Tag Archives: Quarantine

View From A Quarantine

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in

Leonard Cohen

“Be careful what you wish for,” my mother used to say.

“You just might get it.” A wise woman, whose words I often disregarded when she was alive, her advice has been on my mind a lot lately. 

Time, as we experience it on this plane–as we have all agreed, is linear. A steadily-paced constant. Yet I know I’m not alone in the perception of its acceleration. In recent years I’ve felt more and more like a hamster on its wheel, running frenetically in a perpetual, never-ending race. My days consisted of  rushing to commitments, appointments, and activities packed into an impossibly tight schedule and coordinating the inherent overlapping and conflicting logistics of the same. Fueled by a bottomless to-do list, my go-mode was switched to “over-drive” nearly 24/7. 

Until March 15th, that is. Before that fateful date, I ran myself ragged trying to keep up, all the while complaining about being too busy. 

“I don’t have time. There’s never enough time!” 

The words chanted in my head on repeat, serving as the mantra that simultaneously reflected and solidified my reality. The words streaming on a loop were sent upward, a prayer, intended or not, pleading Please, slow me down.”

And then, the pandemic stopped life in its tracks. 

Our family chose social isolation earlier than the rest of Columbia because of our most vulnerable member, 20-year-old Sydney. People with Down syndrome are more susceptible to a variety of health concerns, among them, respiratory issues. When she was two, we nearly lost her. Hospitalized with pneumonia that quickly spread to both lungs, she remained in the PICU for a month, unable to come off a ventilator. Her prognosis was bleak until suddenly . . . it wasn’t. The doctors persisted, her treatment worked, and her little body fought its way back from the brink. Once she turned around, recovery was astonishingly quick.

Steven and I have no desire to revisit that perilous situation, hence our vigilance in quarantining. On Saturday, March 14, I taught my last group fitness class. We pulled Xander out of high school and Sydney out of her day program and part-time job. Steven continued to work from his office at home. The personal losses for each of us weighed heavy. Gone was my job of 13 years at Wilson’s Fitness, the job I love, working with and for people I adore. My kids saw their daily routines and future plans vanish into nothing. My husband bore up under the mounting pressure of economic crisis and the rippling effects crashing through the markets. ​Now every day brings more uncertainty with little reassurance to hang onto.

We watched as postponements and cancellations rolled over our community, throughout the country and the entire world. We felt every closure, shut-down, lay-off, and furlough. The great, ceaseless churning machine of the world  seemed to just . . . stop. 

At least within the sphere of my reach. 

I’m well aware that for others, life has shifted gears into an alternate reality, even more fast-paced. Those who keep our life-sustaining systems up and running, roles that were undoubtedly taken for granted before, warrant hero status now in the after.  Workers who make sure the lights still come on and the water runs and the garbage is picked up and the grocery shelves are stocked and goods are transported and packages are delivered and food is prepared. And particularly workers in healthcare who take care of the most vulnerable among us, who step up to practice medicine in a way no schooling could have prepared them for. The display of humanity at its best inspires me with overwhelming gratitude.

Peering out my quarantine window, I see evidence of the helpers that Fred Rogers’ mother told him to watch for and they are everywhere. It is a daunting task; we must work together if we are to get through this. But there is hope in the big picture.

The village is intact.

In reverse, looking in through the window that frames our little familial microcosm, one might observe a broad spectrum of behavior on any given day. We grapple with attempts to stay calm and present in the un-knowing of what’s ahead. Any bets on consistency are off. Some days acceptance seems effortless. Frequently, those are the days we skip the news and allow life to unfold naturally. Other days, restlessness sends us careening off the walls, ricocheting without intentional direction. The next day might find us squinting at the digital windows of Zoom to catch a glimpse of the outside world at large, each pane filled with the sight of familiar faces. Those are the days our hearts get a much-needed recharge. Then there are those intermittent down days when, without warning, a tsunami of grief rises up to pull us under.

”Is this our new normal?” we find ourselves wondering, though we know it can’t go on forever. For now, though, we have nowhere to be except right where we are and that has never happened. I recognize it for the miracle that it is. But on Day eleventy-seven of our release from the confines of routine, I’m starting to feel a little adrift.

