Bear Witness

It is now day 75. Of self–isolation. To clarify: I am spending my time indoors with the exceptions of going for walks, which is allowed, and buying groceries. I went into self-isolation before the country of Thailand closed down businesses and instituted a curfew. I live in a bubble of one. That is, I have lived alone and have not seen anyone aside from monetary transactions or courtesy on the streets, speaking only in a second language. In this essay I am re-writing a piece I started weeks ago, when I thought I had something to say; when I thought I knew something. Turns out, the truth is, even now, I only know my own experience.

On day 66 it had been 58 days inclusive, since I had talked to a friend in person. I had only been having conversations with cashiers or clerks in Thai. Anyway, 58 days was on a Tuesday. We met in a coffee shop. Several other customers were present and choosing not to wear masks inside. I however switched from my outside N95 mask to a less bulky PM2.5 mask for inside. We sat apart. I had brought my own straw for my ice coffee, but was served one still in the wrapper. We talked for over three hours; not unusual for this friend and me, but it felt delicious in a way that video cannot and will never be able to convey because the gaze was mine—when to look out the window, when to notice his hands, or to so clearly visualize the weight of his thinking.

On day 14, March 28th, a mere two weeks into my self-isolation I had started to write. I researched my perspective to clarify my thoughts, with existentialism as my lens, I read current essays and blog posts about making the most of one’s time, not pushing oneself, creating routines, living in one’s pajamas—essentially a lot of articles plying advice on the news and social media sites. I set about doing ‘timed writings’ and made attempts at organizing my thoughts. As I continued forward, I asked several people to read my ‘essay’ as I was calling it and it was then I realized that I did not want to give advice, rather I found I was trying to answer a question: What is a reasonable response to an extraordinary circumstance? On the evening of April 19th as I sat down to organize my thoughts once more, it became clear that I wasn’t sure how to proceed. I put the project on hold.

Here I am over a month later after my coffee date with a friend during which we discussed, aside from personal issues and telling stories: meditation, consciousness, the noosphere, existentialism and the purpose and power of description, the naming of things (events as well as objects) and being in-the-moment. So I have returned.

I am living in the time of a pandemic, as by definition, are we all. My experience is remote, distant, isolated. It is an intellectual experience—one of reading news stories and parsing information on frequently updated charts, one of listening to other’s personal experiences in addition to having my own. My life during this time is quiet and calm, a self-created self-contained space. Aside from day-to-day activities, my work has evolved to be one of honoring the experiences that we are having and to contribute by being removed from the presence of others. While in comparison to others, should I chose to take the comparison path, it feels like I am doing nothing.

What am I doing? It seems to be the umbrella question to so many questions I hear people asking. I ask myself:  How am I moving through my days alone in my 43 square meter condominium on the 32nd floor? What steps am I taking that promote getting up everyday and being present with myself, engaged in my life and with others, and within the global milieu? Why have I chosen to attend to some things and not others? What supports me in maintaining the meaning and purpose in life that I had prior to the pandemic? And do those things matter? Does happiness matter, or does contentment; does playing a part in community-required behaviors of which I have no say, matter?  Is my mission to remain alive? What am I doing?

Within the current international events we are impacted by the trifecta of loss, grief, and the unknown; and the inescapable despair of future uncertainty and, as some name it, anticipatory grief. I turn to Kierkegaard:

The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly the one you will never have.

Existential despair arises as we consider the future as it might have been and compare it to the one that we can no longer see, the one that will not be like we previously imaged, intentionally or by circumstance; that one we will never have. If we let it, or if it forces it self upon us, this angst may manifest in the need to do something.

This perceived need is held forth by popular belief, and possibly non-secular interventions, that we need to make meaning of our lives, to have a purpose. Some cultures have been in service to this idea since the time of Socrates’ well-worn defense: The unexamined life is not worth living. And while that may be valid, our experience as it is, as it needs to be, is our own; it needs to be authentic, whether we are examining it or not. Looking from Buddhist and existentialist perspectives one might consider:

A Buddhist would name a thing as the first step in moving it aside—recognize the distraction and begin again. An existentialist would describe a thing as the step to move it inside—explore the distraction, embrace it. Both are headed in the same direction, to being present with one’s self, towards one’s authentic experience.

The act that I have chosen during this time, that keeps me grounded, is to explore and describe my experience, my contextual situation. It is to bear witness for myself, and others. What ever our experience, to honor it as an authentic experience. Did you read 25 books, write poetry everyday, lose hours of time to drifting in space, learn a new skill, sit in your pajamas all day, participate in a demonstration, make masks, watch untold hours of Netflix, teach your own children and the children of others, work in untenable circumstances, build a garden, experience evacuation from your home due to natural environmental disasters, endeavor in acts of kindness, forget who you were? No matter your experience, it is your experience, your authentic experience, and it is to that I bear witness.

So this is my experience, my truth, my doing something. In writing I have found that what I have to say is this, after 75 days of self-isolation, honoring our experiences is an act of kindness. Naming and describing are acts of bearing witness.

Bear witness.