Inside by Davina Adcock

 I don't know when I expected things to start returning to normal, but it was a bit jarring to come back from vacation and suddenly see no one at HEB wearing a mask.

Like you, I lived over a year in quarantine, and during that season, time bent and stretched and thinned and grew, until quarantine was over and it felt like I'd lived in it for a decade. And I must not have been paying attention during that decade, because I left it feeling like an unrecognizable version of myself by the end of it.

Welcome to the first of many personal reckonings about who I became between March 2020 and the present.

The quarantine blackhole started at a park in Pflugerville. I'd just gotten laid off from my job after weeks of whispers about this strange virus in China. Almost overnight, an apocalyptic tension started growing in my office. The staff whittled down to just a few people, and suddenly, it was mid-March and I was sitting in the office by myself, until even I chose to stay home. 

You know, I never considered myself a die hard introvert, but the thought of being at home for a while didn't scare me. I woke up each day and took a long walk because my gym was now closed. I circled the nearby neighborhood for an hour while the sun rose, listening to my favourite podcast and enjoying the breeze. And I'd come home and spend the day alone. With Phil gone to work, I'd jump on zoom calls, write emails, and pace my apartment kitchen endlessly at lunch.

Every now and again, if the mood was just right, I'd even call my mom in the middle of the day. 

I was busy, and so dang grateful for that busyness. It kept my eyes off the news and on my computer screen. I could feel my friends sounding a bit more worried and my apartment started to feel a bit darker no matter how many lights I switched on. So I stayed as busy as I could. I worked any job I could find, saved every penny I had, and set my sights on buying a home in some strange attempt to feel settled and safe despite the chaos. 

Things felt okay for a while—so okay in fact, that I didn't really notice when I stopped showering daily or doing my hair. Exercise slowed to a crawl then to a full stop. I didn't call my mom as much—maybe I was nervous that one day she wouldn't pick up and I'd hear news that the New York dangers had crept up and invaded her home. I didn't notice that I was baking a lot more to help calm my nerves. That my heart broke daily for my old job and coworkers and that the searing pain blinded me from the gift of a new job. 

I didn't notice that I felt a little bit different every day. And the walls of my apartment felt both like a home and a prison.

And just like that, after months of sitting at home while a pandemic ravaged communities just outside my home, nothing felt right. And neither did I.

I honestly hate that some changes in life can feel so gradual. One moment, you feel perfectly fine and you're thriving. The next minute, you're fundamentally different as a person, but can't quite figure out how. And that's the thing, no one really notices being in quicksand if they're just staring at a laptop screen all day and only moving to open the fridge door one more time.

I know I'll discover more ways I've changed because of covid-19 as the years roll on. But it wasn't the act of going to HEB and seeing mask-less faces that prompted reflection. It was going home. While there, I slowed down the way that most Americans were forced to during the pandemic. It was my first time for over a year that I wasn't busy doing something all the time. That month in Grenada stripped away all the busyness and frantic energy I had and it helped me see what really mattered to me. Just as quarantine did for many people, it showed me the friends and activities that filled me up and those that drained me.

I returned from that trip energized, but uninterested in engaging with life like I once did. I feel fundamentally changed, unrecognizable in some ways. After almost 3 decades of looking for more and different ways to achieve new feats, I feel flat and bored with life.

After a month in Grenada after over a year living and working from home, I now know that running errands with my father is a part of my life I don't want to give up. That plants bring me joy and sometimes it's okay to eat greasy food if it fills both your belly and your soul. The sheets I lay in at night matter because my sleep matters because I matter. Seeing my family flourish is a sweet thing I shouldn't take for granted. Everyone needs someone they can trust in, and it's important for me to be that person as much as I can. My job title is arbitrary. 

Overworking myself is no longer attractive to me, no matter the cheque attached. I desperately need time in my days to reflect and rest so I can bring my most creative self to the table. I'm not interested in pursuing friends who've exited my life with acts of emotional violence. And I'm not interested in engaging with settings that make me anxious.

I just don't have the energy for those things any more. But those were the activities that made up so much of my pre-covid life. 

