A walk in the park

The first thing that came to mind as I stepped outside my home – for the first time in three months – was my unfamiliarity with the outside world. A light breeze hit my face, and it felt as if it was trying to soothe me. My legs, almost rusty with lack of use after being indoors for so long, moved woodenly. Left, right. Left, right.

Trying to be present

When I reached the park, I adjusted my mask carefully to fit my face. COVID has turned me into an OCD - clinical and meticulous. In my media days, I used to rush. I was always chasing deadlines – sprinting towards somewhere. I was always two steps ahead; never in the moment.  But a year and a half of WFH has changed me. I am now more familiar with what it means to be intentional. Deliberate.

Relaxing still doesn’t come easily to me. Unlearning is never easy. It takes a lot of deep work. It takes a lot of effort to feel my blood rushing and my heart pounding, to ask myself: “Am I being two steps away from the present again?” And I try to circle back. Patience – once a childhood trait of mine – is slowly returning to me. I can – metaphorically – feel the breeze on my face again.

I found a quiet spot in the park, with a bench. I sat down and stared at the circular patch of flowers in front of me. It was 7.30am -- silent and peaceful. No one else was around; it was just me and my thoughts.

Just me and my grief.

The wind blew again, caressing my face. And as my eyes blurred with tears – I suddenly saw what I missed earlier in the flower patch in front of me. There were bees, buzzing around the yellow blossoms – industriously collecting nectar for their colony. They largely ignored me – clearly focused on their task. I watched them, struck by the sight.

Then a strange realization hit me – the world was shaking to its core (COVID was raging, my friend has suddenly passed away from an illness, a loved one was recovering from COVID, my future plans were disrupted again and we are without a Prime Minister in Malaysia). Yet, to the bees in front of me, life goes on. Nothing has changed in their universe. But for many of us, it was as if a seismic earthquake has erupted and swallowed us whole.

The disconnect was incongruous. 

To my shock, the tears came. They broke out of me – in pain, in grief, in bewilderment. It was a cathartic release – like a dam breaking free. By the time I looked up, there were no more bees. They were gone. Were they ever there? I don't know. But wherever they've gone to, they have also taken away the sadness I've carried inside me.