30 Minutes

In 1982, I took my first trip to London. I was 39, traveling alone on business for the publishing company where I was an editor. It was my first time out of the country, and I was feeling wildly excited, completely clueless and backwoodsy in a city …

The news, the blues, the sickness, the surge – it all weighs on me like a cast-iron skillet of sadness. But then I see people on Instagram taking vacations and socializing and wonder if I’m overreacting. What about a road trip? Are hotels safe? What if I take my own pillow? Why not fly? Does the virus live on groceries? Was I in Trader Joe’s too long? I know, I know—there are no real answers.


We have to weigh common sense against a sea of nonsense and strike some kind of balance.


Nevertheless, anxiety hums a constant low-level message along the telephone wires of my nerves. It’s saying, “We’re dumb, we’re doomed, we’re going down.” I tried taking a walk on the beach near my house recently for a time-out from chyrons and catastrophes, but instead of watching dolphins feed offshore, I was checking my Twitter feed for the latest worst thing. “What’s happening, what’s happening, what’s happening,” my brain asked? It was missing the double dose of dopamine and despair I get from 24-hour Breaking News. The next time I went, I left my phone in the car and committed to sitting by the water for just 30 minutes completely disconnected. At first, my brain was still craving fast food, tapping its foot, and checking its watch impatiently. 30 minutes. 30 minutes. 30 minutes. Are we there yet? But the tide went in and out. People’s voices were a distant counterpoint to the surf, like a Gregorian chant to the world. A dog trotted by on very important business, and I watched nothing happen for 30 minutes. It wasn’t an instant cure. I still have trouble telling my mind to STFU, and I barely sleep through the night. But 30 minutes is my new mantra. 30 minutes of not checking the virus tolls. 30 minutes of not thinking about election polls. 30 minutes of be-here-nowism in a warp-speed wrecking-ball world. “Heel,” I tell my brain, “and heal.” It’s a start.

XOXO Nikki Hardin, the signature for blog posts on The Daily Nikki.
 

Nikki Hardin is a writer of stories, musings, and memories. Her poetry has been published in Riverteeth JournalShe was the founder and publisher of skirt!, a monthly women’s magazine in Charleston, South Carolina. You can reach her at nikki@thedailynikki.com.