I feel fundamentally different and I'm not sure I want to return to my pre-covid self. But paving a new way forward is much more difficult than I expected. Who do you become when the main things that drove you now drain you? What now motivates you?

My therapist challenged me to look to Christ's purpose in my life to motivate me and find joy in. But I'm not good at that yet. I don't know how to reconcile my love and pursuit of Jesus with lazy days where I feel drained and empty. Where the things I used to do all the time now fall off my radar with some scary level of permanence. 

I haven't quite figured this out yet and that's okay. I'm not in a rush.

While I figure out who post-covid Davina is, it's nice to know that some things haven't changed. Those constants honestly ground me more than the unknowns unhinge me. I look around at the fact that I can still sit with Jesus moment by moment, and I feel so secure. I look at my husband and how loving he is, even when I'm a brat, and I'm so humbled. My friends are committed to me as I am to them—I'm grateful. My family members are alive and I can reach them at any time—what more can I ask for. 

And they're all with me, patient and loving, as I step into this next season of personhood and unknowns.

Shak Shaks From The Motherland

There are sights, smells, and sounds that are tied so closely with memories, that I can't experience one without the other. With the smell of Perry Ellis perfume, I'm sitting in my post Hurricane Ivan bedroom staring at my molding carpet that's been soaked from the rain and pulled up into a pile. My mother isn't there with me, but there's no electricity, so I'm hoping she comes back in before the sun finally disappears and sinks me in darkness. The room, the house, my island feels different. It smells different. So I spray the last of my perfume on myself to forget that everything has changed, and that the smell of molding carpet is now my new life.

When I heard the chak chak sound in church yesterday, my ears moved a little bit, and, suddenly, I disappeared down a worm hole through time and space. Within a single moment, I was a shadow looking at my younger self holding a tambourine for the first time. 

It was a big moment for me. All I kept thinking as I touched the tiny cymbals on this beautiful wooden instrument was the woman who sat next to Pastor Baker for years. She was medium height but bent over a little, making her look stout and so strong. With each praise song, she'd stand with her tambourine. I'd watch her listen for the beat and pull up her tambourine to her chest and make that first momentous hit against her palm. Most times, she'd close her eyes a little, block out the sounds of the piano, drums, bass, and singers, and play to her God. Just her and Him, in perfect harmony—Him reaching down and her lifting her sound in adoration to His goodness and kindness. She never got it wrong; never shook her instrument off beat and always had a melody to match the sobriety or joyfulness of each song.

Even though she never had to learn any musical scales or chords to play her tambourine, I respected her above all other musicians.

She wasn't just submitting her gifts for God's glory. For me, she was a symbol of womanhood.

Only the maturity of life and age could give someone the talent and apparent wisdom she had. Only a woman who's lived through the complexities of life could understand how important it was to respect such a loud instrument. This wasn't something she could play quietly—the only way to play a ring of cymbals was to do so with incredible confidence, humility, and skill. Because no one can stand to hear such a loud thing rendered with disrespect and nonchalance. Everyone has a mouth they can run to the ground and back. But there's a reason that only she was trusted to introduce the tambourine to our worship.

Every time I heard her play, I felt connected with my ancestors. Women with large families and even larger pride in their heritage. Women who were raised to be trustworthy with much and who took shak shaks from off the earth's floor and made much of them. I imagined them celebrating a village or family milestone with the kind of dancing that made the ground shake beneath them. Hips swung into other hips; mouths open wide in jubilee. I can smell the sweat thickening the air among them as they danced harder, sang louder, shook their shaks shaks harder. I can't hear their song, but I can see their tambourines moving back and forth in their hands. 

So when I held my first tambourine, I felt scared, thrilled, and much too young. 

I was maybe 6 at the time, and hesitant to touch its sensitive little cymbals. So I handed it back to my old friends in church and watched them try their best to make a beat, not quite getting it right, but trying with confidence. 

Now, I am older. I can't remember when I quite got it right, but I remember years of trying. Of having access to tambourines only during Sunday school, and struggling to play with the beat of the pianist playing in the corner. It was years of shaking and beating it against my hand incorrectly before I stopped making a fool of myself.

