Pandemic postcard #11: Sitting with sadness

You'll have to excuse me: I've had a hard time coming up with anything meaningful to say this week, the week we passed 100,000 deaths in the U.S. from COVID-19, a week we saw naked police brutality that claimed the life of yet another black man, a week we saw his city wracked by grief and more violence that is escalating as I write this, a week when we saw yet again that the emperor has not a stitch of decency.

I'm sad, and I'm just going to sit with that sadness. 

So in lieu of a new message, allow me to send you back to this post of mine from April 2018 that is resonating with me again, and recommend two things I discovered online this week. (Apologies to those who avoid social media, but it's been a cornucopia of useful things. That said, I look forward to this week's tech sabbath!)

On Facebook, writer Luis Alberto Urrea is making posts in a series he calls Operation Uplift. He gives us a cue ("Chapter 68. Kindness. An unexpected blessing. A touch of grace. A gift. A moment’s peace. A touch of Zen. A safe feeling. A quiet shelter. The color of joy. Hope now") and one of his own photos, and people post their own words and pictures on the theme. The name is apt: I always feel a little better after I look at the latest chapter (and better still if I contribute).

On Instagram, Los Angeles creative director Lisa Hennessy is posting a lockdown journal of doodles, many with poignant written reflections about the absurdity and humanity of what we are all going through. I found this by accident and I am glad I did. I also followed her bio link to her values-based branding agency with the impossibly apropos name of fernweh, German for a longing for distant places and for exploration. That makes me feel sad, too, except it is somehow a happy sad, knowing that however distant the world may seem right now, it is still out there waiting for us.

See you next week. Prayers for Minneapolis and for us all. And try to remember--even in the worst weeks of this hardest time--that joy is "the happiness that doesn't depend on what happens," that we can be grateful in every moment, if not for every thing. (Brother David Steindl-Rast)

Pandemic postcard #10: Holiday in Pandemia

My church had its annual Coming of Age service last Sunday. It's one of my favorites, the culmination of a year when our ninth-graders spend a year thinking about life's big questions. Of course, the service was online, and it was still wonderful. "Joyful but realistic," one woman described it in our virtual coffee-hour gathering afterward.

From Easter and Passover and Ramadan to Mother's Day and graduation season, we've checked off nearly all the spring boxes. I love the congratulations-and-stay-strong signs honoring graduates all over my city, and it's been fun to listen to online commencement speeches by everyone from President Obama to Awkwafina to ... Donald Trump? And now it's Memorial Day Weekend, the unofficial start of summer. On Monday, when we pause to recall those who have died fighting for our country, let's remember the most recent casualties: the doctors, the nurses, the cashiers, the meat packers, the beloved grandparents.

It doesn't feel like summer. The steam heat in my apartment came on again yesterday amid a Seattle cold snap. The ballparks are empty, from the biggest stadiums to the forlorn sandlots, now given over to dogs and their people playing fetch. Concerts and sleep-away camps have been canceled. And yet ...

Italy? Mexico? Seattle!

I am not sure where or even if I might travel this summer. Except for a few recent forays to state parks open for day use, I haven't gone beyond a two-mile radius of my home. Still, it's been dawning on me anew that I live in a place that people from all over the world visit on vacation. Now that we can venture out a bit, I want to spend some time in my bigger backyard, the Emerald City. I want to wander through a nearly deserted Pike Place Market, see the murals that have popped up at Pioneer Square, and maybe hear a busker play in Georgetown. I want to spend some of my unemployment pay at local restaurants and shops in Ballard and Columbia City. And if I'm feeling really brave, maybe I can meet a friend for a socially distanced picnic or a cup of coffee, or even go to a movie once the neighborhood cinemas reopen. I would totally do that.

In many ways, the new normal is feeling pretty old. Since the pandemic is going to be with us for a while, we might as well try to have fun, safely and responsibly and with thanks to the people who are willing to serve us. We ought to be realistic ... but joyful. This is our life right now, all of it.

