in one place. Work finally got me to stay put in Washington DC the last 10 years. Still I fly out several times a year, not just for adventure but also for my job in international development.
In 2019, I was away at some other state or country almost every other weekend. Google Maps says I traveled enough miles to go around the world two times. That was to seven countries—starting in Uruguay in March, then Belize, Honduras, Mexico, Czech Republic, Egypt, and finally Ecuador in November—and at least 43 cities, more than 25 of which were my first time to be in.
As 2020 started, the travel list started to fill with work and wedding invitations—Kenya, India, the Philippines, Denmark, the Netherlands…. Enter COVID-19 and everything got wiped off the calendar.
Like many people and airplanes around the world, I was grounded. My bedroom became my office and sleeping space, and often even dining space. With all work travel banned, it seemed everyone had channeled their energies to sending emails and setting up virtual meetings. Work ironically felt a lot more intense. “Work from home” turned out not as fun as we imagined.
My one comfort in all this was the field near my house, which till then I had probably gone to once or twice a year. The field is a grassy area about a third of a mile long and 300 ft wide bounded by four roads. At the far end is a patch of forest, which various types of wildlife have made their home. While it is maintained by the National Parks Service, the field has no benches or paths or any other facility. Just grass and open space.
At first I went to keep up some form of physical exercise, which I lost along with the daily commute to my downtown DC office. I would take a walk after work, by then after dark, doing a lap across to the patch of forest and back. As the lockdown stretched on, a sense of claustrophobia set in; getting out for fresh air and open space became life support for my mind.
Where before I sought adventure in pyramids and dives with hammerhead sharks, this past year I have found wonder in slow walks. My head is bowed looking at tiny plants I’ve never seen before. My ears have become alert to the slightest rustle in the trees. My eyes worn out from staring at screens find a balm in sunset skies.
And what magnificent skies! In life before COVID, I would sometimes go up to the office rooftop to catch a glimpse of the sunset between buildings, then head back down to continue working. Now I bask fully under its deep hues and fiery streaks – magenta, indigo, vermillion, amber…. For the first time, I’ve seen for myself how the sun moves from west to northwest from summer to fall, then suddenly appear southwest in winter. I have seen more moonrises this past year near my house than in my travels the last 10 years combined.
Many times, I sit cross-legged in the middle of the field and just listen to the city – cars speeding past, a train on the tracks, loud music blasting from somewhere. My whole life pre-COVID had always been about the next trip, the next event, searching for further, bigger things. I avoided going to any place twice, reserving my time and energy for new experiences. Yet for almost a year now I’ve gone to this same field, retracing the same steps, and discovered new country—so close and familiar, yet previously unknown—that the everyday sameness has opened my eyes to.
Each late afternoon, the dogs come out with their owners, leaping happily after a branch or ball. Children, too, come to run, whether they’re toddlers taking their first steps or teenagers training for football. In the evenings, the deer emerge from the woods to graze on the grass. A few joggers, occasional walkers, the faces also now familiar, also changing through the seasons.
But mostly it is just me and the field, through sun, rain and snow. The field has been my constant through the ups and downs of quarantine. It shares my joy from tiny wins and pleasures, and receives me in my anguish from heartaches and self-doubts. But perhaps its greatest gift is the everyday sameness itself. Sitting on the grass, watching the Earth turn as the skies change, I am grounded at last in this present, the only place I can really be.
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