"In the past, there was a future," was my attempt to describe why writing about a future dream (or dread) in memoir is difficult. The tense is tricky, though it has a name, "future in the past." So, one does not write "there were a series of activities" but "there would be a series of activities." On the other hand, "there were a series of anticipated activities" is possible if the emphasis is on the anticipation at a moment in the past.
The grammar isn't very interesting, but my statement "In the past, there was a future" made the group laugh. And for me, the statement feels poignant: there was a future that did not happen. In a way, the statement sums up the last seventeen months.
In early March 2020, we all carefully planned ahead for things we expected to happen in April. These were cancelled. Plane tickets were shifted as suddenly everyone was expected home from abroad by the end of March. We can name trips and events planned for the summer of 2020 that, in the spring, we looked forward to. That anticipated future didn't happen.
In mid 2020, we dreamed of a future 2021 that would be much better than the year we were living.
As fall 2020 progressed, however, we stopped planning. The second wave was building, and we knew that meant more shut downs. We have lived a different future than we once hoped for.
Then, vaccines appeared. Because of the work done on SARS, scientists were able to determine quickly what a vaccine would need to look like. The information was widely shared, giving pharmaceutical companies a head start. The roll out was frustratingly slow at first, but we started to plan for a future when enough people would be vaccinated that restrictions could be lifted.
Kids had hoped to get back to in person learning last spring. When that did not happen, families wondered if they could plan for September. Then, miraculously, day camps did happen. Summer became a time of activities and play with children beyond siblings.
In June, there was a future with September start ups. Right now, that future feels less certain.
As the Delta variant increases in prominence, as it is able to break through and infect fully vaccinated people, that anticipated future feels at risk.
I've heard people say that the Delta variant makes them feel afraid. But I've heard that statement in person at an outside, physically distanced event. In 2020 and early 2021, most of what I heard came over the phone or on zoom. So, summer 2021 is a little closer to the future I anticipated.
My line "In the past, there was a future" unconsciously echoed part of a very hopeful song, In the bulb, there is a flower. That song reminds us that we have seen bulbs sprout beauty. We've seen a seed become an apple tree. We know that after winter, spring arrives. The hymn ends, "from the past will come the future what it holds a mystery, unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see." The words remind us that although there is a difference between the past and the future, that we cannot see what will be, we move into that future with confidence, because we have seen in so many ways life grows from what feels dead.
We do not control the future. The shape of that time may be very different than what we anticipate. It is important to acknowledge how we feel about that loss. Along with other emotions, we are grieving.
Our lack of control over the future may make us feel insecure as we listen to claims that schools will open and stay open. We've lived a lot of disappointment in 2021. But it does matter what we hope for, what we intend. The foundation we lay affects what will come. Planning based on fear will leave us stagnant. Planning based on hope for renewal will let us build a future that is like the daffodil and tulip, bringing colour and life from what seemed lifeless.
Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway
