This weekend, as we've done for the past two weekends, our only respite out of the house was found at our nearby greenway, just a few blocks downhill from our driveway. I've seen reports of crowded parks and other outdoor spots over the weekend, and while there were lots of people making the same choice we did, it wasn't too hard to find yourself alone, under the cover of budding trees, nestled among the birds and bugs that know nothing of social distancing or Covid-19. The picture here is from the path we were on.
It got me thinking about the path each of us are following right now. Somehow, the normal route we take is closed, and we've all been ushered down this other path - one we've never explored, and one that wasn't in our plans when we left our driveway. We're unsure about where it's taking us, what we might lose along the way, what unexpected obstacle we might find in our path, and ultimately where the trail will leave us at the end of this long, hard, difficult, muddy, uphill-both-ways kind of hike. And then I remember that cliched quip... that it's not about the destination, it's about the journey. Let us sit with that for a bit.
It was on this shady path that I thought that we can either muscle through these winding ways in despair, or we can try with all of our might to find the flowers buried in the poison oak that has settled in the ground. Those flowers are nature's illustrated beauty and worth our notice. Can we close our eyes for just a moment, lay down our toils and troubles, and stand silently among the blowing wind, the singing birds, the buzzing bees, and the sounds of our beating hearts and breathing lungs? In many ways it feels like the world we once knew is just a memory, but in this moment, standing with eyes closed, goodness and mercy remain. For the beauty of the earth. For the splendor of the skies.
Let us sit with a healthy precaution for the ills of this world right now. Let us wash our hands, wipe our surfaces, keep our distance, and stay in place. Let us also mourn this crisis with all those who are suffering through its tolls. But let us also give equal measure to the goodness surrounding us when we close our eyes and make note of the beauty which remains. I have seen countless stories of people using their skills and talents to care for others - to protect our healthcare workers, to shop for neighbors, and to comfort people with music and art and prayer. I remain excited and hopeful for our futures with news in recent days of births, pregnancies, and remissions of illness. These are, like this pandemic, also present in this world, and require as much of our care and attention (and emotion!) as our need to social distance. We should feel these happy wonders with all of our senses, just as we do the fear that so often overcomes us all. This is the path we are on - we must note in equal measure the rugged holes and the deer in the distance.
No one knows how all of this will end. But I look forward to emerging from this unknown trail, and a safe arrival home. Let us take a seat together with those we love. May we taste cool waters, wipe our sweaty brows, take off our shoes, and spread our toes in the cool springtime grass. May we let the warm breeze blow above our heads and make music with the blowing wind chimes on the porch. May we take note of the path we were on, how we got there, and how we wandered out. And may we remember, in the deep memory of our senses, all that surrounded us on the uphill climb home.
It's been about two years since I last found myself here, but at the suggestion of some wonderful people in my life, I've decided to dust off the old Blogger, and make a bit of a return. Perhaps it's temporary, perhaps I'll be returning for the long haul. But right now, I'm trying to sit close to things that bring me small bits of comfort. I'm here to see if a return to writing can serve that purpose.
It seems that the world is on fire and all we have at our disposal is one small bucket. Our collective response is to focus on who started the fire. To see how many buckets we can collect. To find out where the water is. To spray down our own homes as we protect ourselves. And while these are good uses of our time, nothing seems to bring me comfort, because I can still sense that no matter our late arrival to the fire, fire is fire. It burns, hot and orange. You can smell the smoke when it's nearby. You can hear the sirens as they pass nearby. And it burns until all that's left are smoldering ashes of loss when its fuel has exhausted. And yet here we are, one bucket in each hand. All of us standing at a safe distance.
And like fire, this virus (from all accounts I find) is temporary (ah, comfort!). But what burns in the path is scary and uncertain. What this fiery virus leaves in its aftermath cannot be predicted, but there are a few things that are certain. Those who didn't have much to begin with will end up with even less. People will still reject scientific modeling and data despite what is sure to be proven over the next several weeks, even in this country. And yes, we will lose people we love to the ashes of this disease.
Waiting for these certainties brings back familiar feelings and emotions. For me, I'm experiencing much of the same physical and emotional responses I had when my mom was sick and spending her last days with us. It was a daily roller coaster of emotions as the news changes every hour, a tightness in the chest, a nervous stomach, a heavy heart. Sometimes tears. Grateful for small moments of laughter. Wishing time would pass quickly, but despite all efforts, seconds tick slower and slower.
My goal in writing this is to force myself to identify something that still brings me comfort or a fleeting moment of peace. They're hard to find, but in this forced look around me, there are brief moments we must all savor. Mine include a soft pair of socks, a hot cup of coffee, a long hug from my person. Pictures of animals. Something good to eat. A loved one's virtual face. Meditation. Music. Sunshine.
Yes, there are small bits of comfort that remain, while the fire burns hotter and hotter outside. The key, though, is to look through the flames, in the space between the embers, through the smoke of the burning ashes. Love remains. Beauty remains. Kindness endures. Friendship is evergreen. May we all pay attention to those moments of comfort, because they are just as real as the fire. Perhaps more potent - hopefully more contagious - and we need them to infect our lives in real time.
