Somehow the first day of spring, the vernal equinox, passed right by without me noticing.
We had a late snow last year, but bulbs are tough. These tulips did alright.
These are extraordinary times indeed. Yesterday marked the start of spring, and I didn’t notice. I worked a very long day from home, my eleventh in a row (long explanation, related directly to COVID-19), took two short walks, worried about loved ones, and considered ways to bring friends together virtually to prevent—or, perhaps more realistically, mitigate—isolation. (I tucked “worried about loved ones” into the middle of that sentence, but honestly I did quite a lot of that, for the first time during this emergency.)
I did notice the green foliage of spring bulbs poking up from the earth in my front garden, and I consciously relished the 60-degree temperature in the evening. Coincidentally, I asked my husband to order the supplies he needs to build me a new raised garden bed. But I didn’t actually know spring had arrived. I’m a nature girl, a gardener, a child of rural America, and this is unusual for me. My mind was just…elsewhere. I won’t say I don’t know how this happened; I do. Still it surprises me and reminds me just how much our lives have changed in less than a month.
Here’s what woke me up to the vernal equinox: an article shared by a friend on Facebook highlighting virtual tours of gardens around the world, including Monet’s garden at Giverny. It provided me a lovely diversion this morning and has me thinking once again about that raised bed. I might take my camera out today to capture my nascent spring garden; meanwhile, the pics here are my garden in years past.
What a difference a day makes. As of last night, I’m officially living under a shelter-at-home order. It’s not draconian. In fact, it’s pretty reflective of how my husband and I have been living since the end of last week: staying out of public places except to shop for necessities (food, pet food), not getting together with anyone but each other, walking the dogs but steering clear of others we come across while we’re out.
It feels different, though. My village government issued the shelter-in-place order yesterday evening after receiving notice of the first confirmed case of COVID-19 in the community. That was followed shortly (this morning) by news that two emergency room doctors at the hospital nearby also have the disease. None of this is surprising, and I’m not in a panic, but it adds a different perspective to the situation.
My typical day
Today was much like any other day this week: I brewed my morning coffee and then settled in for a day of work upstairs. I found a 20-minute window with no meetings or urgent work tasks before the rain arrived, and took a quick walk just to get a minimal amount of exercise. I already had sent the husband out to walk the dogs, knowing I probably wouldn’t be able to get away long enough to do that before the weather turned bad. I got on a conference call minutes after returning home, then worked straight through until 7 p.m.
This has been my pattern all week, except for the timing of the walk. It’s going to be my pattern through at least next week, and I have a feeling it won’t change for quite some time. I suspect this is the new normal. I’m to sure what to think of that, nor what to expect it to do to my psyche.
Seeking a new kind of social
Tank, right now
We’ve canceled travel plans to see family a few hours away at the end of the month, and I’m disappointed by that. It’s a trip I was looking forward to, and I realize I’ve no idea when it will be possible. So what to do instead?
For starters, I’ve asked the husband to research online gaming apps, to see whether we can find tabletop simulations for games we like to play with different groups. The family we would have seen on this canceled road trip plays dominoes and euchre; can we find online versions that will connect us with them in real-time for conversation? What about our friends locally? Can we pull together virtual game parties to continue sharing our lives with each other?
I expect I’ll do more texting and emailing with friends, too, but I want to hear their voices also. At the most local level possible, I’m hoping to coax my next-door neighbors (are you reading this, folks?) out onto our front porches for Friday or Saturday evening socials—but not this weekend, because the temperature is supposed to fall to near freezing.
And yet I’m grateful
I’m not complaining. I’m healthy so far, and so is my husband, though I’m waiting with baited breath for word from others I know who have symptoms of illness. Ultimately, I expect we all will know people who fall ill with COVID-19. I hope against hope that we won’t all know people who don’t survive.
Ultimately, I’m thankful for my community’s response. I’m thankful for the school districts that are canceling classes for the next month or even longer. I’m thankful for closed restaurants, shops, and museums. I’m thankful to my employer for making telecommuting possible, and for every other employer that’s doing the same.
I miss my library, but I’m thankful for governments and public institutions that are pausing their operations to keep people from gathering when they don’t need to. I’m also enormously thankful for those who are serving essential functions, whether from home or their regular workplace: the election officials who oversaw voting on Tuesday, the guy who answered my email last night when the village servers crashed just after they issued the shelter-at-home order, and the doctors and nurses and other workers who are keeping hospitals operating. And I’m thankful for every person who is actively social distancing or sheltering at home.
Yes, you. If you’re in the same situation I am, if you feel like your world is starting to close in on you because you hardly leave your house, but you’re doing it because you know it’s the right thing to do…thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I only hope that a month from now it looks like it was an over-reaction. I hope it works.
Today’s photo
Today’s photo is sidewalk art from my neighborhood, with a message from the artist:
I added cardamom to my coffee this morning, three firm shakes in the basket with the beans before grinding. It’s a treat I usually save for weekends, when I have more time to savor the morning brew.
Working from home, I have that little bit of extra time now, to sit with coffee in hand or at my side, listen to the birds outside, read some news, or watch the sky lighten behind the houses to the east.
A poem for today
I started my day reading Billy Collins, one of my favorite poets, because his words are deceptively simple and accessible, and because he’s funny. We all need laughter, and funny poetry can be very funny. Billy’s a really good reader (see how I’ve put us on a first-name basis? It just feels right with Billy!) Here he is, reading one of my many favorites among his poems, “Consolation,” which I think is a timely poem for those among us who are reluctantly canceling travel plans right now.
