Don't get me wrong.  I actually do like bagpipe music.  The only problem I have is that one note, the one that never varies, which underlies all bagpipe music.  It doesn't matter what song they are playing.  The one note carries on like a mosquito visiting a darkened bedroom in the middle of a summer night. I love Scottish music, but after a while that one note is all I can hear.

I am tired of writing about COVID-19.  I'm tired of reading about it, thinking about it, worrying about it, and being bored by it.  But whatever other interesting thoughts try to fight their way through, they are blocked by that never-ending drone.  Understand that I do realize how incredibly lucky I am, or at least have been so far.  There are, of course, no guarantees that such luck will continue.  I am also well aware of all the people who are not as lucky, either losing loved ones, or trying to find a way to make ends meet with no income, or working on the many front lines of this war. I do not wish to complain.

Today I got the word that my company is extending their work at home policy to the end of May.  May!  It's been hard enough to keep people from erupting during this cold and rainy spring.  When the weather turns nice I am afraid the people will turn ugly.  And dangerously so.  Demonstrators are painting depressingly inhumane slogans on their cars such as "Your health is not more important than my liberties."  Really.   Keeping us away from one another is not a vendetta by the government.  It is a scientific way to insure that when we are allowed to reconnect we will all be together.  Otherwise, there will be many missing faces in that circle.  We have to stay calm and breathe through this.  We have to follow the rules and keep six feet away from one another and wear the masks.  For how much longer, you ask?  No one knows yet.  But they'll figure it out.  This cannot last forever, even though it often feels as though it will.  

I understand the frustration and longing and boredom and anger.  I do.  When my twenty-five year old son got sufficiently bored he went off for a sunny Sunday afternoon with his friends for six hours.  And for the first time in his quarter-century life I was truly enraged at him.  He was shocked to hear Mom drop the "F bomb" (more than once) while telling him how selfish and stupid he was.  I yelled it from six feet away while standing in front of his apartment, but he (and his neighbors) knew I was angry.  And frightened.  More than I ever remember being in my life.  He seems to have escaped unscathed, and we're "friends" again, but the incredible fragility of my world became achingly clear in that instant.  We are all in serious danger, and even though it's getting "old" we cannot afford to lose our focus. Not for one ill-advised minute.

I will confess that I'm finding it a bit frustrating that my favorite time of year has been "tainted" with all the fear and grieving and lack of companionship, but there we are.  The lilacs (which were our wedding flowers) are starting to bud outside my window, and the magnolia trees are showing off their glorious colors.   I've seen pink and white before, but never yellow.  I was very impressed.  There's a lot going on out there that I haven't noticed before.

Maybe this is part of the gift.  Since we're not going anywhere anyway, we have time to actually look at where we are.  Walks tend to be pensive and quiet.  Wearing a mask gets in the way of my inborn ability to chat until your ears fall off. My husband may consider that HIS part of the gift.  My brain, however, continues to whir like a helicopter blade, slicing from this thought to that one, from one image to another.  What, exactly, are we supposed to take away from this extraordinary period of our lives?  Surely, there must be something we are supposed to learn.

Himself has explored some very creative recipes, is starting a sourdough feed (whatever that is), and is growing apple seeds and basil in a small pot on the windowsill when he's not becoming the King of the Arduino (a computer thing).  But that's not what I mean.  Some friends are feeling as though they are "wasting" this given time when we should be learning to know ourselves better or master a foreign language or finally unclutter the house.  This time is too important for just that.
Not unlike the flowers which have been lying dormant all winter, waiting to explode in a joyous chaos to the eye and nose, we, in our enforced solitude, are growing and changing in ways we neither understand nor control.  We are the caterpillars, tucked into their cocoons, looking like withered pea pods, but hiding a secret and eventually erupting in glory.  The changes are slow, but they are unavoidable.  We are none of us who we were in March.

We are beginning to understand the importance of friendships, of voices, of touches.  We have been forced to find ways to distract and amuse ourselves without the usual noises and habits.  A great many people do not have the luxury of time to think.  They are dealing with small children, or having to go out to work amidst the crippling fears and real dangers.  They are fighting to keep us alive, whether we are sick or healthy.  Doctors and food handlers, truckers and trash collectors, postal workers and grocery clerks, they are all out there making it possible for us to keep going.  And while it's nice to tell them we appreciate their work, I find many have become resentful.  They do not think of themselves as "heroes" as much as "victims of the economy" and can you blame them?

