In Person

It's been four years since a virus from China began to enter our consciousness, slowly at first (it was so far away!) but eventually spreading around the world and taking over our lives.

Last night I hosted book group at my house, the first in-person meeting here since 2019. It felt good to sit in each other's presence, to laugh and talk and drink tea, to plan for the future. The four years we spent on Zoom were good in their own way, but I'm glad we're back in person. 

Four years have brought other changes. In the past, I would rush home from work to vacuum, dust and bake, barely finishing the prep before the first guest knocked on the door.  Tonight's do was different. I had time to wash out the delicate Belleek sugar bowl and cream pitcher, to arrange squares of dark chocolate on a plate in honor of the book we discussed — Bittersweet.  I even had a chance to look over the notes I'd taken on the book. 

Sometimes I miss the hectic life I used to lead. And sometimes (less often) I miss Zoom. But I didn't miss either of them last night.

(In person in a bookstore — with a friend, of course.)

Testing Negative

So often just the single line. Even when I had fever and chills, congestion and headache. But then, two weeks ago, two lines appeared, clear and undeniable. Positive. 

I quarantined, masked, rested ... and eventually re-emerged. 

But the final step remained. Yesterday I swabbed, stirred, waited. 

And lo and behold, a single line. 

Testing negative never felt so good. 

Leaving Normal Behind

Trading this...

For many of us, today marks two years since we left normal life behind.  March 15th was a Sunday in 2020, and the Monday that followed was a workday unlike any other I'd experienced. 

I was at home — and so was everyone else, of course. It seemed then like a snowstorm without the snow, a temporary break from routine. 

Little did we know how the virus would upend our lives,  how it would take the weak and terrify the strong, how it would deepen the political divide and turn our downtowns into ghost towns. 

But all that and more was in store for us on that March Monday, two years and a lifetime ago.

... for this.

Oscar Season

The Academy has spoken and we now have 10 Best Picture-nominated films to rent, stream or (gasp!) see in a theater. 

I think I'm ready for that last one. It's been more than two years since I've entered a darkened auditorium, slunk down into my seat and let the world slip away.

By now there will be a new protocol: tickets purchased in advance, assigned seats; that was already happening but has become more regimented, I imagine. Masks will be required. Perhaps the concession stands will be closed. No popcorn? That would be a hard one to swallow, but not a deal-breaker.

It's Oscar season. Omicron is waning. Whatever the lay of this new land, I'm willing to travel it. 

Yard Signs

It seemed to start with the pandemic, with the chalk art and the concerts on balconies, the way we felt during those first few weeks of the ordeal when we thought our sheltering time would be more like a long blizzard than a new way of life. 

Pundits ponder how many of the changes we've made over the last 18 months will become permanent fixtures. Let me add one to the mix: the proliferation of yard signs. 

Before the pandemic I don't remember seeing many that weren't advertising a house for sale or a renovation taking place. Politics are too hot right now for people to use yard signs to advertise their candidate of choice — at least in my neighborhood. 

Now there are signs welcoming kindergartners and high-schoolers, banners for birthdays and even notices with desperate requests. The latter includes one from a family in the neighborhood that used the back of their PTO's grade school welcome sign to scrawl their own heartfelt message: Open The Schools!

At least that one is down now, but I think people are catching on to the potential of yard notices in an era when more of us are at home and walking around. 

Yard signs ... bring 'em on. 

Back to the Bus

The buses are rolling again, yellow school buses not yet matching the color of autumn leaves but rolling just the same. In their rolling I see hope and normalcy.

Yes, the delta variant is abroad in the land. Yes, some of us, too many, are unvaccinated. But in this (now August) ritual (it was always in September when my children were in school), I see a bid for real life with all its prickliness and uncertainty. 

So even though the buses about ran me off the road on my morning walk, even though conditions are not ideal, I'm glad students are heading back to the bus. And from the gleeful look I see on parents' faces, I think they feel the same. 

Thoughts on Emergence

In a single afternoon last week, I masked up and was led to a hand-washing station before a doctor's appointment. Later, at a small boutique, I had my temperature checked and was told to use hand sanitizer before venturing in. 

At my last stop of the day,  a small shop that sells Catholic books and gifts, I was one of the few folks wearing a mask. "How do people expect us to breathe in one," grumbled the proprietress, sans mask, as she wrapped up my purchase.  

Such is life as we emerge from pandemic restrictions here in northern Virginia.

In my travels to the Northwest almost a month ago, we wore masks most everywhere, including on the sidewalk in some neighborhoods, attempting to fit in with the locals. Yesterday, at a brunch in Arlington, the restaurant was fully occupied with scarcely a mask in sight. 

It's a weird hodgepodge and infinitely preferable to what we had this time last year. So I'm not complaining, only observing that if there is one truth somewhere, one right way to do things, I'm not sure who knows it. 

(Disinfectant, anyone? At Pike Place Market in Seattle, May 15.)

Small is Beautiful?

It was a different kind of Academy Awards ceremony last night, but I still watched the whole thing. Set in L.A.'s Union Station, the nominees and their guests sat around little tables, as if at a supper club. All of which made the event seem warmer and more intimate, though admittedly strange, without the usual glitter and fuss.

With no host and no big song-and-dance numbers, the event focused our attention on what matters most: the awards themselves and the people who receive them. Though a few recipients went on too long and there were the usual political diatribes, I enjoyed the relatively unscripted moments. You could tell people were speaking to a small audience (only 170) from the way they talked. 

By now most of us are ready for a return to normalcy, watching movies on the big screen — something Frances McDormand urged us to do when she accepted her Best Actress award — and maybe even the four-hour-long extravaganza every year that honors those films. But the performances at this year's Oscars make a case for small over large. 

(Info booth at Union Station, pre-transformation. Photo: Wikipedia Peetlesnumber1 

Measuring Loss

More than a quarter of the U. S. population is vaccinated. With warm weather and outside gatherings on the horizon it's easier to feel hopeful about Covid than anytime in the last 15 months.  But several sobering articles in this morning's newspaper are clouding that sunny outlook. 

The crisis unfolding in India is one. A record jump in the U.S. death rate last year is another — it was the highest above-average rate since the 1918 flu.  

And finally, tucked away on an inside page was this headline: "Measuring a Nation's Loss by the Years Covid Stole from Its Families."

Public health researchers are pushing to include the measure of years lost rather than lives lost as a full measure of the virus's impact. On average, victims of the disease lost nine years of life. While Covid-19 has attacked the old more than the young, it steals time from everyone it fells. 

We've only begun to come to terms with the enormity of our loss from this disease. One way to begin is figuring out how to measure it. 

New Normal

Over the weekend, a taste of normalcy: dinner out — in a restaurant — with friends who are also vaccinated.  The restaurant was empty save for one table of three seated 20 feet away. The server was properly masked. In that sense, it was not business as usual. 

But what a thrill to see actual human faces, not squares on a screen; to enjoy full human expressions, not the crinkle of eyes above an oblong of cloth. There were appetizers and stir-fries and shrimp with vermicelli. There was much catching up. And afterward, there was a stroll through the narrow streets of a small, quaint downtown.

It was not the kind of dining experience I might have sought 14 months ago, folks crammed together talking and laughing, the clink of glasses, the buzz of alcohol and laughter. It was the new normal. And it was absolutely wonderful. 

Shorn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.