Easter was a disaster. It began with hail at five a.m. The wind gusted all day. There was hardly any sign of the sun. No promise of an Easter service or dinner with my parents and sister. This is spring in a time of coronavirus, indoors, stir crazy, anxious, trying to find meaningful ways to use this sudden abundance of time… and failing.

I’d set my hopes on trying to make, of all things, puff pastry to celebrate the day. “How hard can it be?” I thought, blithely studying Martha Stewart’s recipe. (Turns out, it’s hard. Very hard. Not-worth-it hard.) After trying to roll out rock-hard, badly-crumbling dough, my triceps ache worse than they ever did after an intensive yoga flow or series of sun salutations. One silver lining was the realization that most of the butter I’d prepared could easily be used for cookies or scones. Over all, the failure zapped my emotional and physical energy, and I took a long nap that would have been longer if I didn’t have to get up for a Zoom meeting.

I think this illustrates how this season of isolation is going for me. I’m generally “okay.” I still walk to work and carry-out staff assistant duties in a pin-drop quiet office. But I’m not immune to the new atmosphere: of needing a mask when I venture outdoors, of the anger and fear when I still see large groups of people clustering together (obviously ignoring government directives), of the new 6 ft metric by which we now measure our personal space. I fight with my overgrown hair. I’m praying I have enough groceries and supplies to last me till May. I worry if I’m washing my hands enough, or if my skin will not be cracked and bleeding.

Aside from this post and my morning pages, I am not writing. Nor am I actively sending out query letters. I just can’t right now. In normal times, I tend to be overly optimistic, especially in moments when I’m feeling good and invincible. At the start of the year my thinking was: “I bet I can write a first draft of two novels this year! Yeah! Why not?!” The euphoria of this wild idea was already wearing off when the coronavirus arrived. Normal is cancelled indefinitely.

When people began retreating indoors and social distancing, writers talked (some joking, some not) about the “quarantine” and “WFH” as a no-excuses opportunity to write, to finish that novel, to finish that scholarly paper, to kick its butt, to BE PRODUCTIVE! Some of it was meant as optimism or a silver lining: “Look at all this free time! Haven’t you always dreamed of MORE TIME, fellow introverted writer?” But this isn’t free time. This is no vacation or relaxing stay-at-home writers retreat. This is a national crisis in a global pandemic. And we’re feeling it.

We are anxious. We are tired. We live in dread of getting sick or making others sick. (Unless you happen to be one of those crowding Menards and the skate parks.) Art is a survival mechanism, a refuge, a method of staying sane. Honestly, it always was, but it’s only now, with the distractions of our daily lives taken away, we can finally see it. I can see why I’ve been spinning my wheels.

At first, I thought the problem was that I shouldn’t be writing the sequel to my novel after all – that I needed a clean break from that world for much longer than I’d given myself. Or… that there was something wrong with the outline I’d made for myself. Or… that I was starting in the wrong place. The problem, I realized, wasn’t the project. The problem was the pressure I mounted on myself. To have a plan. To think critically and effectively. To sit down and write early every single morning, every weekend. To do it NOW! To feel like a failure when it didn’t happen, when nothing worked, when I kept putting off getting that query rewritten and sent out. To keep hearing that Umbridge-like voice in the back of my head (equal-parts sinister and simpering) saying, “You’ll never be a published author at this rate.”

Who can write or create under that kind of pressure, self-inflicted or not? There is only one thing to do: pull the emergency brake and get off the train.

A friend shared this article recently: “Why you should ignore all that Coronavirus-Inspired Productivity Pressure” by Aisha S. Ahmad in Chronicle. I suggest you read it, whether you’re a scholar or a writer or an artist. Because this is a dramatic change. It will not be temporary. We have to give ourselves time to adapt — grace. She likens this to starting a marathon with a sprint: you’ll end up barfing on your shoes. No one wants that.

This season shouldn’t be about productivity. It’s about getting back to what does sustain: physical and mental health, compassion, family, friendship, sleep. It’s about not hanging all your hopes on, say, puff pastry to create the perfect Instagram-worthy Easter-dessert-for-one, but using what I already have in the pantry, what I’m really craving for a spot of relief and joy. It might not be as complicated or a structured as I think. Simple might just be better, at least to start.

Here are some things that have helped me this week:

◽ TedTalk podcast with Elizabeth Gilbert: “It’s okay feel overwhelmed.” Take-aways: be curious, give yourself a great deal of mercy, write letters to yourself from love. Knowing the difference between compassion and sympathy in order to better help others.

◽ Simple projects: making cards for people, baking cookies & reorganizing cabinets.

◽ Read books: yes, I’m reading Harry Potter, because it’s comforting and makes me feel like a kid again. (And it’s crazy flaws are giving me a lot of interesting ideas…) Also: The City of Brass by S. A. Chakraborty and The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley.

◽ Taking naps. It’s a trauma response. Your brain is working overtime. Do it if you feel the urge.

◽ I’m writing my morning pages. If that’s all I “accomplish” in a day, I’m happy. The pages are therapy, even if I think I don’t have three in me, I usually do, and I feel better for it.

◽ The Oatmeal‘s “Eight marvelous and melancholy things I’ve learned about creativity.” This made me rethink some of the stumbling blocks I’ve recently discovered in my own creative life. If you’ve never heard of the Oatmeal comic, it is equal parts honest, raw, naughty and gleeful, so be warned. 😉

◽ My “grace” playlist, featuring selections from: Yael Naïm, Karen Choi, Florence + the Machine, Capercaillie, The Swell Season, Yo-Yo Ma, Two Steps from Hell, Hildegard of Bingen, Tori Amos, Yearbook, Vivaldi, Handel, J. S. Bach, and tracks from Jane Eyre, Call the Midwife, Pride & Prejudice, Doctor Who and Amelie, among others.

◽ Worshipping online. It isn’t the same as going to church – there’s no way it could be. However, being able to sing those familiar songs, to hear familiar voices reciting Scripture or preaching, is a huge comfort right now.

◽ Connecting more often with friends and family. It doesn’t have to be a Zoom chat. Phone calls and letters still work. We need each other to get through this. A few highlights: exchanging bird sightings; laughing when a gang of hungry squirrels ambushed me; sending photos of our fancy food projects or our ridiculous face masks and terrible hair.

I hope that this post is a help in your time of distress. I’m with you. Stay safe!