I hit a wall the other night. I’d been focused on getting myself and my students ready for their new learning experience after the university declared all classes would be online. I was feeling adrenalized about the process, triaging what tasks needed to be done immediately and which could wait, making sure I could contact my students through video conferencing, and just getting through the first week of transition. I often work well under short bursts of pressure.

Then I did what I usually do after pushing myself too much: I crashed. It all hit me one night that the gym was closed, the yoga studio was closed, my students had gone home, and interaction with my friends and colleagues was limited. My oldest son qualified for a national swim meet for the first time, and it was cancelled. I’m grateful for many things at the moment, not the least of which are that my family is healthy and I still have a job. So while these losses are minor in the grand scheme of what could possibly happen, they’re still losses. It also occurred to me that for an introvert I need a fair bit of social interaction. It often wears me out, but I still need it.

I can’t change what’s happening, but I can do something that feels right, and that meant taking my camera for a walk. There are woods behind my house, and there while sliding down the muddy ravines I discovered signs of life: the first woodland flowers of the year, baby ferns no bigger than ladybugs, and tiny mushrooms nestled in a log. I’d already noted signs of spring at a nearby wetlands preserve — chorus frogs, painted turtles, and the leafing of thorn bushes — but it seemed more personal and significant to see the signs in my backyard. Persephone has returned. (And maybe she can help me mow the grass that I also noticed is growing.)