Now, I am older, and I haven't seen or touched a tambourine in years. I am a woman now, but I don't think about my age, or the life I've been able to build. I think about the small but mighty markers of my womanhood. Of them, I remember the lessons I learned from that little instrument. I learned to worship God with all the instruments and tools I had at my disposal. I learned to avoid being loud when I knew I was coming from a place of deep immaturity. I taught other women how to play and find their own style. And I embraced an unchanging sense of respect for things that ground me to my earthly identity, even the loud, sometimes uncomfortable and hard-to-manage elements of who I am in this world. 

The Oil Down Place By L. L. Ramdhanny

This place wasn't a vibe. It wasn't an aesthetic. I wanted to take photos of it but not for social media—for myself. But I knew a photo couldn't capture the honest heat of the day, nor the broken sidewalk that forced us to walk in the road and grass. A photo also couldn't capture the time I was spending with daddy, and that was the best part.

I was returning to America the next day and wasn't expecting to spend the afternoon with him—that time was such a gift. As the oldest girl in the family, him and I always had a special bond. We could read each other well. We were a team. We could roast each other without the threat of hurt feelings. And, most of all, we love each other unsparingly. I could think of no better way to spend my last few hours in Grenada.

We sat in the small restaurant while the smell of the food torpedoed around us under two heavy fans overhead. The bench I sat on had a torn leather cover revealing the cushion underneath. The walls were painted in a cool shade of teal with accents of yellow. There was a chalkboard on the wall with the menu for the day written in large white letters. There were four tables, each topped with a colourful floral table cloth, then again with a plastic sheet. 

What I loved about this place as I sat there, was that nothing matched and every colour, smell, and sound seemed to be yelling, not singing in a chorus. The floors, and tables, and benches, and even the waitress were all so different in feel and tone. But when I paused to take it all in, all I could feel was a sense of calm and peace. It was a simple lesson for me, one I was happy to experience again—sometimes the messiest places offer the most to your soul.

Sitting across from daddy, and beside my husband in that hot restaurant with the sound of cars speeding by and people talking outside, I felt the most peace I had in a long time. It felt like the restaurant was giving me the exact thing I'd needed and that generosity compelled gratitude.

So I ordered my oil down and coconut water and tried to take in as much as I could.

This moment in time will always have a foothold in my soul. I know this for a fact, even though it happened two days ago. That's because that restaurant and that day gave so much to me. It saw some of the little cracks at the bottom of my soul and filled it quickly. And that's honestly what home feels like. Grenada gives so much back when I feel like pieces of me are stolen when I am elsewhere. The island feels restorative and kind, like a nurse with plenty of time, one. who spares no cost to care for everyone in their charge. I can't go far without this place sending me a breeze, or a smile, or a howdy, or the awing sight of mountains just when I need it. I can't deny that God uses Grenada to heal in a way no other thing has. 

Which is why so many stay and fill that place with joyful words of thankfulness and praise to God.

The oil down was perfect. Daddy gave it a 4.5/5 but that was honestly the highest grade that food was going to get anyway. I gave it a 5/5 and Phil looked content enough to fall asleep right where he sat. We talked about daddy's upbringing, his sisters, and some of his life as I took mental snapshots of his smile at various parts of his stories.

I promised myself to return next time with a mission to record his full life's tale to enjoy, selfishly.

After lunch, we started our journey out to the car when I noticed a pot of succulents thriving on the stoop. I bent over to touch a big one when the waitress walked out to see what we were so interested in. And just like that, she disappeared inside the restaurant, returned with a small bag, and plucked out a dozen small shoots for me to have. Almost no words were exchanged between us while she did this. And in her abundant kindness, I met God yet again that day. In her generosity, her hospitality, her care for us, I remembered the deep love Jesus has for me, that He would spare nothing to show His affection and give good gifts to me. 

That trip to Grenville for oil down with daddy would be my last for the year, I knew that going in. But I'm excited to feel those memories blossom with the plants, for the heat of that place to wash over me from time to time, and for the taste of tumeric and pig tail to return to my tongue on good days and bad.

No Discernible Path

My face still hurts from Wednesday. Goodness, I wish I was prepared for the day, but it came like most tsunamis do—with terrifying quickness and no good intention.

