Being on video has never been my favourite thing, and having Zoom calls several times a week now has not endeared the practice to me, although I am grateful to be able to connect with the people in my life this way.
Yesterday I was supposed to be on a Zoom call with a group of author friends. The meeting was scheduled to begin at 11 a.m. At 10:55, I went into my email to click on the invitation as I have done a hundred times since the pandemic began. It wasn’t in my inbox. I’d glanced at the invitation the day before, so I knew I had received it. As the hands of the clock edged closer to 11 and then past it, I frantically searched my inbox, my deleted folder, my junk folder, the emails on my phone, my secondary email account. Nothing. At 11:10, I began sending urgent messages to some of the authors I was supposed to be meeting with, in response to their texts and emails to me wondering where I was. “Can’t find the invitation in my inbox. Please re-send,” I sent out three or four times.
At 11:15, about the time I’d decided (with a mixture of disappointment, frustration, and a slight bit of relief) that maybe I would give up, I got a text from one of the women. Apparently the invitation hadn’t been emailed, but posted to our group’s Facebook page.
Oh. If it’s possible to slink into a video chat, that’s how I entered this one. More than fifteen minutes late due to scrambling to find an invitation that I had seen the day before and therefore knew, deep in the recesses of my mind, was on Facebook and not mixed in with my emails.
Lockdown brain. It’s a real thing. I’ve been embarrassed like this on more than one occasion in the past couple of months. I finally did the one thing I swore I would never do as I got older and asked my husband if he’d seen my glasses anywhere. He calmly pointed out that they were on top of my head. I have put food that should be in the refrigerator in the cupboard with the dishes, worn a shirt inside out for the better part of a day (one good thing about never leaving the house), and of course I can pretty much never tell you what day of the week it is, or what month of the year for that matter.
Focus is a serious issue. Early on, I was trying to finish a book with a June 1 deadline. I could edit what I had, no problem, but trying to write, to be creative? Not so much. Finally I set myself a two thousand word a day deadline, plunked myself down, and didn’t get up until I’d hit my target. I did finish, but not the way I would normally write—by allowing creativity to flow as it would. Essentially, I needed to employ something that is not normally my strong suit—discipline.
And I have needed to apply discipline to other areas of my life as well as the craziness has gone on. I have found that, more than ever, I need to be in the Word of God so that, rather than fearful, anxious, and unfocused, my mind, heart, and soul can be at peace. -@sarajdavison Share on X To ensure that I stay on track, I joined a Facebook group that is reading through most of the Old Testament between June and December. So far I have kept up with the readings and have found that, the more I immerse myself in Scripture, the more at rest I feel, regardless of what is going on around me in the world.
I still have the odd lapse, like yesterday with the Zoom call, but keeping my eyes focused on what is important, what truly matters, is helping me overcome lockdown brain and actually be productive while (most days) staying calm and at peace. Which is a lot more important than knowing what day it is anyway.
Sara Davison is the author of three romantic suspense series, The Seven Trilogy, The Night Guardians Series, and The Rose Tattoo Trilogy. She has been a finalist for ten national writing awards, including Best New Canadian Christian Author, a Selah, a Carol, and two Daphne du Maurier Awards for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense. She has won both a Word Award and Cascade Award. Davison resides in Ontario, Canada, with her husband Michael and their three children, all of whom she (literally) looks up to.
She is the only one who can tell the police who attacked her in her home.
If only she could remember …
Summer Velasquez is on the run from a man she has no recollection of after an attack she can’t recall.
Every face in the crowd is a potential suspect, so how is Summer supposed to know who is a threat to her and who isn’t?
After fleeing her assailant and the parents who lied to her about what happened, she changes her name and seeks refuge in Elora, Ontario. The small town feels familiar, although she has no memory of ever having been here.
Even in what should be a safe place, she can’t shake the feeling that she is being watched.
When Ryan Taylor strolls into the Taste of Heaven Café where she works, Summer is immediately drawn to him. However, he may not be who he says he is either. As her suspicions grow, Summer prepares to run again.
But at least one person is determined to stop her. Permanently. And if she can’t remember who he is, this time he may succeed.