Pandemic postcard #9: A shelter within the shelter

I've written before about how I began 2020 with my first-ever sabbatical, five weeks in Guadalajara, Mexico, learning how to teach English as a foreign language. I arrived back in Seattle on March 1, and it wasn't long before I realized this sabbatical might be a lot longer than I had expected. As of now, there's no end in sight. I've lost my two biggest editorial clients and my part-time job at the ballpark is on hold, too.

One thing I've done with all this extra time is spend a lot of it online. That's true for most of us. I've also become much more intentional about taking a full day away from technology every week. Writer and filmmaker Tiffany Shlain has been doing this with her family for a decade. They call the weekly pause their Tech Shabbat; on a Zoom call this week, Tiffany said that during the pandemic, the practice feels like a shelter within the sheltering that we're all doing these days.

That phrase seems right to me, too. Online connection has been lovely and sustaining in many ways over the past few months, and it will be for the foreseeable future as we continue to live much of our lives online. I've enjoyed gatherings with my family, friends, and faith community; I've been in a weekly ukulele play-along group; and I've sat in on a few virtual reunions and many worthy arts events. Still, I think we're all experiencing some degree of screen fatigue. Unplugging for a full 24 hours is one way to relieve it.

I typically start my tech sabbath at sunset on Friday and sometimes extend it all the way to Sunday morning, but it's flexible. This week, I will start it before noon on Friday because I want to see some friends via Zoom on Saturday afternoon. I stay away from news and social media, but I have streamed online music. I still carry my phone-camera-pedometer on my weekend walks and sometimes take a photo or two, but I'll refrain from posting anything until I'm back online. 

Most of us have a yearning now to think about the sort of world we'd like to live in now that the ground is shifting beneath us. A weekly tech sabbath gives us that opportunity. Much as our brains need a nightly respite to process everything we experience during the day, a weekly break from screens can give our souls a chance to catch up. In her new book* 24/6, Shlain calls it "one of the most profound ways I've found to have the time and space to think about who I am, what I value, and what I can bring to the world."

I'm a believer.

Another milestone: This past week, I filled the last blank pages in volume one of my pandemic journal and began a new one. If you don't already keep a journal, you might consider doing so now. Your future self will want to remember how you made it through these days--the ups and downs and the depths--and of course, any descendants you might have and historians will value what you have to say, too. Here are some tips on how to get started.



P.S. A few housekeeping notes: This week, I'd like to thank a friend who told me he subscribes to my posts via email and finds quiet time to sit and absorb each entry. Thank you, Steve, and everyone else who subscribes. If you'd like to get Surely Joy via email, you'll find a link for that near the top right-hand corner of the page. If you're reading on a mobile device, find the "view web version" link near the bottom of your screen, and that will take you to the desktop view where the email link will be visible.

Also, the starred link above to Tiffany Shlain's book goes to my online storefront at Bookshop.org, where your purchase of that book--or any other you search for--will benefit both me and small bricks-and-mortar bookstores. I'm supporting my local bookshops and hope you will, too, but if you can throw a bit of business my way, I will be grateful.

Pandemic postcard #8: Freedom from choice

One thing that defines Americans is we love choices. The COVID-19 pandemic is testing that characteristic, and the test is playing out in mundane and profound ways in which we attempt to have it as many ways as we can, because that's who we are.

One obvious example: I dislike wearing a mask because, yes, I'm an American who chafes at being told what to do and because even a snug-fitting one fogs up my glasses. So I compromise. I wear a neck scarf on early morning walks through deserted streets where I rarely get close to anyone; that way, I have a face covering handy if I need it. And when I go to any enclosed public place or walk on a crowded sidewalk, of course I wear a mask. I do it as an act of solidarity as well as one of protection. My mask protects you; your mask protects me. It seems like it's going to be that way for a while, so we may as well get used to it.