Some of us will emerge at the end of this time having gained or lost weight.  Hairdressers will be in great demand as graying roots give away our little secrets. Some marriages will likely end, while others will be stronger and deeper than they have ever been. And those of us cut off from our religious services for all this time will have either worked out a stronger, if less formal, relationship with God, or we will choose to hold a grudge for whatever pain we have endured.  And of course, some of us will have to learn to live with the incredible ache of having lost someone whose value we didn't appreciate until they were gone forever.

The skies over much of poor Mother Earth have noticeably cleared with the shutting down of factories and the diminishing number of cars on the road.  From dolphins in the canals in Venice to cheeky deer and foxes prowling through city neighborhoods, there have been many changes.  And they just happen.  I don't think we are supposed to push them, but rather to feel them, to notice them. And somewhere down the line, to celebrate them.

Many people are growing weary of the quiet, of all this time to think.  Some are starting to protest and are willing to take life-threatening chances to push this period to an end and to re-start "normal" life.  This approach will not work.  We can't end this on our schedule.  We can't afford to get "sloppy" or complacent now.  The reason "it doesn't look so bad" is that so many of us have been following the rules.  If we rebel now we will certainly find out why the rules were there to begin with.  

Take a deep breath and be patient.  Let the changes happen, in nature, and in yourself.  We may not be mastering a new language or our musical ability, but oh, how we are growing!  

It is common knowledge that social distancing works.  That it saves lives.  Every scientist has confirmed that we should not be eating in restaurants, going to ball games, going to the beach.  The pandemic is far from over even if we've "flattened the curve."

I understand people are getting bored.  I'm bored.  But I'm not bored enough to risk my life.  I watch these protesters on the news as they confront the hospital staffs, as they block ambulances, as they wave their flags, and I don't get it.  People are worried about paychecks and certainly that is understandable, but the venom that is coming forth from these people is beyond me.  Some of the signs actually say it's OK to "sacrifice the fragile to save the economy".  Really? Have we gotten to that point?  Meanwhile, although flags are many, masks are few.  Do they realize or care that they are making themselves vulnerable?  Someone, and probably many someones, will contract this deadly disease by piling together to make their point.  The point, I guess, is that money is more important than people.  

And then there is the absolute hatred emanating from these crowds.  They are angry, but it is not clear at whom.  At the governors who are trying to save them from themselves? At the lack of freedom to carry on "life as usual"?  There IS no "life as usual".  What will it take to make them believe the science behind the regulations?  There are a lot of Trump MAGA hats in those crowds, which doesn't surprise me.  He tends to attract very angry people.  I wish he would stop them.  I wish he would speak rationally about how important it is to follow the directives of the CDC, how essential it is to let the hospital workers carry on with their incredibly difficult and draining work of saving lives. I don't think that's going to happen. After all, it's his fault we were unprepared in the first place.

Perhaps when they or someone they love falls victim to the virus they'll get it.  But I wish we could make them understand before that happens.

Has it really come to this? The "loss of our freedoms" is temporary.  What frightens me is that I think a lot of us have also lost our humanity.  And that appears to be permanent.

I've been thinking all week of how lucky I am.  I grew up in the top floor of a three-decker house in Boston and for the first fourteen years of my life we had no central heating, no rugs, one bathroom, five kids, and a father who went into WWII at 18 and probably suffered from PTSD for the rest of his life.  He sometimes exploded in rage, making my childhood less than idyllic.  It took me a long time to figure out it probably was out of his control, and it took longer to forgive him for what he really couldn't help.  I would dream of the day when I would have a "real house" with an upstairs, a fireplace, and a piano.

Staying home all this time for the last month has given me time to realize that I actually am "living the dream".  I don't play the piano well, but it's there, right next to the stone fireplace.  My husband, the gentle, calm soul whom I love, works upstairs, using our younger son's bedroom as his office, and while he's looking for work like so many others these days, I still have a job and sit in the rocker in front of the fireplace trying to keep up with the demands of being in the periphery of the health-care industry (paperwork side only).

