In summer rescue dogs Lily and Lulu’s walkies are before sunrise and after sunset with quick outings through the day in the backyard. Has to be this way because the heat gets to them. To me, too
So this morning, because of some lovely late cold fronts was very cool as we ventured out around six, still in the dark.
Summer walkies are an adventure. More bunnies and toads. Never is husky-mix Lily more focused than when a reptile crosses her path. When a toad stops the required hopping Lily does not lose interest. She will gently tap it with her paw until it starts to hop around again. This morning she actually tapped it with her nose.
She knows better.
Toads have a protective toxin they coat their bodies with. This causes a dog to froth at the mouth. Which Lily did. She is tenacious. She kept at the toad so I stepped in and moved it to a shrub and we walked on, Lily spitting and shaking her head.
As we turned the corner toward home both Lily and Lulu went on high alert— a rabbit jumped in the road. It waited till they were just at attack position before it bounced away.
Still, the excitement made their obligatory morning naps reminiscent of the chase in their dreams.
So many times this week my emotions got tossed like waves in a storm, listening to armchair commentators critiquing the virus. Who to blame, wrong information, who said what, what should be done, and shouldn’t be done, until I was angry in my own head.
So I refocus. This experience is no surprise to God. Neither are requirements that are levied on our communities. So I look to Him. I ask for peace. I pray for people who need prayer. I find things to be grateful for.
So many things.
For years every summer from when my brother and I were very small my family and I transformed our lives in one week at a small South Carolina beach town. Our parents, away from work and the daily demands of life were relaxed and actually fun to be with. Trading comforts like air-conditioning for ceiling fans we ate basic southern food, played in the ocean and sought interesting shells. Occasionally a pod of porpoises swam by as we sat transfixed on the porch. Idyllic, undemanding, peaceful.
Even before reading Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us I have always loved the ocean. It’s mysterious, moody and can be, like me, quite dramatic. So when I retired, moving to within minutes of the beach was a dream come true.
Since this remarkable viral plague paralyzed the world I am surfing Zillow almost daily. I have convinced myself that living in the mountains will be my best option. Yes, ice storms. Yes, frozen pipes. I have yet to make my pros and cons list for living both places. I tend to be impulsive. This is a bad trait when considering something like moving house. Since 2003 for instance I have moved 7 times. Three different states. Four of those moves were for work. That is a lot of boxes and bubble wrap. So this one (if there is one) I hope will be the last.
What made this hard is knowing I will be a 6-hour drive from the ocean. And one of the houses I looked at boasted a “concrete-insulated cellar of bomb shelter quality convenient for safety from tornadoes”.
So maybe hurricanes, though terrible, can be withstood.
My mother must have thought her ears were playing tricks on her one Saturday afternoon. As a high school teenager I enjoyed completely zoning out in a swath of contemporary rock music. But instead of the usual chaotic sounds of Hendrix, J. Geils or James Gang, Dvorák’s symphony no. 9, “From the New World” wafted from the stereo in the den. I was reading the album cover (long before cds and liner notes) and glanced up to see her peering around the doorway, quizzical expression. I gave a slight smile and her face vanished.
During this pandemic many grocery and other stores here have a “senior shopper hour”, usually 6-7 am. Like lots of others I believe age is just a number and never considered myself a senior but my drivers license indicates that I am. Having to buy for only one (human) means, for me, shopping trips are infrequent. So this week I availed myself of the early opportunity.
I was unprepared. There weren’t many others, at first, but they all (except for me, most of the store employees and one other lady that I noticed) wore gloves of some kind, and a face mask. Their eyes darted furtively over the scarf or bandana or medical mask gauging the distance between the nearest person and where they wanted to push their cart. I realized we have had to adapt to a completely new sort of analysis in this social distancing requirement and juxtaposition is a whole new factor.
I gathered the few items and Easter preparations on my list, avoided the paper products aisle and made my way to the cashiers. My personal shopping bags were not permitted, they said. What if I bagged my own stuff, I asked. That is ok. So the very polite young man and I chatted while he scanned and I bagged, how cheery and helpful the store associates are, how nice to have the hour offered. As I toted my purchases to my car the sky was a brightening translucent blue and a pattern of small pink-white clouds. Turning the key in the ignition, the radio station played the New World symphony. Right there, a combination of my own memories, this weird virus and our paralyzed country I felt sorrow well up inside. Before the tears fell I told myself, no. This is not the way the world will always be. We will not always push ourselves apart or wear masks and gloves or have ‘special’ shopping hours or be remanded to our homes.
We will overcome this. It will not last forever. This is not the new ‘normal’.
Happy, Easter. Blessings of Passover. God is sovereign.
Maybe it’s the aloneness, though I don’t think so. I am used to being on my own (present furry canine rescue company excepted). Maybe it’s that the entire United States of America (who’d have ever thought) has come to a grinding halt.
Or maybe the thought that, not unlike Passover, a silent death creeps among us.
Or maybe it’s all of it. But lately I have had many things brought to mind for which I need to make amends. And I have followed those promptings. A note to a kind neighbor that I may have slighted. An overdue apology to my son for hurtful things once said. Phone calls made that were put off for far too long, these are reminders to me that this is not a dress rehearsal. This life is temporal. Getting it right is not as important as grace, kindness, patience.
What would you do if this were your last month/ week/ day to live? Somehow for me, this question has become quite real.
This viral plague that, in order to protect ourselves and others has restricted us so harshly has made me stop and think.
I have never been in a situation before where I cheated death. I have also not yet lived regret-free.
But I’d certainly like to, if not get a do-over, at least a restart.