On the unexpected gift of time

“Nearly all the best things that came to me 
in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.”

~Carl Sandburg

It's spring 2020 and America has been experiencing a long, pregnant pause in the everyday hustle and bustle of life thanks to the coronavirus. 

Schools closed, colleges sent students home, concerts and sporting events and all theatrical productions were canceled, churches went to online services only, office workers found themselves "telecommuting" from their kitchen table, and (with the notable exception of a few key service industries) it seemed we had all been suddenly gifted with something we often claimed we long to have more of: time. 

I am not naive or obtuse; I realize that this unprecedented shutdown of our country has created huge financial burdens and other hardships across just about every sector and segment of our society. But there is no denying that, at the same time, most of us have found ourselves with extra time on our hands. 

Time we didn't expect. Time we have desperately longed for. Time for rest. Time for play. Time for special projects. Time for hobbies. Time to learn something new. Time to perfect something learned long ago. Time for our partner and family.

During this time, I was searching old computer files for some homeschooling resources to share with my daughter-in-law and I ran across a letter of sorts -- one I'd written 20 years ago, in the year 2000. We were living in Ankara, Turkey, and had a day of unexpected time on our hands. It was just a single Sunday, whereas this shutdown has been a whole year of Sundays... but the feeling is still the same. All this time on my hands... what will I make of it?

I'm not sure I made the best use of that unexpected day at home back in 2000, and I for sure have not made the best use of these unexpected days at home in 2020 -- but perhaps there is still, well, time to remedy that.

Here is the letter (really, a blog post of sorts) that I wrote back in 2000 -- well, a portion of it, anyway:

Ankara is, by far, the largest city we have ever lived in, its population numbering roughly four million. It is crowded and congested, plagued by the problems most major cities face – homelessness, excessive noise, poverty, overflowing garbage dumps, and pollution so severe that on most days we cannot see the northern wall of the valley opposite us, which is only a couple of miles away as the crow flies. 

Our apartment building is on the southern wall of the valley, in an area inhabited primarily by foreign diplomats, the politicians of the city, and the extremely wealthy Turks who have carved out a fortune that is nearly incomprehensible to their fellow countrymen. 

... 

In all parts of the city, however, the streets are crowded, clogged with taxis, buses, school vans, and more automobiles than there are parking spaces. The only rule of the road seems to be that there aren’t any rules, as drivers make right-hand turns from the far-left lanes, left turns from the far-right lanes, while the cars in the middle make perilous attempts to simply drive straight through the intersection. Stop signs, one-way streets, no passing zones, no parking zones, dashed traffic lane lines, and other traffic signs seem to be merely suggestions and are routinely ignored.  

Taxi drivers trolling for business in the right lane think nothing of locking up their brakes right in front of you in order to stop for a fare. Actual bus stops are also a rarity, as most of the buses simply stop for anyone flagging them down or for passengers wishing to disembark. You cannot predict when this might happen, so you must always be on the alert.  

Four million people, buses, taxis, cars, pedestrians, and the general sounds of the city – perpetual construction projects, garbage trucks, screeching tires as another driver slams on their brakes to avoid hitting a pedestrian or stopping taxi, political vans loudly broadcasting music and announcements as they pass, honking car horns pressed angrily by frustrated drivers, peddlers calling out their wares and services as they push their carts up and down the streets – all add up to a noise level that, when we first arrived, kept us awake long into the night and woke us early in the morning. Now it is merely “white” noise to us, background music that lulls us to sleep in its ordinariness.  

Today, however, the streets of the city have been eerily calm, as though some great tragedy has struck the metropolis, leaving it barren and deserted. The silence is deafening. Not a single vehicle has passed our house. No strolling street vendors hawking bread, potatoes, or onions. No buses ambling by. No children passing noisily on their way to the park. In fact, no sign of any life outside our window; the sight of our security guard the only proof we have that the entire city hasn’t mysteriously disappeared in the middle of the night. 

As for us, we are housebound –  not because of inclement weather, not because of illness, not for lack of transportation, not even out of a self-imposed curfew. Rather, we are here at home for the day because, should we venture past the confines of our garden, we could be arrested, jailed, or heavily fined. 

This is national census day in Turkey, and except for extreme emergencies, the entire nation has been restricted to their homes for the day. Between 6 a.m. and 7 p.m., no one is to leave their home for anything other than a medical emergency – and even then, the police will make the decision as to what constitutes a medical emergency. The Ministry of .. what, exactly? Labor? Domestic Affairs? … has issued permits to a select few who must be at work on this day. Hospital staff. Firefighters. Turkish military generals, perhaps. The rest of the populace – foreigners included – must remain at home under threat of imprisonment. 

This bizarre mandate, which had those of at the embassy muttering and shaking our heads at the absurdity of it all, has been an unexpected blessing. A forced day of rest. Unlike any holiday, even Christmas Day in the States, where you could still go to the grocery store, gas station, even the movie theater, today any possibility of this is out of the question.

No stores are open. No gas stations are open, since no one should be driving. No trains are running. Even those folks who arrived at the airport today had to sit in the terminal and wait until the curfew lifted at 7:00 p.m. before they could go to their hotel or home. 

As for the silence – well, it was amazing how quickly we adjusted to this new sound. Or lack thereof. We lit a fire in the fireplace. Paul taught Ryan the game Risk. As the boys busied themselves with world domination, Olivia visited our fourth floor neighbor, a single woman who simply adores Olivia and spoils her rotten. I curled up on the couch with a short novel that I actually read in one day. Austin played dress up (“Army man” is his current fave), watched Barney, and found new ways to drive his brother and sister crazy. We all took naps – almost unheard of for our family – then continued the lazy day with more of the same.  

This was better than a holiday. There were no expectations for a huge family feast. No presents to purchase. No pressure to go anywhere or do anything. It was almost as though this were a “bonus” day – like the hour we “gain” at daylight savings time, we suddenly “gained” this extra day for which nothing was planned. We didn’t quite know what to do with the day, so we did nothing, and we reveled in it. 

The darkness fell almost unexpectedly tonight, as we had not been marking the hours pass as we usually do on the weekends. The beautiful quiet was sharply interrupted by a passing car. As we glanced at the clock, we saw that the curfew was over. The city was beginning to stir. By 7:30 p.m., the noise of the street burst through the silence like a jack-in-the-box springing free from the confines of his container, jarring us out of our dreamlike stupor and bringing us back to the reality of life in a city of four million people.