May God forgive me, I have complained about boredom, or lack of variety of food, or missing visiting my friends for a meal and a cocktail, or how nervous I get going out to buy groceries.  A dear friend of mine posted something this morning which stopped me dead in my tracks.  She didn't write it, but whoever did deserves some sort of medal.  The author asked people to stop saying "We're all in the same boat."  We are NOT all in the same boat.  We are all in the same STORM.  My boat is very comfy.  I still have food, a job, my family, a roof over my head.  There are people out in tiny rowboats on this stormy sea, who have zero income coming in, who don't know how they will eat, or pay the light bill, or keep their apartment.  There are people out there who are in an abusive situation, and I remember what those look like.  The longer the tension builds the angrier people get. There are people trying to work full time from home and also teach their small, baffled children in the middle of this chaos. And there are all those on the front lines, bagging our groceries, selling us gas, filling our prescriptions, caring for our sick and dying.  Some are being incredibly brave and selfless, and many have absolutely no choice in the matter if they want to eat.

May God, who knows all about calming seas, calm this one, and may He give courage and comfort to all those in the smallest and most fragile boats.

Lately I often don't leave the house for days on end. Himself goes for a run almost every day, but I don't even enjoy walking the neighborhood, and when I do it's more of an "ought to" than a "want to".  Since tomorrow is trash day and they are beginning to pick up yard trash, I decided it was a good time to make a small dent in all the leaves under the front hedges which have been the refuge of squirrels, mice, birds, and I don't want to know what else for the whole winter.  There was fresh air and exercise and an audible sigh of relief from my neighbors with their manicured lawns.  I filled three bags and felt pretty good about it.  I'll fill more tomorrow.  Maybe.

I've also been toiling away inside on washing the winter clothes and the spring clothes, and finding out what really IS in that enormous pile in my bedroom (I'll let you know if I ever get to the bottom).  I have been tidying the linen closet and tossing expired prescriptions and cough syrups from the medicine chest.  Nothing is terribly obvious yet, but I am beginning to see a difference.  And it's mostly in my head.

I seem to be finding relief in order.  It's a catharsis to shovel out the Tupperware without the lids, or the socks without a mate, or the twelve wooden spoons when I might need three.  Eventually it will show to the naked eye, but for now it is enough that it is giving me a feeling of being in control of something at a time when absolutely nothing feels in control.  This, at least, is something I can do, something concrete and healthy and necessary on several levels.

I have often told my husband that if I ever got really sick he was to call Merry Maids and THEN 911 in that order.  Living in chaos is not fun.  It hasn't been fun in my physical space, and lately it's even less fun in my emotional space. It's daunting to try figure out how to manage the anxiety about the virus, and the economy, and the rapidly changing state of the world.  So I will do a little something positive each day, both to fill the time and to calm my spirit.  And as the saying goes, "How do you eat an elephant?....One bite at a time!"

This whole Covid-19 thing is endlessly rubbing me the wrong way.  So far at least, I haven't been more than unnerved and inconvenienced.  We have food. I have company.  We hear from our kids. I have friends who have lost relatives.  We've been lucky. But it rubs and rubs like a wet sock in a long race.  It's never off my mind.

Beyond the usual worry about who will catch it, and how the first responders, and everyone else who is out there making our daily lives possible, can keep going at this pace, there is a sadness attached to this.  Going for a walk has become an emotional challenge.  I wear my mask and endure the looks of those who think it's "overkill".  Hey, my degree is in French.  Anthony Fauci's is in medicine. I'll take his word for it.  I feel exposed in many ways when I'm out walking, and it is easier for me to stay at home.

We all wish we knew when this stage would end.  But no one does, so we don't know how to steel ourselves for the challenge of living in fear and doing without our comforts and our hugs.  My tears come quickly these days.  I think about the people I've lost in my life, brothers, parents, friends, and I have learned to make a space in my heart for their memories.  Over the years I've come to make peace with that and to carry them with me.  How do you feel the presence of the ones you love who are still here, but aren't really? Seeing them on Zoom is like watching a movie.  I see them, but they don't feel real.  Nothing does these days.