I used to think that emotions were unhelpful and distracting. Maybe anger was good—it drove people to sometimes fight for good change and reform. Joy and happiness had obvious benefits. But sadness? Grief? I remember feeling the unstoppable urge to cry when my grandmother was laid to rest. I grieved the little of her life I knew and I cried for my father. I cried when my dogs died. But I otherwise restricted the messy side of emotion to the back of my mind. Strong women are focused and they have relentless confidence, I told myself. Those women don't succumb to sadness.

How could you succumb when there was work to be done? In some ways, I still struggle to tolerate weakness. God is sanctifying and changing me, bit by bit.

And that's because emotion is not something I grew up with. I was raised in a middle-class household, affording me some privileges, but not many. The years I spent taking bread and cheese sandwich lunches to school were also years spent struggling with feeling. I love my parents and my siblings, but the full spectrum of human emotions lived everywhere but my home. So I'm thankful for the grace of college friends who've taught me how to feel. A husband who feels very deeply. Mentors who weep with me.

But most days, it's still hard to avoid running away from anything that feels messy. The last few weeks have been the culmination of a long-resisted relationship with the messy side of emotion. It started with an unexpected outburst at work. 

Honestly, outbursts are my nightmare. I'd rather let the zombies that roam my actual nightmares tear my neck out than have an unexpected show of emotion in the workplace. But by the time I regained consciousness and stopped my outburst at work, I was shaking. 

I shared things with the other leaders at my organization that I'd only ever shared with my husband and a couple of girlfriends. I told them that I felt hopeless that the organization could achieve healthy multiculturalism, that I felt like I didn't belong, that the America-centric office made it hard for me to bring my full self to work. I confessed that good intentions were no longer good enough and loving me and other people of colour needed a more active approach. It was all raw, but true.

Two hours later, I was in my tub, struggling to breathe, watching white flashes overtake the insides of my vision. For this emotionally-stunted girl, living through the last few weeks of America felt almost as worst as the previous 8 years. And it peaked that day with my first anxiety attack.

I don't know how we're supposed to do it—watch person after person get snatched from this earth and just move on. All suffering wrecks me. All of it. But to worry that the people tasked to maintain peace in my neighborhood are scared of me—scared enough to "accidentally" end my life? I just can't get past that.

The thing is, I'm more scared of them than they are at me. But if I bought a gun and fired in self-defense, I'd rot in prison, all the while knowing that justice doesn't flow as freely the other way. 

I don't know how people have lived here their entire lives and not lost their sanity and their joy. I struggle. I grew up knowing that I was Black and beautiful. I was a force. I had the Holy Spirit in me and the determination of my ancestors. I was a fighter and I grew up believing I could accomplish anything. I never imagined that the anything I wanted to accomplish was to simply live and regain the joy this land seems eager to take from Black people. Not like America hasn't taken enough from Blackness.

Last Wednesday's anxiety attack was hopefully the last one. I'm tired and my soul feels overwhelmed. The enemy is prowling at my heel, snipping. And I'm trying to pray but I feel like I'm floating, untethered from my body. 

I didn't learn how to process emotions well but I'm thankful for therapy, even though progress is slow and the work is hard. Surrendering my suffering to the only one who knows and has fully recovered from suffering is hard. Honestly, sometimes just saying a prayer for my own dang self is hard. But I've come to realize that there's no discernible path but forward.

Honestly, I grieve for the lives lost, but I especially grieve for Black people who don't know Jesus. At the end of the day, I can run to my Father and experience true, unfiltered joy, even while processing sadness. The answer to every question, including the difficult question of suffering, ends with Jesus. So if you're reading this, know that racial injustice will persist, so pause to pray for your Black brothers and sisters. This trauma is ongoing and it is distracting to our efforts at progress as a community. It's filling our homes with fear and causing anxiety to build. If you're reading this, pray for salvation for your Black neighbors and coworkers—that they will experience the only real hope anyone can ever experience at a time like this. And if you haven't already, get to work. Prayers are not enough; this fight needs active and willing participants who are willing to make tangible sacrifices, be humble, and be persistent. There are enough books on this, enough organizations that need your support—find an avenue and do something.