It’s not that we haven’t explored the opportunities of open-ended free time. Just as many others, we’ve been impressively productive and participated in trending quaran-time activities: cleaning out every closet, drawer, and hoarding nightmare in the house, preparing gourmet recipes and wholesome meals, working out constantly, practicing spirituality, journaling, painting, remodeling, gardening. Bursts of energy enable us to tackle long-neglected projects and finally check off those to-do lists with great satisfaction.

But not every day. 

Coping with this pandemic requires more than creative solutions. Responding to this unique situation will result in more than one-size-fits-all emotion. More like a whole wardrobe in each day. For several days I’ll feel sunshiny and full of promise, then clouds unexpectedly gather, the blues set in and I wander the house, unable to concentrate, trying without success to follow the game plan I’ve laid out for the day.

It’s not just self-pity that sends my heartstrings reverberating. I watch through the windows of my laptop and iPhone and TV screen struggles framed on social media, stories of friends, loved ones, and strangers, too. They may be different than my own, but the impact is universal.

Parents in quarantine have less time, not more, wrangling children while working from home, feeding them 25 times a day and trying to provide some sort of normalcy to allay the fear that it’s “the end of the world as we know it.”

I see my friends who parent kids with special needs and find themselves overwhelmed with providing stimulation, support, therapy, and interaction without benefit of the interventions they rely on. And the strength of single parents is already herculean. Now they are taxed to unbearable levels, living out an even more literal version of “Do I have to do everything myself?”

 I watch us all worry about jobs and small businesses that may or may not make it through, about shrinking incomes, about the economy as a whole. We worry about our healthcare system, if there will be adequate supplies and equipment. We pray for those witness to suffering and death, exhausted and spent, who put their own health on the line to care for others. We pray for those navigating cancer, heart disease, diabetes, and other chronic conditions. And we pray for all those who are ill and dying. Especially at the end.

Especially when they are alone.

We’re watching a global crisis playing out in real time, in real life. A seismic shift of proportions this epic cannot be underestimated for its earth-changing aftershocks. I cast my thoughts forward to envision this new world and can’t quite come up with it. Where we’re going, I don’t know, but I do know there is only one way to get there. With compassion for ourselves and others; my mom taught me that. It’s the legacy she left me with.

 “I have one principle I hold tight to,” she said.

“Always be kind.”

“And always, always be kind to yourself.” 

We are not psychotic, it just feels like it right now. There is no right or wrong way to get through this; we’ve never done it before. Surviving comes first. But the fix for a broken world? That comes when her inhabitants emerge into a new paradigm to move beyond surviving to thriving, when new perspectives birth new possibilities. Then, the view through the quarantine window reveals its most poignant gift with brilliant clarity: in healing ourselves, we heal the world.

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Filed under Family, Gratitude, Grief, Letting Go, Motherhood, Pandemic, Self-Care

Resurgence of Hope

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
and the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

I read once that Canadian geese are monogamous, that most couples stay together all their lives. Considering the brutality of life in this wild world, I find that to be an inspiring example of devotion, applicable to the human condition, particularly in our postmodern reality.  

My husband and I have, on day 13 of the COVID-19 quarantine, brought our two goslings out to the country for a change of scenery. This is our fourth spring out at the farm. Well, that’s what we call it. Although we raise no livestock nor harvest any crops, my husband and I christened the 22 acres we bought in the rolling countryside of Steedman, Missouri “the farm.” 

It was Steven’s idea, owning property, a dream of his for years. I’m not sure what shifted from casually keeping an eye out for good deals to hunting in earnest for a prize parcel. Maybe the fact our youngest would be heading to high school or the approach of his 50th birthday, but his vision became a quest. 

Property moved quickly and several times choice lots were sold before he could make his move, so I wasn’t surprised when he called me one Sunday from an open house.

“I think this is it, but I have to make an offer now.”

“I trust you,” I said, and meant it.

