Coronavirus Days--Week 4

Today there is a quiet, a deep chill with a turn of weather, slight snow drifting from the skies throughout most of the day. Frankly, this is a welcome change to the warmth of spring, somehow more fitting for the pandemic. The sun brings out people, too many people, most without masks, many without a sense that Whitman and I are not comfortable around joggers running up from behind us. 
These walks we take are a steady in my day, a morning routine that knocks some of the anxiety from my skin and helps me breathe a bit easier throughout the days when the worry is heavy. Yet, when I miss the window of an uncrowded sidewalk, when people are stirring about, I feel the anger rising. Up until Friday, I pushed it down, trying to have compassion, thinking that perhaps it's denial in others. I should be forgiving, assuming they mean no harm. And perhaps they don't, but this is not a time for my compassion. Thanks to the wisdom of a therapist, I got permission (since apparently I couldn't see my way to it) to feel angry. To be pissed at selfishness. To see the rising anger that has been gathering over the weeks as just a stage in grief. Coping. OK. Now when we walk, I silently mutter at the maskless douchebag and the masked good person. For that moment, I feel better.

This past week I spent several 8pm moments howling with the voices from blocks away, from next door, from Nan sitting next to me while Whitman's ears perked, wondering what those weird sounds pretending to be howls were. He didn't participate, but listened, curious about this new turn in the evening. It is not every evening we venture to the porch, but when we do, there's a sense of being alive, of a community letting each other know that we are here, with voices alive.

Even though the stores still don't carry flour, yeast, bananas at times, and countless other items, we survive, finding joy in food and cooking new recipes, riding the waves of uncertainty. Somewhere the cherry blossoms bloom even when nobody is looking. 


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