I was chatting with a friend of mine the other day (on Zoom) who asked if I was singing.  I hadn't realized that I'd stopped singing, in the shower, in church, around the house, everywhere.  Music is a great healer and I have cut myself off.   So I was listening to some Judy Collins songs on Amazon the other night and  heard for the first time a song written by Randy Newman.  It's called "Feels Like Home".  One of the phrases is "If you knew how much this moment means to me, and how I've longed for your touch.  If you knew how happy you are making me.  I never thought I'd love anyone so much."  It's been playing on a loop in my head ever since.  This is how I will feel when I can hug my sons again. And I am looking forward to embarrassing them in public with my tears.

I watched the Easter Sunday Mass on my computer this morning.  Easter has always  been a very important holiday to me.  The Resurrection has always been such a powerful reaffirmation of all my values and my beliefs.  It has also been my comfort.  I will confess, however, that watching it onscreen and not being able to be present was no comfort at all.  In fact, it hurt.

I hate the distance required to keep my children safe, but I understand it and I enforce it.  Talking to them on WhatsApp or Google Chat, or whatever it is, helps, but doesn't heal the pain of separation.  Being cut off from the Church (physically, that is) is a  very different thing.  Maybe it's because I can hear their voices.  I don't know. 

What is there that makes me long to kneel in a church?  I am not very particular about which one, I just want to be there in person. It's the only place I stop pretending to be stronger than I am.  All pretense falls away and I crawl up onto God's lap and feel His welcoming arms around me.  I'm a child again, not the gray haired lady who gets to shop early at the supermarket.  There are no long poetic prayers. Sometimes I don't say a thing to Him.  I just sit there in the silence and let Him love me, understand me, forgive me.  All the hurts of my life come with me, the deaths, the disappointments, and the fears.  I also bring all the joy, all the gratitude for getting me this far, for answering some prayers "no" when He knew better, for sending me the most amazing people to guide me and love me and fascinate me and to keep me company on my journey.

I was thinking yesterday how Holy Saturday, which to me has always been a "place holder" in Holy Week, is a good analogy for what we're going through with Covid-19.  We're cut off from one another, disappointed, lonely, afraid, and unsure.  I wonder what it was like for Jesus. For the Apostles the dream was over.  The leader was gone.  I can't imagine what Jesus must have been thinking wherever He was.  A tomb is a strange place to be thinking "Whew, I made it!" but He did.  He finished what He came to do.  And when He appeared to his followers He warned them away from Him.  Maybe He was still figuring it all out for Himself and needed some space.  The original social distancing.

When we emerge from our "tombs" I think it will take us a while to think about how to handle it.  We will look at things with new eyes.  We will care about different things.  Hugs will be more important than they have seemed in years.  For a while every shared meal with a friend will feel like a sacrament.  We'll get jaded again, of course.  That's what humans do.  But there will be a transitional time similar to when a blind person sees for the first time.  Or when a person with profound hearing loss gets a cochlear implant and can hear, and feel part of the world again.  They are aware of the miracle that is life.

Meanwhile, we wait in the tomb for a while longer, pondering the big questions. This stage will end, too.  I will take for granted the joy of sitting in the second row, aisle seat.  But not for a long time.

Happy Easter.  He is still risen.  And He is still here with us. Alleluia.

There was thunder and lightning in Boston today.  In April.  In Holy Week.  In Passover. In the middle of the afternoon.  
A dear friend of mine, when he got bored with a conversation (which often occurred) would change the topic by saying in a very loud voice, "My, my WHAT a lot of weather we're having!  Great gobs of it!"  I find I'm getting to that point with the topic of the pandemic.  It's very far from over, and while different places around the world and around this country are facing their "peaks" at different times, ours is due about a week from Saturday.  So not only is it not over, but it hasn't really landed with both feet yet.  Still, surely there is something else to discuss.

