May 052020
 

Quarantine is on my mind. How could it not be? Our current pandemic has upended our lives. We are dealing with a novel virus, novel as in singular, out of the ordinary, unexpected. Rumors abound, along with advice, opinion, social distancing, businesses closing, new businesses arising (puzzle and mask-makers are thriving). Some of our government leaders, particularly at the local level, are rising to the occasion. Others, particularly at the highest levels, are most assuredly not.

Never mind. It’s up to us to sort through the junk guidance, junk science, “fake” news and real news others claim is fake so we can get to what we need. Then it’s up to us to figure out how we will cope. There are a range of choices between between sitting on your couch eating crackers or candy and watching bad movies or writing the next great American novel. I speak from experience, by the way, because in the last eight weeks, I’ve done one and attempted the other. I suspect I’ve put on a few pounds, but I finished my latest book, the second in the mystery series featuring Samantha (Sam) Tate, a younger and more intrepid version of me (okay, minus the bourbon and the gun).

Which leaves me between the extremes of utter despair and hyper-activity, or hyper vigilance.

I think of where I strive to be as the “calm center.” I won’t be able to paint my back porch or make five hundred masks to sell for charity. But hey, I fixed a one-size-fits-all mask so it fits me. Never going to take up roller blading, but I am walking three to five miles a day, which gives me a decent enough aerobic workout. I haven’t yet made the podcast I keep threatening to make, but I take an online yoga class most mornings. The fact that a hundred thousand other people have also done that much (or that little) doesn’t bother me. It means that a modicum of success is all that is needed to simulate forward motion.

I have my own coping mechanisms and those are, I’d wager, also shared by many as well. I laugh out loud. I coo over animal videos. I cry. I rage. I indulge in, oh, take your pick: food, wine, exercise, social media. I entertain fantasies about fixing, building, repairing things that I can’t possibly fix, build, or repair. I gripe, I sulk, I dance, I play piano, I shadowbox or kick the wall. Other days, I bounce up, relatively pleased with myself and go about my business. Good news, by the way. There are more of those, although that may owe a lot to improving weather.

Others don’t have such opportunities. Many fret about not working or worry about returning to work. They have bills to pay and mouths to feed. They may be working from home with restless kids who don’t appreciate the virtues of distance learning. I worry with them, for them.

When the virus hit, I was navigating my way through my sorrow over losing my sister. I had travel plans to visit friends. That’s off the table. I occasionally remind myself how much harder things are for the people who can’t plan funerals or say goodbye or save people they thought they could save.

Such comparisons are pointless, even debilitating. Do you find yourself comparing your precautionary measures to those of other people? Are you sure you’re at least six feet and wouldn’t further away be better? How much are you wearing your mask and how effective is it? Is it paper or cloth? Did you add a filter? How many times a day do you wash your hands? How long? I know people who take off their shoes at the door, who leave packages outside overnight, who wipe down everything with Clorox, who wear their masks at home, who suit up head to toe to shop, then strip and their throw clothes in the washing machine when they get home. I know people who won’t leave the house.

I probably know people who do none of those things, although they’re less likely to brag about it.

Mine is not to judge. Or be judged, by the way. People you know—and hardly know at all—have no problem telling you how they feel about your clothes, your hair, your television watching habits and now, your pandemic behavior. You pick up your mail without gloves? You spray this but not that? You let a plumber into your house? You’re going to get your dog groomed? You’re seeing the dentist? Well, yes. Turns out I have a cracked tooth that’s become infected. It hurts. It will need to come out. Thank you, but I don’t want anyone’s opinion on the subject except the dental surgeon who will be removing it as soon as the state gives him permission.

Unless I truly need input, I’m reluctant to share my specific self-care habits with anyone—what I wash down, when I wash up, how I shop, what I decide is safe for me to do. Sure, I might let slip to a close friend that I’m lining up at Trader Joe’s in case she wants me to pick up some chocolate peanut butter cups. That’s going to be about it for the foreseeable future.

Which is how long, exactly? Insert shrug here. We don’t know. That’s a challenge, since no one is in a great mood, despite the brave faces. We’re all restricted, we’re all frustrated. Some have turned their fear into hate, their feelings into crimes. They deliberately flout public health and safety standards. Their entitlement leads them to push for an imagined “freedom” suitable only for a single-occupancy desert island. They threaten us. That infuriates me, truth be told. Their actions are ignorant and selfish. I hate to think I live in a country with such people.

Most people aren’t like that. I want to believe that. Most people are trying to find the middle between resentment and contentment, euphoria and depression, reckless optimism and utter despair. They social distance, stay in touch, check on their neighbors, reach out, help where they can, respect the front line workers. They make mistakes and are subject to anxiety. Mostly, though, they wave and smile and stay at least six feet away.

I’m good with that.

Mar 302020
 

It started with a plan, because isn’t that how most of us try to start our days now? The overcrowded households, filled with socially isolated children of all ages, a few pets, and the odd grandparent—those households must enact plans that keep everyone occupied and engaged while navigating a physical space never meant for as many as are now occupying it.

Solo households have a different, less immediately challenging task: How to creatively or productively fill time, coupled with attending to mundane tasks. I gave up cleaning my small house a few years ago, but darn if that hasn’t been added to my plate. I just have to handle it in smaller bites. Cooking and small sewing repairs aren’t my jam either—my sister excelled at both—but I’ve been practicing both since she passed away.

Grocery shopping isn’t something I thought I’d need help with, even in the time of the pandemic. I have two masks, courtesy of my neighbors. I’d made up lists and visualized the store I wanted to go into and factored in the timing so it was at the end of “senior” time on a rainy weekday. I had a plan. I was ready.

