Re-entry :: 094
Oh hey nice to see you again
Prepare for Splashdown
Summer is my favorite season.
A break from the everyday.
The rituals of the swimming pool, camp, picnics, and barbecues signal time off.
A season of indulgence– staying up late, ice cream trucks, and vacation.
Summer is a routine of nightly baths because we're covered in sand, smell like chlorine and bug spray, and always a little sweaty.
The hard part of any break is leaving.
Returning to a life of routine, work, healthier choices, and responsibility.
School started this month: Abe's in Kindergarten, Golda in 2nd grade.
And I'm falling back into old routines– deep stretches of focused work and quiet lunches by myself. My workday predictably ends at 5pm.
Transitioning into familiar routines has ironically felt weird.
I'm in a bad mood. I'm resentful of having to wake up early and make lunches.
Re-entry is hard. But that's where we are this month.
We're focusing on being away-- removed from our usual life--only to have to return.
We are astronauts who have just journeyed to far off unlimited and life-changing outer space. And we're now cramped into the Apollo capsule, violently racing through the atmosphere in a fireball blaze, bracing before we hit the ocean upon our return to gravity.
Buckle up.
Prepare for impact.
Welcome back.
Jet Lag of the Self
The average length an astronaut spends on the International Space Station is six months. When they return home, no matter what age or country, they all experience something similar. And strange.
Astronauts in space for more than six months report a feeling of being an observer of their own lives. Nearly all of them.
Part of them is conscious of the conversation they're currently having, and part of them is floating above themselves, taking notes.
As we get used to an environment without gravity, we stop trusting it.
Proprioception– the sense of where our limbs are without looking– starts to diminish.
Instead of assuming that we can put a water bottle down on the table and it will just stay there, we have to watch it and trust more with our eyes. We can't do things as mindlessly as we can on earth.
In space, life is an experiment.
Everything is novel and worthy of noticing and studying.
Also, in space, there is an elevated vigilance. A misplaced object or stepping on the wrong thing can have severe consequences to the health of crewmates or the ship. This heightened feeling of self-observation, carefulness, and caution are hard to just "turn off."
It's crazy... but in some ways it's also relatable.
Our bodies and minds adapt to the current environment in ways we're not always conscious of. And upon return, we have to unlearn those and readapt.
Re-entry into our lives can be depersonalizing.
Come back too fast and we could get the bends.
Re-entry requires decompression.
Our bodies have to find itself again.
Our brains have to rebuild coordination and self-trust.
Our sanity needs time to process and adapt the change in scenery.
In order to transition back properly, we need to slow down.
No matter where we're returning from,
coming back is its own kind of mission.
Careers are Rivers
Long before we're born
the rivers of work are already flowing
maybe in high school we dipped a toe
how cold is it
how fast is the current
over the years,
we have navigated rocky streams
forks in the river
and perhaps adventure and dangers
in unforeseen bends.
My focus for years was just navigating.
Row hard
Push
Push
Push
One more and I'm over this rapid
Keep going.
But after a period of intense rafting
at speeds impossible to sustain,
I pulled my boat to the shore and stopped paddling.
And rested.
The first fear in stopping is:
"everyone will pass me
They will cover more ground,
and find The Great Valley long before I will."
The second fear in stopping is:
"re-entry is impossible."
On the banks of the river I saw my fears come to life.
It felt like everyone did pass me.
But there's more.
The distance in watching the others pass showed me
we're not racing. We're all navigating our own journey.
This is mine.
and I don't want to be on theirs.
I can see how silly it was that I even wanted to be in that river in the first place.
And second,
you can never enter the same river again. The river you come back to is a different river.
Lately, the river has
felt like a
rushing torrent
Cascading water
falls with a current that will
capsize so many of us
sweeping us downstream
or worse
When the waters get rocky, may I suggest facing one fear:
Pull over.
Walk around the danger
Be safe and stop trying to keep up.
Rest.
Rebuild strength
Reinforce your boat.
Get the right gear and skills.
When you're ready
You will never re-enter the same river you left.
But neither are you
the same coxswain.
Just Stop
In the days before and after my mom died, my motivation and sense of purpose shifted.
What sense did it make to reply to texts?
Why should I exercise?
Who cares what's for dinner?
My mom died.
It's like my whole world stopped.
And for the week after, it was ok. Encouraged, even.
In Jewish tradition, for seven days after the funeral, the family and friends gather every day to sit and be with the mourners. To hear stories and pray and cry and be generous with food and our time.
For that week of shiva, it felt like everyone's world also stopped because mine did.
But I clearly remember the 8th day.
I'm supposed to just...
go to work?
Answer emails?
Slack the update about next week's presentation?
One of the hardest things for me about experiencing loss is the going back.
(There is no "normal" anymore)
But I can see the world is turning and I have to catch up. Jump back on.
As if I can. As if I'm not already dizzy and exhausted. I have to figure out how to generate my own momentum to get moving again and hop on like a carousel where everyone already seems to be moving at full speed...and enjoying it.
For those grieving:
It's hard to see progress in grief. And it's definitely not linear. It's important to see that in the beginning it was hard to reply to a text or find the will to eat. And now there are still triggering memories that bring tears and heartache. It's never 100% better, there will always be grief. But there is progress. A shower. A day without crying. Having an appetite is progress.
And for those with friends grieving:
It's not always possible to be there at the funeral or shiva or in the days leading there. And to be honest, that's not always the most helpful. But in the weeks after, when people feel most alone, like their whole world has stopped...
it's worth stopping yours for just a moment too,
just to check in.
Rediscovering the Novelty of the Everyday
Every Monday, we re-enter our lives. We have regular experiences that take us out of our lives. From a weekend away to having a newborn. A vacation, being out sick, and even the Covid shutdown. Live it long enough and the respite can start to feel routine. The escape turns into the everyday. We live the pendulum and need its rhythm. Even daily, we wake up to our lives.
The re-entry is what keeps our lives interesting. Coming back after time away, like an astronaut returning from space, makes us observe our own life with new perspective. We notice. We adapt. With distance we feel safer experimenting and trying new things. With time away, we feel energized by the novelty of the everyday.
Good morning.
It's time to wake up.
Rub your eyes and stretch.
I wish you a day of seeing your life with fresh eyes.
I wish you a life of seeing every day with fresh eyes.
Welcome back.
Today and every morning.
Until next month, refridgeyalater.
-Jake
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A few topics I cut from this month: re-entry after rehab or prison, Double feature movies, soldiers coming back from war, Billy Madison
The Email Refrigerator is a monthly delivery of essays, poetry, imagery, and thoughts, written and curated by Jake Kahana. Why a refrigerator? Well, it's where we look for snacks, a little freshness, and where we hang the latest, greatest work. And besides, "newsletter" sounds like spam.