How shallow of me, I know.  I need a break from the stress and the paranoia, however justified they might be.  This Saturday will mark one month since I've been in my office.  The work hasn't ceased, in fact it's being heaped on and I'm busy all day long.  We have enough food in the house to resist the urge to go shopping for at least one more week if not two.  Going to the shops just to have something to do is not only irresponsible, it's out and out stupid.  There must be a book around to read, or something to write, or a game to play, or a show to watch.  I'm not budging for quite a while yet.  Even my walks outside have become fewer and further between.  It's not that fear keeps me inside.  I'm just bored.  So let's talk weather.
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While the daffodils and forsythia are painting the town yellow out there, the majority of trees haven't begun to put any effort into popping out a leaf.  My lilac tree is making a fairly valiant attempt, but the maples and elms and oaks around here are just slackers.  And I'm cold.  No matter how many sweaters or fleeces I pile on I cannot seem to get warm. And I want a cookie.  Or several.
Even Mother Nature can't keep track of the time anymore.  What day is it?  What month is it?  Unless you're getting out into it I suppose it doesn't matter much.
We have two sad folding chairs which we plunk onto the front porch when the weather is warm.  I usually read or write and Himself has his laptop open and humming.  But we can't even do that yet because it isn't warm enough.  Then there's the thunder and lightning and rain, so much rain. But it will get warmer.  And we will get out there. You will, too.  And after every good storm I expect a rainbow! Peace out.

I am not afraid of mice. There's a picture of one inside a flower which is kind of cute. Mickey and Minnie are fine.  But when I am housebound due to circumstances beyond my control and I finally find out that the odd smell from the corner cabinet is what is left of a furry friend who went for a midnight snack (apparently quite a while ago), I have to draw the line.  I did not scream.  I also did not remove it.  Himself not only cooks like a dream, but he indulges this one seriously strange revulsion of mine.  I have no idea what shape our former tenant had.  I wouldn't look. Suffice it to say that "Elvis has left the building."

So in the middle of the virus of the century I am surprised at how much time I'm thinking about the poor little thing. Nature is looking better and better the longer I can't go out and play in it, and this was, after all, one of God's little creatures.  We don't own pets (although at the moment a cat wouldn't be a bad idea) because I've always thought it was presumptuous.  What right do I have to "own" a breathing, walking, living thing?  Or a flying one, either?  Cats are different.   No one owns a cat.  They just let you feed them and clean their litter.  And let's face it, fish are just boring.  You can call them forever; they will never come.

Life is life.  It's all precious and fascinating and brief. Even this tiny, smelly little mouse who decided to invade my space was just trying to get along.  We're all trying to just get along.  Everyone wants to be loved. Everyone wants to fit in. Everyone wants to feel special. Everyone wants to be seen. Everyone wants to be happy.  Between self-absorption and cell phones, many people have become invisible.  This isolation we are all going through is painful, but it is also fascinating. Our isolation has just become more obvious. With all this time on our hands (those who aren't out on the front lines making life possible for the rest of us, that is) everything is coming under scrutiny.  What makes life special?  What makes it worth living?  Who makes it worth living?  What happens when we stop living?  

The global pandemic, more than anything I can remember, has truly made me feel as though we are all just citizens of Earth.  Just going for a ride on the Big Blue Marble.  It's getting very "Zen" in my head.  I am beginning to feel the connected-ness of every country, every creature, even my stinky little mouse.  We're all pieces of the puzzle with jagged little edges and inscrutable colors and shapes, but somehow we are meant to fit together.  There is no reason why we shouldn't.

 I can't look at the big death tolls.  They're too scary.  Thank you for giving me a microcosm  to contemplate.    RIP, Mousie. And sorry about the trap.

Apparently, the darkest days of Covid-19 have finally arrived.  The numbers of people afflicted are multiplying exponentially.  After having this creepy monster slinking across continents to get here, it seems to be doing its Godzilla impersonation and stomping on whatever and whoever it can find and sweeping the rest away with a scaly tail. 

I am not a good waiter.  Among my many charming attributes almost no one ever mentions "patience".  But throw me into a battle and I'm the one you want at your elbow.  Once stuff gets real I develop an eerie calm and the pit-bull comes out. I'm short, chubby, and getting old, but I'm not afraid anymore.  

