Time Warp
Once upon a time, in a place somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow, I lived with my wife in a bustling city on the East Coast of the United States. We had many friends with whom we had wonderful dinners; we went dancing occasionally; and it was not uncommon for us to take in a movie or a concert or a play. We were not extravagant, but sometimes we splurged on a good restaurant or bought a new item of clothing. We visited parents and children, spent time with grandchildren who were between the ages of newborn and two years old. My wife taught English as a Second Language; she tutored students in her beloved French; she edited, curated and organized my writing, my blogs, and my speaking engagements. We were busy, and life was good. We both went to the gym and exercised religiously. I spent all the time that was left working in my garden or writing on my novel-in-progress.
At the start of last winter, we left Boston for a few months and traveled to the West Coast, where we have children and grandchildren. The plan was to return to the East Coast in early April. That was then.
This is now, and we seem to have drifted into a time warp. For different reasons, travel feels as complex and treacherous as it must have been a hundred years ago. Too dangerous for us to return home, involving a trip across country that would be perilous.
We live in a small, almost rural town, at the edge of the UC Davis campus, with few people and even fewer stores. The sidewalks are rolled up in the early evening. Some days I wonder whether they were ever unrolled. The time warp seems to have catapulted us into old age. We no longer have professions. My wife no longer teaches. I no longer have speaking engagements. What writing I do continues to be solitary and online. My novel-in-progress has slowed to a trickle, its importance in my life—and a part of my legacy—suddenly diminished. I imagine that this must be what it feels like to approach the end of life, and to recognize that little more will be accomplished before becoming a memory in the minds of those we love.
My wife and I rise at different times, as is our wont —she has always been the early bird to my night owl. Recent research points to the importance of honoring our circadian rhythms. It has been only recently that I have given up feeling guilty about my preference to rise closer to 9:00am than sunrise. That’s one of the few advantages of finding myself in a time warp where we’re relegated to the senior shopping hour, which we take advantage of once a week.
After breakfast, we organize our lives, pay bills, respond to emails, speak to children and parents and friends on the other coast. Then we head off to spend the afternoon with grandchildren whose schools are closed, while their parents work from home. A marvelous privilege, for which one has to be alive and in relatively good health.
As afternoon draws to a close, we return to our condo and take an evening stroll through the deserted campus, springtime bursting out on every tree-lined street and on every vine-covered fence. As we walk hand in hand, I am struck for the first time by the recognition that our hand-holding is more like that of an older couple than like young lovers. It comes as a surprise, but there is also a strange sense of relief, to have reached such a stage of life.
We pass few people on the way, crossing the street to avoid those who seem oblivious of the restrictions our particular time warp has imposed on us, although we always nod and smile from a distance. Once home, we go about making supper. In our previous life, dinner was a big deal. It was a time for cooking together. We had the energy and interest in preparing complex and elaborate dinners, and it was clear which one of us would be the other’s sous-chef each night. Dinner was a time for talking about what we’d done during our day over a glass of wine, before watching the news and then retiring. But we seem to have less energy these days. Perhaps, it’s the time warp. And the news seems to be far less interesting than it once was. A lot of talk about a pandemic, and much ado by pundits who can’t seem to separate the president from some virus. Whatever he’s done or not done, I imagine his name will forever be attached to this affliction.
I don’t know whether we will ever exit from this time warp, and if we do, who we will be when we return to our previous lives. Perhaps we will be unchanged. Or, will we arrive back in Boston like Rip Van Winkle, unable to fit into a life that has passed us by? Or, will Boston itself emerge from the time warp at the same time we do, and all of us find ourselves irrevocably changed?
Only time will tell. It always does.