Still, a purchase that large, sight unseen left me a bit unsettled. It was his dream, I reassured myself; it didn’t matter much what I thought. I knew my husband worried about pleasing me, so I was determined to reserve judgment. We wound around a rural two-lane highway for miles before turning off the asphalt onto a gravel county road. We passed the stares of grazing cattle and a herd of goats that ran for the fence. After a mile or so, Steven rounded a corner and drove up the hill to park the truck in front of a green metal house and carport which sat overlooking a grassy meadow. The view showcased an open field sloping down to a small pond flanked by walnuts and maples and oaks. Spreading out from the clearing, thickets of woods covered the swells and ravines of the terrain. In the heart of winter, the trees were bare and the forest floor, a bed of leaves. I’d adjusted my expectations, but I could not have possibly known it would feel like coming home.

That first spring, the place greened up like Jumanji as Missouri is wont to do when a sunny day follows drenching March rains. Weekends found us driving out to work on the cabin, making it livable with paint and flooring and furniture. We slept with the windows open, the cool breeze carrying in nocturnal sounds of the wildlife that seemed unperturbed by our presence. 

A pair of geese made their home near the pond, and judging by their protective behavior, closely guarded their future family. One night we were awoken by horrible, guttural shrieks. The primal quality of the squalor struck my heart before my mind was able to identify its origins. I heard ferocious terror, the sound of survival in the endlessly shrill honking. Come morning our fears turned prophetic. A predator had invaded the nest and our geese were gone. We were left wondering if the parents had been injured or even killed in the attack, but we knew for certain, there would be no babies. 

The second year Steven built a nesting box out in the pond, safe and elevated away from prowling raccoons and foxes and skunks and out of reach of foraging turtles and snakes and muskrats. But the geese missed our offer of a safe haven and rebuilt their nest in the same long grasses on the bank of the pond. That year, our anxious anticipation of babies was suspended by the sudden absence of the parents and abandoned, broken eggshells.  

Last year, we watched, hopeful the couple would discover the stilted rubber tub, but it remained empty. Neither did they return to the pond. No geese, no eggs, no tragedy. But my disappointment felt like loss. Sadness filled the void where their presence had been the two years before.

This year, busy travel schedules, illness, and weather have kept us away. Additionally, amidst global crisis, we’ve submitted to the confinement that saw our 25th wedding anniversary come and go, any plans postponed indefinitely. But in truth, the lack of overt gestures and social pronouncements pales compared to the surprising gift of this pandemic: time together.

We’ve come out to the farm with our brood to hunker down, but also to expand into our wide open spaces. We play games and solve puzzles and cook food and watch movies. We have conversations and we take walks.

As Steven and I set off this morning, he stops me short. 

“Shhhh, look!” he says, pointing down the hill to the lull of meadow between road and pond.

I squint, shielding my eyes as I make out the silhouettes of two geese. The male stands guard, stock still. In profile, his head is raised, his long neck extended. He is a sentry. The female bends over, feeding in the grass. I bring binoculars to my eyes, adjusting the dial until the image swims into focus. Two fluffy balls hop near the mother’s feet. Goslings. 

“We’ve got babies!” I say excitedly to Steven, handing him the binoculars. “They’ve got to be the same geese, right?”

Lest we doubt these geese are ‘ours’ and mistake the sight for a mere coincidence, the father, sensing our watch, suddenly ushers his little family toward the safety of home. Mama noses the little ones along, scooping them up from behind with her bill as they bob and trot fuzzily through the grass. Daddy brings up the rear and disappears into the marsh at precisely the same place as the years before, where previously the nest lay empty.  

Tears well in my eyes, a daily occurrence it seems lately. I experience a cocktail of emotions: the resurgence of hope after loss, a resilience borne of grief, holding steadfast in the face of uncertainty. The dignity of the natural world teaches me a simple lesson: Life will go on. My mate and I will follow our instinctual path. We will protect and provide for our family.

We’ll be all right, I think as I take my husband’s hand and walk down the road into the morning sun. 

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Filed under Babies, Family, Gratitude, Grief, Loss, Marriage, Motherhood, Pandemic