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Category: virus

Shorn

Shorn

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The men who climb trees were here last week, and they left our oaks and gum and hollies tidy and pruned and shorn. 

It was a long-overdue task, given the branches that were hanging over the house and scraping the garage. But it leaves me feeling bare and exposed and doubtful of the shade we’ll have this spring and summer.

It’s all part of growth and renewal, removing the deadwood, but it reminds me too much of the way life is now: cutting back to the quick, to the most essential, learning how much we can do without. 

Which is why I’m hoping that the haircuts the trees received leave them with thicker and more elegant tresses come summer. 

Last ‘Normal’ Day

Last ‘Normal’ Day

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On this same equivalent Thursday last year, I rose early, dressed quickly and left the house. It was the last day of a three-day conference that I had first dreaded but had warmed to because it brought together people I work with but seldom see. We met at a downtown location, and on the last day I went in early so I could take a walk beforehand. 

Though the coronavirus was much on our minds — the bathrooms were mobbed at every break with people obsessively washing their hands — there was much yet we didn’t know. We didn’t wear masks, we didn’t practice social distancing, and we took our lunch in a common room, all 80 or so of us scooping our salads and fruit from common bowls and eating together at small, cocktail-sized tables. 

Since Thursday was the finale, at the end of the day many of us went across the street to a watering hole where we huddled even closer to each other. In retrospect I would kick myself for that, especially when I learned that at least one of the attendees came down with Covid right after the event. 

We knew something was coming, and in fact we learned that day that we would be working remotely the next week, but we could never have known that a year later we would still be hunkered down in our houses and apartments, waiting to resume a normal life we’re not sure will come again. 

Wisdom from the Verse

Wisdom from the Verse

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As we continue through our second Lenten season of the Covid Era, I notice that today’s reading is the story of Abraham taking his son Isaac to the mountaintop to slaughter him. It’s never an easy Bible verse for me — or any parent — to hear. The amount of faith and obedience required is way beyond what I or, I hazard a guess, most of us, might have. 

But the story does come at a good time. With most of a penitential season still ahead of us, we could use a reminder of the power of faith to, if not move mountains, then come pretty close. Because, of course, Abraham is richly rewarded for his obedience. He is told that his descendants will be as numerous as the stars. 

Lent on top of Covid seems redundant. We are already giving up so much! I’ve struggled this year, as I did last, for a way to make the season meaningful. One of them is to keep up with the daily readings, to seek wisdom from the verses. This doesn’t always work … but sometimes it does.

Getting Out

Getting Out

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It’s Saturday, time to get some food into the house. Apart from walks around the neighborhood, the last time I jumped in the car and drove away was … two weeks ago. 

Even for Pandemic Speed this is glacial. No wonder I’ve been pacing the floors on Fort Lee Street. I thought it was to stretch my legs during long work sessions. But no! I think it’s been to re-enact a more primary urge: to leave, to step out, to move from one place to another.

While some people have been hunkering down like this for months, I’ve still been going out to the grocery store and on a few other errands most weeks. And I can say that while from a germ standpoint this practice may be debatable, from a mental health standpoint it is not. 

Getting out is good for you. Which is why I plan to do it … soon.

(Sorry to say I will not be seeing this on my drive to the supermarket.) 

Seven Degrees

Seven Degrees

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If there are seven degrees of separation, then are there not seven degrees of isolation? I’m thinking about the world as we know it: working remotely, separated from friends, too cold for outside get-togethers … and now further set apart by rain, snow, sleet and an anticipated ice storm.

I suppose it’s easier in one sense. We now have multiple reasons for staying at home. But that doesn’t warm the heart when the heart is accustomed to the stimulation and richness of a life fully lived.

What is called for, I suppose, is seven degrees of patience: hoping, praying, reading, writing, baking, cleaning — and of course, dancing. You can’t forget about that last one. It’s the most important of all. 

The Shot

The Shot

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In the end it’s no more than a pinprick, but into it has gone the world’s hope and desperation — the former more than the latter, I believe, but you never know. 

The second will come four weeks from now, and then … what? A sort of freedom, to be sure. But still no old life as we know it. 

Maybe in time, when enough of us have had what I was lucky enough to get yesterday, and that due not just to science and ingenuity but also to the kindness of a friend, who alerted me to the arrival of vaccines in a hospital where I had not checked for them. 

It was a longer drive than I would have liked … but it was worth it. 

Painted Bunting

Painted Bunting

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Yesterday’s paper brought the typical onslaught of bad news, but on the front page of the Metro section was a wondrous story about the rare sighting of a painted bunting. 

It’s one of those “lifetime birds” for birders, who flocked to a Maryland park to catch a glimpse of this tiny creature.  With its normal habitat far south of here, the bird’s presence represented a once-in-lifetime chance for many to see it. “Magical” is how some of them described it.

Even reading about it was enough to lift my spirits. That a tiny bird could stir up such a ruckus in a town more likely to respond to the latest scandal than to the presence of beauty in our midst is further proof of what we’re coming to realize is a silver lining of the pandemic: a greater realization of the beauty and balm of nature. 

All I can add is … what a great way to start the new year! 

(Photo: Wikimedia)

Writing Cards: 2020

Writing Cards: 2020

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It’s been a busy weekend so far, full of baking, shopping, wrapping … and writing cards. I started penning these on Friday night, which spilled over to yesterday and today, too. The reason: I’m writing more on each card. 

I was pondering this yesterday, as I scribbled messages on the back of each photo greeting (which is a vertical card this year), telling myself that if I kept up this pace I would never finish. 

But it makes sense: It’s been a long hard year, a year of isolation from friends and family. So of course, writing notes to friends and family should take precedence over any notion of timeliness! 

Luckily, this philosophy suits the general pace of mail delivery, which is just north of glacial. And who cares about that, either? 

The cards will all arrive, eventually. The last-minute packages will, too. 

Door-to-Door

Door-to-Door

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The boxes come in and the boxes go out. In this very different holiday season, I never know what I’ll find when I open the door. A large box or a small envelope. A package that arrives seemingly in the middle of the night — another that arrives during a snow and sleet storm. A box of oranges or a carton of long-awaited gifts — ones I’m giving others that still have to be mailed to distant destinations.

News reports tell of an overwhelmed post office. And no wonder! I feel like they might be overwhelmed just with our stuff alone. 

I’m not a comfortable online shopper. I’d rather see and touch the items I buy before making the purchase. But these days we have little choice. Even before the pandemic, brick-and-mortar stores had begun to limit their selections, to offer to order things for you from their store. 

It’s a more distant and less friendly world we inhabit now, to be sure. I’m hoping that the boxes I send release the warmth I feel when packing them. 

The Birds

The Birds

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It sounded like spring when I walked outside the other day. The robins had swooped in, and they were filling the skies with their song. Out back, the feeder is clogged with sparrows and chickadees and bluebirds and cardinals. The bluejays are there, too. 

The suet block brings in the clinging birds: the downy woodpecker and its larger cousin (whose name I will have to look up, ah, the red-headed woodpecker, that’s who it is, see above) and, biggest of all, the pileated, with its look of the primeval and its distinctive red crest.

Now that I work indoors, I stay as close to the deck as possible, and with the bird feeder moved to where I can see it, my days are punctuated more than they should be by staring at these beautiful creatures.

Out there, a pandemic rages. But in the backyard, it’s just the eternal struggle to keep body and soul (in this case, tiny feathered soul) together.