I'm trying to control my outrage at the actions of Mr. Trump, advocating using drugs when he has absolutely no medical background, and in complete ignorance of the medical implications of what he's advising.  There are a great many people who are showing what they are really made of.  It's not all flattering.  The religious leaders ignoring the self-distancing directives, the millionaires too eager to get back to business, even if it means sacrificing a large number of senior citizens, the leaders of the states who STILL haven't ordered quarantine, or who have forced people to endanger their lives to vote, they all have shown what matters to them.  It's money. It's always money.

However, there are so many examples of people riding to the rescue, from Governor Cuomo to Lady GaGa, from the musicians and artists to the grocery clerks, from the exhausted medical personnel to Bob Kraft and the Patriots' private jet flying in supplies, these are the people who are worth watching.  There are also people who will need to be dealt with. I hope we as a country will not forget the wonderful things some people have done through this, the sacrifices made and the courage shown.  I also hope no one will forget the cowardice, avarice, and ignorance exhibited by so many politicians.  I'm not afraid of dying anymore.  I know I have a mission.  I'll crawl to the polls in November to vote them out if necessary.  I hope you will too.  

This picture of Jesus, Self-isolating with the Disciples "Zooming" in, has been making the rounds.  It's clever, and funny, but it's also so sad.  This Passover Seder, which Christians call "The Last Supper", became the foundation for the Mass and is a huge deal for Christians, as Passover is a huge deal for Jews.  Jesus, as almost everyone knows, was a Jew. He followed the laws of Moses.  He remembered with his friends the liberation of the Jewish people who fled the land of the Pharaoh after their years of harsh treatment. He celebrated their relationship with God.  

Christians believe His own relationship with God was a bit more complicated, and we remember all this week what followed; the betrayal by Judas Iscariot, the "trial" before Pontius Pilate, the  gory crucifixion on Good Friday and the power and joy of the Resurrection on Easter Sunday.  Our ancestors (Jewish and Christian) celebrated the coming of Spring, the coming of hope, and, in the case of Christians, the coming of the Messiah.

We are called upon this year to celebrate in a very different way. Chocolate bunnies and Easter egg hunts, new clothes for services, and dinner with the whole gathered family are not going to happen.
Neither are Seder plates, with bitter herbs, salt water, and lamb shanks. We are trying to save our own lives and the lives of others by staying apart, by facing the loneliness and the anxiety and scariest of all, ourselves.  While the First Responders, the grocery clerks, the postal carriers, the gas station attendants, and so many others risk their safety to provide healing and sustenance, many of us are "stranded" at home (if we're lucky enough to have one) with more time on our hands than we have had since we were children on summer vacation.  We have an awful lot of time to think.

I'm missing the ability to go to church in person.  Watching Mass on my computer depresses me in ways even I don't understand.  I'm also missing the chance to sing "Dayenu" at my friends' seder, and to read from the Haggadah.  I'm missing connecting with everyone.  I am trying very hard to look at this quiet time as an opportunity to reflect on what and who we are. I refuse to think about the stock market or the fact that my husband has been laid off.  I am avoiding political divisions and concentrating on the humanity we share.  We are all here on Earth for such a short time.  And while we are here we are citizens of "The Big Blue Marble".  The things that we have in common far outnumber the things that divide us. Then there's my relationship with God.  Where do I encounter Her/Him in my life?  How much time do I spend connecting there?

This is a scary and lonely time for all of us.  It can also be a time for growth and compassion, understanding and stretching beyond our comfort zones. It can be a great gift if we open our hearts and our minds to it.  Chag Pesach sameach, and a Blessed Easter.  Next year, together!

It is amazing how slow I am to take advantage of the many benefits of the 21st century.  Writing on the computer is a fairly recent development.  Left to my own devices I prefer a really good fountain pen and a legal sized tablet of lined yellow paper on which to compose.  Mostly because it's gotten pretty near impossible to find good parchment anymore and quills are so unkind to our avian friends.
  
