Light and Dark

On Thursday night Boulder County had its first presumptive positive case of the coronavirus. We’d been watching it creep across China, then countries in Europe, knowing it was just a matter of time. An email came about 7pm on Thursday evening saying schools would close effective the next day, Friday, until the end of spring break, March 29.

By Sunday, the situation across the US had evolved rapidly with many school districts announcing closures until at least mid-April. Since it become dire in China, then with the plight of several cruise ships with infected passengers, I’ve been glued to the news, reaching for my phone first thing in the morning and going to bed after looking at it at night, not my usual approach to the news or my electronics.

We hiked Sunday afternoon with our dogs on a forest service road not far from home. The day was sunny, the air warm enough that I had pulled off my fleece and wished I was wearing a short-sleeve instead of long sleeve tee. Mountain bikers chugged by and we exchanged hellos and its-a-beautiful-days. It was easy, up there, to think it was all still normal in the world. But we came home with the knowledge there would be no Sunday dinner out or with friends. We went to bed on the heels of the CDC announcement of the recommendation for no more than 50 people gathered at a time for EIGHT weeks.

When I closed my eyes to sleep, I could not. Some combination of caffeine too late in the day, my husband snoring and my zooming thoughts once my head hit the pillow kept me awake. Once it was dark and I was still, once there were no more distractions, it became clear to me how much life had changed since Thursday. How different the near future already looked. Like someone had turned my world a quarter turn and I couldn’t make it turn back. I couldn’t un-see.

After tossing and turning and nudging my husband to get the snoring to stop (it didn’t), I got up, put on my sweatshirt and warm socks and settled myself by the fire with a book. I also decided to use an infrequent but fool-proof sleep aid—CBD+THC gummies. I’m a light weight so I only need 1/2 of a 10 mg gummy to do the trick. I usually only need to turn to this once a month or less but I suspect difficulty sleeping might be a bit more common in the days to come.

So imagine my dismay to find that, after having my 1/2 gummy, I only had another half left. This turned my thoughts to the strange place they seem to go these days—what’s essential and what’s not? What could I justify in terms of going out into the community? Was venturing out to a dispensary for pot-laced gummy squares essential. Clearly not in the grand scheme of things. But to me??!! Or what about my haircut that’s coming up in 2 weeks, the one that, by the time I get to it every 8 weeks, I am desperate for. But clearly my hairdresser can’t stand 6 feet from me and still cut my hair. But I can feel myself looking for outs, justifying, doing the mental dance of why, for me, just this once, it would be okay. Bargaining, anyone?

I won’t do these things because they don’t come close to being essential to my survival. They feel essential to my comfort but that doesn’t or shouldn’t count for so much right now. We’re all being asked to think beyond ourselves, to act as a community, for the health and survival of all.

Which brings me to my anger at people who refuse to take this seriously, who accuse us of panicking (ok, well maybe hoarding TP is panicking but that’s not what I’m talking about). I get enraged at people, some of them quite close to me, who have acted in ways I see as irresponsible to themselves, their children and the greater community by traveling simply because they want to. And I wonder about that, my rage at those who won’t do what I think they should. I wonder at exactly how mad it makes me, wonder where the ferocity of that feeling comes from, wonder how to make the decisions I think are right and taking care of myself and my family while leaving others to do their best for themselves.

It’s times like these when I feel like I see the best of humanity sharply contrasted with the worst. The best is displayed in rampant humor—the guy who says on FB that he’s just trying to poop at the office as much as possible where there’s ample TP, or the one who suggests just disrobing and taking a shower after pooping in the absence of TP. With all the potential time on our hands, why not? There are the touching videos of the deserted nighttime streets of Siena, Italy, a few streetlights shining, and the voices of its residents singing together out of their windows into the dark. That’s sweetness and love, floating out into the air.

And the worst. Well, I’m not really wanting to dwell on that because it makes me so mad and disgusted with people. Let’s just leave it all the examples you already know of people exposing others, hoarding supplies, not being kind or generous, being self-centered.

Which I know partly happens out of insecurity and fear. The last time I was in Target, I looked—again—for paper towels and, yes, TP—and there were none. There were about four 4-packs of little purse sized tissue packs and I wondered, should I grab those. But I recognized in myself in the moment a little bit of panic, of grabbiness. I didn’t need more tissue or TP. I DO, however, really need some paper towels!!

Being an introvert, I don’t much mind being told to stay home for a while. The difference now, which I can feel creeping in, is that usually, once I’m ready to make contact with the outside world again, I can. I am a bit daunted by the specter of absolutely no place to go for such an extended period of time. But I’m ready to get creative.

I’m grateful to live where I do, where there’s ample outdoor space because being stuck inside the house would make me go crazy. I can easily walk around my neighborhood, breathe fresh air and stand far enough from my neighbors to visit safely. We’re usually standing that far apart anyway to keep our dogs from barking at one another.

I have a new neighbor, one who arrived yesterday to get some things settled at her house before going back to CA to fetch her two cats and be back to meet the moving van at the end of March. We sat on my back porch last night, bundled in parkas and warm socks, clutching glasses of wine, the requisite 6 feet apart and started getting to know one another.

She let me know last night that she’s decided it’s not safe to fly back to CA today so she’s going to play it by ear. I’ll be taking her a few pots, pans and dishes so she can camp out at her house until she figures out her next steps.

An email came last night from our school district with more info about planning in case school needs to go online after spring break. I sure hope we’re at a point where kids can go back to school that soon but I’m not all that hopeful we’ll be far enough along in beating this thing by then.

I feel bad for the kids, my kid. School is education, of course, but so much of it is social and, as someone noted, this is not a snow day. It’s hard to see my son isolated with no place to go. So far, he’s handling it well. Maybe now I’ll see the value of my kids’ socialization online, something I’ve poo pooed as an inadequate way of interacting—until now.

I would not say I’m afraid. I’m certainly awed and stunned at how fast things can change, at how much we don’t know—and won’t know. I think my daily clutching at the news has been an attempt to know, to predict. My relationship work with uncertainly is an ongoing one. Though it has gotten better, it’s has a long way to go. But right now I’m doing well acknowledging I have no idea where all this is headed, when it will end, the twists and turns it will send us through individually and collectively.

I do wonder if it’s not partly medicine for the world, something that has shown up to remind us about how intimately we are connected—to our close neighbors, to those across town and to those across the world.