My plan didn’t include getting hit with anxiety about going into a store I shopped just ten days—and several terrifying news stories—ago.

I postponed, told myself I’d try again tomorrow. I decided to tackle another project and bring out my warmer weather clothes. A shirt I bought for my trip to Canada last summer with my sister came out of the spare closet and went right back in. Her death is too fresh.

I texted a neighbor friend, who let me know that her beloved dog had to be put down two days earlier. Scarlett, born a month after my dog, was the first puppy Molly ever met. They shared a genuine affection. I could always get Molly to walk the neighborhood by saying, “Let’s go see your girlfriend Scarlett.”

Then I read a note from a dear friend who has been sick and alone in her apartment for a month. She lives on the other coast, although in the time of pandemic, she could be in the next city. She is scared. I want to help. I can’t figure out how to help.

So: fear of shopping, memories brought up by a shirt, loss of a neighborhood dog, a frightened friend. I didn’t need any other excuses to have a good cry.

Another luxury of solo living, I suppose: the freedom to wail at will.

And then what? This is our new normal, both informed and exacerbated by the availability of information. Some of it is true, some of it is false, some of it is unverified because this damned pandemic is, to a large extent, difficult to verify. Without a doubt, death and illness are underreported but would more testing and more identified cases bring more relief? I don’t know. Like hundreds of thousands, even millions of others, I both depend on and have limited faith in my government, at least at the federal level.

But I have good neighbors and good friends and access to information. The support on the ground is amazing. I can click on my growing list of resources to take a virtual tour, listen to soothing music, follow a stress-relieving class, or bake. Then I hug my dog, work on my novel, watch a little TV, engage in a bit of social activism, wave at neighbors from a safe distance, and plan to do it again tomorrow.

You all know what books to read or shows to watch. Below are a couple of other resources (by no means a complete list) for you to check out:

Twelve museums to visit virtually.
• Wonderful music by Frederick Aragón. Sure to soothe the soul.
• Stress relief yoga with birds!
• Recipe for blueberry muffins. Anyone can do this!

Feb 122019
 

It’s February!

This never used to be a particularly celebratory time, mind you, but I’m turning over a new leaf. Maybe I’m working off a comparison chart. December isn’t particularly joyous to me. The days are short, the energy manic. It’s cold. I hate the cold. I don’t have a holiday tradition—Christmas with the family or some such thing. Nor am I a big fan of January. Same as above but without the slight boost holiday lights offer.

But this month! Short but with more daylight. Clearly the gateway to spring, at least if the clothing catalogues piled into my mailbox are any indication. Robins sit fat and plump on the brown grass and try out their best warbles. And while Valentine’s Day is minimally uncomfortable and even a little… sad for the uncoupled of the world, well, pet love is absolutely a thing.

I admit I’ve been energized by an unexpected spate of warm weather accompanied by the sun, which has been all too scarce this winter. The thermometer climbed past sixty and stayed there—not your grandmother’s winter thaw. My neighbors were out in force, blinking at the pale sun or madly engaging in activities like roller-blading, running, strolling, or kicking and throwing balls. I swear I saw someone in his garden. Of course, we plunged back into the cold because, well, extreme weather is the new normal. Not for long, though. As you read this, temperatures are climbing again.

February holidaysFor such a diminutive month, February features a number of holidays and festivals of varied significance. Did you know February is National Cherry month? Chinese New Year occurs in February this year,  although Fat Tuesday does not. We always begin with Groundhog Day, which seems more meaningful in those parts of the country besieged by extreme weather. Never mind it’s unreasonable to expect a rodent to perform as a meteorologist. Honestly, it doesn’t make sense that we’d greet the sun with an “oh no, six more weeks of winter!” just because some little creature is afraid of his shadow. Talk about seeing the glass as half empty!

We also celebrate Black History month and Presidents’ Day. In the first instance, we set aside a month to remember pieces of history we ought to be celebrating all year round. In the second instance, we randomly meld together the birth dates of two American presidents we consider great, although I wonder if many people under forty knows which two presidents we celebrate—or can name any of the others.

Then there’s Valentine’s Day, whose origin story remains murky. The Catholic Church acknowledges three different martyred souls named Valentine. One was a third century priest who arranged for young lovers to wed in secret. In doing so, he defied the Emperor Claudius II, who figured single young men made better soldiers. Another Valentine apparently helped Christians escape the Roman prisons. That Valentine was subsequently jailed and may or may not have written a note signed “from your Valentine.” Heroic and romantic. Sigh.

John Wick and beagleValentine’s Day seems to have replaced a rather pagan fertility celebration that involved the sacrifice of both a goat and a dog. Now it’s a multi-billion-dollar business that involves reams of paper and toys with the affections of millions. Nevertheless, I’m sure we all agree that exchanging cards is better than blood-letting an animal we’d prefer to see bouncing around on YouTube in pajamas or nuzzling a baby or a cat. In fact, most of us in 2019 would go all John Wick on anyone who hurt a dog.

Speaking of movies: February is a bit of a no-man’s land in terms of sports and entertainment. The Super Bowl and the Golden Globes are both past, leaving only the Oscars, Grammys, and a couple of talent and strength competitions that compete for “most dreadful.” On the other hand, the networks bring back our favorite shows and Netflix continues to pile on the programming.

Molly and me chillinAnd nothing beats reading. After wading through three books I disliked so much I won’t mention them, I read three books in a row I really enjoyed, including an extraordinary science fiction novel and Nebula award winner in 2016 (The Fifth Season by N.K. Nemesin), a lyrical 2018 best seller (Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Ownes) and an important non-fiction read that manages to be uplifting despite its painful subject matter (Parkland by David Cullen). Even better, I read these absorbing books in front of the fireplace with the dog curled in my lap.

That’s the best kind of February.