Today, however, I crossed a major bridge out of the Middle Ages and into the present.  I had a forty-five minute conversation with my son on the West Coast, my son on the East Coast, my friend in North Wales and Himself who was hiding in the upstairs bedroom while I took over The Pirate Room (a story for another day) downstairs.  We were all visible (except for Son Number One on the West Coast who says his camera was wonky, but whom Himself suspected of suffering from "SundayMorningAfterSaturdayNight-itis").  But there we were, the five of us, the boys comparing beards with Himself, discussing with Uncle Terry the differences in the ways our countries are handling the current nastiness, jokes flying both ways across the Atlantic, and at some point I think everyone picked on Mom, but it was lovely!

It's not just a "Mom thing" either.  The relief at being able to see the people I love more than life moving and jesting and being irreverent and political was a precious Google Gift.  Phone calls are fine, but there is so much that can be hidden.  Show me the face of someone I hold dear and I can skip the talking part and do an instant analysis on the real state of things.  And so far, thank Heaven, things seem to be OK.   Oh, we are all getting cranky and bored and impatient.  That is to be expected.  But we all realize how important it is, and what a privilege it is, to be home being cranky and bored and impatient.  It's not just a privilege.  It's an obligation.  We have to look out for one another and we have to take the possibility of contagion seriously, either getting this thing or unknowingly giving it.  Neither case is pleasant to think about.

Another nice thing about computers and the internet is that I got to hear Queen Elizabeth II stating in a calm and rational voice that controlling our wanderlust (OK...she didn't put it that way, but that's what she meant) was the duty of every citizen, and that some day we would all look back on this time and see how brave and patient and wonderful we were to make these sacrifices for the good of the world.  She's 93 and therefore still old enough to be my mother, so I was comforted.

There are also a bunch of ninnies out there contradicting the scientists and pooh-poohing the necessity of masks or isolation.  They play basketball in the streets, and loll on the beach in big bunches, and stand too close to one another at press conferences (Oops.  Did I say that out loud?) but they are not the ones I listen to.  There are tales aplenty of people expressing gratitude to the many people who are still working out there to keep things going.  There are creative expressions which are comforting.  There is poetry, there is artwork, there are musical contributions which are being recorded from all over the world and edited into one joyously defiant song.  There are a million wonderful things going on.  Today I shall focus solely on the things which give me hope and make my heart rejoice at the indestructibility of the human spirit.  As this week's favorite meme says, "This, too, shall pass.  It might pass like a kidney stone, but it WILL pass!"  And while we're waiting, God Save the Queen!

It was rather nice to watch the rain pour from the dark sky this morning, and listen to the wind whipping through the trees with a merciless speed and to be able to sit here in my nightgown until ten o'clock, sipping on a nice mug of tea instead of fighting for a seat on the subway and fighting my umbrella as I walked over the bridge.  Himself got it into his head to make an Irish Currant Cake, which was fattening and glorious and the house smelled like heaven.  Eventually I broke from my work, changed into "real clothes" (although I'm not sure why) and cleaned out a closet between phone calls when the afternoon business slowed down.  This is a lot easier when the radio is off.  If I can forget what's going on in the world and concentrate on each moment, I could almost enjoy this time at home.  

There is a Buddhist saying, "Be here now," which I like very much.  When we let go of the past that haunts us and the future that frightens us, this very moment is not all bad.  Those of us who have the privilege of being bored and not in pain don't need a lot more right this very moment.  Every breath we take brings us further from the fear and closer to the cure.  Admittedly, a huge number of people are not so lucky.  They have the virus, or someone they love has it.  Or they themselves have to go out there every day to help the rest of us keep going by providing food and healthcare and mail and gasoline, and a hundred other things, and they risk their own health to do it because they either have no choice or because they are absolute angels and heroes.

So today I will gladly take shelter from the rain and the wind and the eerily empty streets which just seem wrong. I will remind myself of the faith I have never questioned in over sixty years, and expect it to uphold me in these difficult times.  But first I will take a moment to just stop and be grateful to so many for so much. And I will breathe, one precious breath at a time.

My father-in-law is 88 and my son is without a car (or a license!) at 25.  Today Himself and I put on our gloves and masks and shopped for both of them.  I pushed one cart and pulled the other.  Himself did the shopping for us, so he only had one.  It took all the courage I had to walk through the doors of the store.  I want this to be the last big shop for weeks.  We felt as though we were landing on the moon. The next few weeks are supposed to be the peak of the virus, which is spreading faster than anything we have ever seen.  I want to be able to stay safe inside.  If even inside is safe.