Although freedom of choice and an abundance of options are the American way, the pandemic is giving us time to practice having fewer choices or even no choice--a theme explored in this week's episode of the Hidden Brain podcast. Psychologist Sheena Iyengar describes cultural differences in how people perceive choice. One study she did involved parents of children born with a rare brain disease. In France, doctors routinely remove such babies from life support, sparing parents the decision. In the United States, parents are asked to choose. Most American parents do opt to let their babies die rather than let them linger without brain function, but--unlike the French parents--they remain wracked with guilt and more "what-if's."

Certainly, many families are now experiencing the agony of seeing loved ones suffer in isolation. Many have to decide whether to let a beloved person go, often with no goodbyes. (For the record, I've had an awesome life and I have no interest in going on a ventilator or any other extreme means of keeping myself alive.)

Many choices are far less stark, but they can still feel fraught. Most of my freelance editorial work is gone, so naturally I am inclined to fret about what I will do once the special COVID-19 unemployment pay runs out in late July. But the fact is I may not have a whole lot of choice as an older adult in a compressed job market, and---blessed with some savings, no debt, and a simple lifestyle--I feel myself finding some peace with that.

There's freedom in not being defined nor limited by past choices, and perhaps in surrendering to fate and the freedom of not having so many options. What new ways will emerge to make ourselves useful?

P.S. You've likely seen this bedtime story-from-the-future video by now, but if not, enjoy. Also, if you need help getting back to sleep some night, here's a link to the lovely "spiritual book club" installment of On Being, in which Krista Tippett and Devendra Banhart share their mutual love of When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön.

Pandemic postcard #7: May we give thanks

I have two friends, Joe and Kevin, part of a group of Ohio University alumni who reconstituted online once the Internet ramped up about a decade after we graduated. Credit for that goes to another friend, Meg, who started a list serv to loosely knit us all together. We were people who--one way or another--hung out at OU's student union, whether it was working on student government, the school newspaper, the campus radio station, the events board...or tending bar at the Frontier Room campus pub.

Ah, the Frontier Room in May. This time of year, it would be empty, because everyone would be outside on the patio, enjoying the Appalachian spring. If you got there early, you could grab a seat on the brick walls on the corner of Union and College streets, hailing friends passing below who hadn't managed to leave their class schedule blank after 3 p.m. The Frontier Room was less than a hundred steps from The Post, where I spent most of my non-class time, but I am pretty sure I whiled away at least as many hours at the bar as I did at the office. They were good times, and I made lifelong friends.

I didn't know Kevin and Joe well while we were in school, and I can count on one hand the number of times we've seen each other in person since then. But each has enriched my online life in a significant way. Let me explain.

Back in 2013, when Kevin was awaiting a kidney transplant, he started making a Facebook post the first day of each month, always starting "Rabbit rabbit rabbit" for good luck and then sharing an update from his life. The posts "were just meant to help me recalibrate during the last years of dialysis, but I'm grateful others get something from them," he tells me. Kevin always includes some words of encouragement and, once in a while, a gentle admonition. Today, he asked us all to please wear our masks. "Millions like me have a compromised immune system," he wrote. "I've beat cancer twice, please don't kill me with your sneeze. Thanks." He ends each of these monthly posts with these words, "No day but today," from the finale of Rent.

Like me, Joe walks every day. (Actually, Joe says he has only missed two days of walking since 2010. I am in awe.) Joe averaged over five miles a day last year, and every morning on his return, he posts on Facebook. He gives the weather report from Central Ohio, logs the first six selections from his music shuffle playlist, and ends each post with the words "We Can Stop It." Joe says that when he began adding that coda about a year ago, the phrase referred to gun violence, "but it does apply to COVID-19 and about anything else that we have the ability to stop."

As I've written before, Facebook has been a lifeline for many of us in these new times, but I really appreciate Kevin and Joe for their years of steadfastness, so I just wanted to let them know. If someone in your life has made a difference for you during these tough times, or anytime, be sure to tell them.

It's the little things, people. Sometimes they're not so little.

I'll conclude this post with one of the tunes from Joe's May 1 morning shuffle. Take us out, Howard Jones ...