They lie beneath towering oak trees and sway gently over wild flower-laden fields. Moss-covered rocks and rotting logs thrive in their embrace. They darken forest floors and create the perception of shape. They skitter across cracked pavement and follow me on my way.
Shadows, omnipresent wherever there is light, are my constant companion.
On a recent walk along a familiar footpath with my wife, Brianna, I was particularly struck by their cast. The day was cold and sunny. A gusty breezy swept through the trees, shaking last year’s leaves that lined the trail, chilling us to the bone — we were underdressed, deceived into thinking it was warm out by the afternoon sunlight pouring in through the windows. I resigned myself to huddling further into my sweatshirt; Brianna ran ahead through the shadowy sections of the path and did jumping jacks in the sunlight until I caught up.
The difference in temperature between the sun-drenched patches and those cast in shadow was stark. In the sun, I found myself overheated and unzipping my vest to cool down.
In the shade, it was downright frigid.
It kind of felt like a physical representation of the way this last year has been — that is, a psychological journey through sunlight and shadow. For the last few weeks especially, I’ve found myself battling the end-of-winter doldrums and longing for sun-drenched patches of fresh grass. Peak ski season has passed and we’ve reached mud season, that in between space somewhere between winter and spring.
It’s been a full year of this weird and uncomfortable quarantine lifestyle. When I first started working from home, I threw myself into hobbies to pass the time — music, art, exercise — and found a lot of fulfillment in the journey. But after months of staring at the same wall, pacing through the same room, following the same routine day in and day out, I’ve grown restless. The full weight of social isolation has settled on my shoulders.
It’s been a hard year.
I miss live music; I miss friends; I don’t want to read anymore obituaries; I don’t want to say “no” to anymore activities. These past weeks, I feel like I’ve been trudging through the shade — shivering, tired, ready for normalcy.
Early on in the pandemic, markers were set down by officials. I told myself to make it through the next month, through the shadow to the next sunlit patch. Then, that social-distancing mandates would be in place through August; businesses should be able to reopen after rates decrease. When rates jumped over the holidays, I convinced myself that things would get better come spring (and maybe they will).
Back then, naivete made following best practices easy; experience has taught me that this pandemic could be ongoing for some time yet, perhaps another year or so. I’m hesitant to raise my hopes with the warming weather. We’ve all been riding a rollercoaster of emotions and I’d like to get off, now. But there aren’t any better options.
The alternative to hope is hopelessness, and that’s no way to live at all. For the sake of our neighbors and loved ones, we must do what we can to squash the virus — even if that means continuing to isolate and set aside our own comfort.
When traversing shadowy sections of a trail, huddling down for warmth or jogging ahead to get the blood flowing is necessary. Likewise, self care is imperative as the pandemic continues to impact our collective wellbeing. For me, that means engaging in music and art, exercising regularly and escaping as often as I can into nature — which is precisely where you’ll find me this coming weekend: lost among the trees, soaking up the sun-drenched patches of a beloved trail.
Andy Castillo is the features editor at the Greenfield Recorder. He can be reached at acastillo@recorder.com.