Pandemic diary from a life where not much has changed, yet everything has changed; thoughts, well wishes.

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Hello, my friends, who feel even closer in this time of mandated distance,

Yesterday the weather refused to cooperate with the idea of the apocalypse. Sky platonically blue, a smattering of perfect little cloud puffs. People were out on their porches. I walked my dogs past two little boys, digging in the dirt in their front yard. “Can I pet your dogs?” the younger one, around five, asked.

I had no idea what to say. “Have your mommy and daddy told you about social distancing? Do you know how far six feet is?” But I let them pat the dogs, trying to keep a leash’s distance away.

Younger: I can see they have fangs! 
Older: Not fangs, teeth. Canines.

Younger: Do you want to play a game?
Me: No thank you, we are going to the park.
Younger: No, I was talking to my brother.

Thus rejected, we went on to the park. It was full of people, sitting alone or in twos. But it’s always like that, no one makes friends in the park.

Later, I saw from out the window a cluster of people crossing the street. They were a little bit apart from each other — I don’t know if it was six feet, I think six feet is closer than I realize, if this whole thing has taught me anything it’s that I don’t know how far six feet is — and I couldn’t remember if that’s how we walked a week ago. Were they social distancing or just drifting naturally?

At the doggie daycare, the manager’s face was drawn, bags under her eyes. She must be exhausted from worry, like we all are, but maybe also fear for the future of the kennel. We don’t rely on the daycare — the dogs go to get their bonks out and socialize — but it’s strange to think that they may not be open in a week, and that may mean they don’t re-open, even or especially since they are in the early stages of building a second location. I want to ask what I can do, but I don’t know what I can do. Gift cards will only go so far.

I know things have changed, but how much they change depends on how long this goes on. It’s strange to not know how to read the landscape. Running by the creek near my house— on yet another mockingly beautiful day — I thought the squirrels and birds looked fatter and brighter than usual. I emailed a wildlife biologist friend — hi, Tim!— to ask about it. I’d seen the images from space of reduced air pollution in China, the swans in the Venice canals. But there didn’t seem to be fewer people around and it seemed unlikely that the squirrels were getting more robust in some rapid rewilding. Tim said he’d noticed something similar, but he thinks we’re just looking at spring with new eyes. I do not like this pandemic, but I’m glad to pay attention to the brightness of the robin’s breast. It’s orange, really.   

The summer before our wedding, Mark and I spent a week on Cape Cod. We stayed in a little house by a secluded cove, and every morning and evening I would walk the length of it, about half a mile. At the turnaround point was a dead whale. At least, I think it was a whale — it was already quite decayed the first time I saw it. It might have been a seal. From a distance, it looked like a rusting oil drum.

The massive tide swings and the things that were happening to the whale— crabs moving in, bones becoming more exposed as leathery skin dropped off— made the walk new each day, and in response, I kept my eyes open wider, alive to the expectation of change. 

I liked this because it changed so fast and visibly, yet according to an order. The news right now is not like a decaying whale, or it doesn’t feel like it. (News of the results of predictions, all the ways this is unfurling in a logical way, still feels surreal and unnatural. To me at least.) To me, it’s “what fresh hell is this?” every day, it’s not knowing if we’re in the beginning, middle, or end of something. It’s not knowing if this is a hiatus or a turning point. And what we might turn into.

On the radio, I heard the tail end of an All Things Considered panel of spiritual leaders. Asked for closing words, a rabbi said “We must remember life is measured not by how long it is but by how good it is.” (Or something along those lines.) That broke something open for me. I consider myself kind, and relatively unselfish, and yet I cling, as most of us do, to the idea of my own future and what I can do to protect it. It’s natural, but it’s also the engine of anxiety, fear, and probably also hate and cruelty. There in the car, taking my stupid (but beloved), spoiled dogs to the doggie daycare, of all places, I felt the acute desire for goodness. 

It’s a difficult moment to realize the depth of our desire to help — the best thing we can do for each other is stay away. But I’m thinking of how I can help from inside my little bunker, and more importantly how to face my own fears of death and pain in order that I may be of greater service. 

I want so badly to close with a joke, but I feel desperately earnest these days (punctuated by moments of unpublishably grim humor). Twitter has memes if you want them. I hope every one of you is coping with your anxieties, children being home, toilet paper shortages (my mom had to send me some!), or whatever your pandemic looks like. If there’s anything I can do from afar, please ask.

xx ad infinitum,
C. R.