#AmWriting
I wrote a poem of my own this morning, too, one that I think will need a bit of work to polish but perhaps not too much. It happened because I opened up my computer and discovered that all of my browser tabs were gone and I couldn’t recover them. Sadness ensued, followed by poetry, and all was well with the world.
I voted today—at a proper social distance. My husband and I got up early, walked to the polling place just after it had opened, and cast our ballots quietly and with thanks to the election judges and poll workers who made it possible. Then we scrubbed our hands down with hand sanitizer and headed home.
It was odd, to be sure. Some of the election judges wore rubber gloves; some did not. I kept my (outdoor) gloves on and situated myself at a voting kiosk where the only person next to me was my husband.
I don’t know if turnout was suppressed because I don’t usually get to vote early in the morning. I’m usually at work by then 25 miles away. My typical Election Day involves frantically trying to leave work in time to get to the polling place before it closes. Honestly, it was a treat not to have to do that.
This was day 4 of social distancing for me. We started in earnest this weekend, when I canceled the only appointment on my calendar and we opted to forgo restaurants and bars. It’s a mixed bag, both a blessing and a buggerment as a friend’s son would say. Thankfully, I and mine are healthy so far, and I’m choosing to focus on the blessings.
Little blessings
Here are a few of the the blessings that are helping me stay positive during social confinement:
Walking, including the opportunity to walk to the polling place—I don’t usually have time
Running into a friend of my son (not literally) and walking with him—at safe social distance—to and from the polls
Not driving 25 miles each way to work
Working in a house filled with the smell of cooking corned beef (today: thank you, husband) or pie (Saturday: Pi Day)
Being able to walk my dogs as soon as I finish work for the day
My dogs
Poetry and books
A poetry community
There’s a poetry community coming together virtually during this national emergency—or probably more than one. Just a couple examples that I know of: Headline Poetry & Press is publishing one “pandemic poem” per day. And people all over the world are doing a virtual poetry reading, sharing favorite poems via video with the hashtag #InternationalPoetryCircle.
I wrote a poem myself on the first day of my social distancing: Saturday, which happened to be Pi Day. I worked half the day, but still found time at the end to make pie (yep, there it is!), and I wandered into a little happy fantasy land and wrote a kind of fantasy poem about pie-baking for the pandemic. I sent it off to Headline Poetry and was thrilled to have it chosen as one of their featured pandemic poems. If you read it, I hope it brings a little joy to your world: “Pi Day.”
An extra day every four years, and what do we do with it? I know people who canvassed for a political candidate, stood in line at the DMV, read all day, and in South Carolina I hope a record number spent part of it voting.
I wrote 40 postcards (so far) urging registered Wisconsin voters to turn out at the polls on April 7, finished up a book, tucked in a healthcare visit, walked my dogs, and am planning to see a movie. I feel particularly good about the postcards; I’ve committed to write and send 200, and if I finish up early enough I’ll take on more. It’s a small act of civic engagement, but I think it’s important.
Reading about race
The book I finished was White Fragility, by Robin Diangelo, which is my book club’s current selection. It deals with an important issue—why conversations about race and racism are so difficult for white people—and I’m looking forward to discussing it. DiAngelo starts from the premise that we live in a society built on white privilege, and no one in it can possibility be unaffected by or “blind to” race. I think that’s correct. The question is how we can improve the situation. The book is mostly about looking inward and examining our own attitudes and influences, rather than trying to influence or change others. In that sense it’s very much about self-improvement and becoming more self-aware in order to be less “fragile” in these conversations.
I finished rereading Peter Wohlleben’s fascinating book about trees yesterday and yearned for the woods. So off we went. It being already late afternoon, we didn’t have a lot of time, but long enough to clear our lungs and feed our souls. It was spring, and the woods were both soggy and somewhat snowy and the lakes icy. The sun helped lift our spirits and offered a picturesque sunset before putting itself to bed. All in all a satisfying afternoon, though not the same as being in the country.
I grew up in the country and miss nature and solitude. The tradeoffs, though, are culture and museums and ethnic restaurants, and those would be hard for me to give up. Unless I moved to Ireland, in which case I feel I could trade everything else and never miss it. I could be wrong.
I read a while back that Irish tourism officials were looking for someone to run a coffeeshop on Great Blasket Island during tourist season, and a friend (who clearly knows me very, very well) sent me the same article this week. I actually find this enormously tempting, despite the fact that the island has no electricity. Sadly, my two old dogs put me in no position to travel right now, let alone ship myself overseas for six months. But maybe next year? The thought of living and writing on the west coast of Ireland fills my soul. I might only write odes and celebrations.
This is the only picture here that isn’t from yesterday’s walk. It’s from Ireland. Sigh.
Not now, though. The first poem I ever wrote was born from bleak frustration, and sometimes I just need to get darkness onto a page. I had a poem published this week at Headline Poetry & Press that was one of those. One sunny day came about because January was literally so very gray in Chicago, and the news accompanying it seemed uncompromisingly bad. With an impeachment trial emphasizing our national divisions, I could barely bring myself to read or watch the news. Then February rolled in, and on the evening of Feb. 1 the sun peeked out for five minutes, and then the poem came. It’s intentionally ambiguous, straddling a no-man’s land between depression and hopefulness. I’m grateful to Headline Poetry for giving it a home.
Isn’t that some cool fungus?
Also this week I had a poem accepted to Back Patio Press, where it will be published on March 4. That’s one day after another piece will come to life at Tiny Seed Journal, and two days after my wedding anniversary, so I’m looking forward to early March. Also in early March is the next meeting of my book club, when we will discuss White Fragility: Why it’s so Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, by Robin Diangelo. I’ve just started it and am looking forward to the conversation. If you’d like to read it with us and discuss virtually, I’ll see you in the comment section.
