an element that is common in all declarations of emergency is a directive for everyone to remain calm. it is as self-defeating as a lifeguard shouting at someone being carried away by the current to stop drowning. when we enter a state of emergency, an authoritative figure will spell out all the things that have gone wrong, are going wrong, and that may go wrong, then offer a meager statement that there are distant, anonymous experts working on it, and finally some patronizing instructions to stay calm, don’t panic.
but when do we ever practice calm, together? calm has been marketed in our culture as a solo affair, a personal act of mindfulness that is achieved simply by closing one’s eyes and focusing on one’s own breath. but how dare you ask me to close my eyes after showing me something i can’t unsee? how dare you tell me to focus on my breath after telling me that my exhale might be a biological hazard? in moments like this, once we sift past the immediate and visceral question of mere survival, we arrive at underlying threats that we’ve already been exposed to – isolation, uncertainty, anxiety.
how do we practice collective calm when there is no emergency at hand? what would it look like to have something that’s the opposite of a fire drill, a preparation to drop whatever we’re doing to fall into a communal state of relaxation?
over the past couple of days, i’ve been trying to tune out as much of the panic, anger, snark, doomsday statements, and pontifications about what all this means in the face of late-capitalism, in order to keep a steady hand. i can’t even yet say that i’m doing this for a collective good, because right now it’s just for my own piece of mind. but in time, once everyone’s voices have gone coarse from instructions about social distancing and how long to wash your hands, i hope we are still able to see this as an opportunity to see what it means for a critical mass of the human population to chill the fuck out.