The shortages aren't as bad as they have been for many things, although disinfectant wipes and sprays, toilet paper and paper towels might as well be fairy tales from a simpler time.  But there was meat and bread and pasta and cookies.  I wish we'd stopped for cookies. There isn't the selection we are used to, and for  many things we had to be more flexible than we usually are.   At least it's done, and we are very lucky, because we will eat well for the next two to three weeks. The third week might be beans and rice every night, but I'm not fussy.

Somewhere in aisle three I began to panic. It wasn't a full-blown anxiety attack, but it was enough to make me feel disoriented and not a little dizzy.  My nitrile gloves gripped the handle of the cart.  Like everyone else, the weirdness of the last few weeks and the thought of the weeks to come are shaking me. The whole world has changed in a wink and it's going to take some adjusting to the new one.  

On the bright side I'm getting better at the computer, especially at Zoom.  If that's what I have to do to see the faces of family and friends, then I will learn how to master it.  My Christmas tree is still up and still lit (and still baffling my neighbors, I'm sure).  Son Number One's teddy bear, along with a few other stuffed animals and dolls, are still in my front windows so the little kids on the block can go hunting for them on their walks with their parents.  I am trying to put on a happy face.  We have to be positive in spite of the newscasts.  We have to be hopeful in spite of the betrayal by the president in leaving us unprepared. We have to be grateful because of the amazing people who are out there in the front lines, risking their lives to keep us safe (if confused and annoyed) in our homes.  For the nurses and doctors, the cashiers and mail carriers, the small business owners and the teachers we have to be so very, very grateful.

I know the calendar says April.  I've seen daffodils and forsythia, robins and cardinals.  There is even a magnolia tree in blossom down the street.  But for some reason I cannot get over being cold clear through to the bone.  The trees haven't heard the news of Spring yet, and although some are struggling to put forth a leaf bud here and there, the overall impression I'm getting is November.  Now this could be related to what's going on around here.  No one is in a particularly cheery mood and we're all bracing for worse yet to come.  There is more to this, though.

Just as November is known for its lack of light and leaves and general grace, it is a dreary and depressing month because we know what's coming.  Maybe that's what this is.  We know what is coming too, and it's not Christmas.  In fact there is a feeling of mourning in the air, whether we have lost anyone or not.  It's a mourning for normality.  It's a mourning for habits and familiarity.  It's a  mourning for the luxury of being able to take everything we have for granted.  OK, the weather has been windy and cold and damp, which isn't helping much either.  I suppose the cold has kept some people at home who would normally be out there standing less than the advised six feet apart, so that's good at least.  I don't enjoy walking in this weather, although I've been forcing myself to do it.  To be honest, Himself has been more or less forcing me to do it for my own good.  I appreciate it but don't enjoy it.  It's too weird out there.  It's too quiet.  

As we "hibernate" to a degree in November, so we are "hibernating" now, each of us in our little lair, withdrawn and quiet and eating too much in preparation for the long stretch ahead.  I don't know what the bears eat, but for me it's usually cookies or chocolates and that will show up soon, and I don't care much about it at the moment.  We need comfort food, but Sara Lee doesn't make whatever it is that will make me feel cozy again.  No macaroni and cheese, or beef stew, or tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich is going to make me unclench my jaw or loosen my shoulders.

The only warmth I'm feeling lately comes from talking to people I have too long neglected.  I find myself picking up the telephone more often instead of sending e-mails.  I want to hear the voices of the people who know me, who care about me, who worry about me.  And I want them to hear my voice, too.  A friend of mine who was deported to China through no fault of his own, sent me a few masks to wear to the grocery store.  He is more worried about me than he is his own situation.  That's pretty heart warming stuff.  The girlfriend he was forced to leave behind drove half an hour to leave them on my front step and then drove away.   There are many stories of kindness out there.
I need to warm my chapped-from-too-much-washing hands over the embers of those acts of kindness.  That might warm the chill in the center of my soul and make a crocus pop through the hard soil of my fear.