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.
Friday, May 8, 2020
Friday, May 1, 2020
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 ...
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 ...
Friday, April 24, 2020
Pandemic postcard #6: Thank you, world
... and the sun is my alarm, and the moon, she makes me dream ...
Hello again, happy 50th anniversary of Earth Day, and happy 30th anniversary of one of my all-time favorite albums, Goodbye Jumbo by World Party. As I grabbed the code to post the video of "Thank You World" below, I saw that the album was released on April 24, 1990. Serendipity ... and dig how songwriter Karl Wallinger sings his hymn of thankful praise to the Earth while seemingly sheltered in place, but dreaming big indeed.
On Earth Day morning, I headed out early to beat the rain. I have some standard walking routes within a two-mile radius of my home: one that takes me to Maple Leaf Park, another that threads through the Pinehurst neighborhood, but I am prone to wandering, especially now. That's how I wound up across the street from a house I had never seen before, with a brightly whimsical sun shining over shingles of inlaid clouds, birds, and fish. When I got home, I looked it up and found this article about the last time it was for sale, plus a better screen capture from Google Maps.
Discovering this house was delightful enough, and the rest of my Earth Day walk was chockablock with Seattle's riotously wild spring pageantry. For every semi-manicured yard, there are countless examples of barely tamed urban landscapes, with flowers spilling out of street-side rock walls and Seussian cypress trees shamelessly flirting with Douglas firs. The Emerald City is absolutely crazy with color and boisterous with birdsong right now, and it's all the better because there is almost no vehicular traffic.
Once the pandemic subsides, I hope the cars mostly stay parked like they are now. I want people to be well and I want children to get back to school, but perhaps people who can work from home will continue to do so, at least some of the time, and people will find ways to get around that don't involve burning up our beautiful spaceship home. These are challenging times, no doubt, but they are making us all more creative in everything we do.
Until next Friday, be well and enjoy your neighborhood, wherever you are.
Hello again, happy 50th anniversary of Earth Day, and happy 30th anniversary of one of my all-time favorite albums, Goodbye Jumbo by World Party. As I grabbed the code to post the video of "Thank You World" below, I saw that the album was released on April 24, 1990. Serendipity ... and dig how songwriter Karl Wallinger sings his hymn of thankful praise to the Earth while seemingly sheltered in place, but dreaming big indeed.
Discovering this house was delightful enough, and the rest of my Earth Day walk was chockablock with Seattle's riotously wild spring pageantry. For every semi-manicured yard, there are countless examples of barely tamed urban landscapes, with flowers spilling out of street-side rock walls and Seussian cypress trees shamelessly flirting with Douglas firs. The Emerald City is absolutely crazy with color and boisterous with birdsong right now, and it's all the better because there is almost no vehicular traffic.
Once the pandemic subsides, I hope the cars mostly stay parked like they are now. I want people to be well and I want children to get back to school, but perhaps people who can work from home will continue to do so, at least some of the time, and people will find ways to get around that don't involve burning up our beautiful spaceship home. These are challenging times, no doubt, but they are making us all more creative in everything we do.
Until next Friday, be well and enjoy your neighborhood, wherever you are.
Friday, April 17, 2020
Pandemic postcard #5: Farewell, Kelly
 |
| Kelly Yost Hove, 1940-2020 |
Sam and Kelly ran Channel Productions, a small record label that had two releases at the time, both classical piano collections by Kelly. I signed on to help with writing tasks as well as with radio relations, and it's no exaggeration to say I may not have survived my first year as a freelancer without the Yosts. They had plenty of work for me at a time when Channel Productions was adding artists and going full tilt. (Kelly's recordings wound up selling about half a million copies.) As I got busier with other projects--including travel writing and having a baby--Kelly and Sam were always accommodating, welcoming me back whenever I had some time to give them, often accompanied by my infant daughter.
I saw Kelly one more time, in 2018 on a rare visit to Twin Falls. Her memory loss was more advanced by then, but she remembered me and I was able to thank her for all she and Sam had done to help me a quarter-century before. I am grateful I had an opportunity to express that gratitude when I did, for Kelly died on Easter Sunday from complications of COVID-19. She was 79.
Kelly's piano playing mirrored her way of being in the world: She was calm, steady, shining quietly from the inside out. She loved her native Idaho and its natural wonders, and she gained fame as far away as Japan, where she was featured in a documentary film, celebrated as much for her environmental activism as for her music. I was truly blessed to know her and to work with her, and my heart goes out to her husband Kent and her son Brook and to the many others now mourning her loss.
Rest well, Kelly.
Rest well, Kelly.
___
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Friday, April 10, 2020
Pandemic postcard #4: Too much to think
TGIF. It is Friday, right? It's after noon and I am still in my PJs. I was online all morning, mostly scrolling through my social feeds, though I also managed some serious reading. At some point, hopefully as soon as I post this, I'll get dressed, wash the windows for the first time this spring, go for a long walk, and try to make something more of this day.
If there's ever been a time to practice compassion for ourselves and others, it is now, as the days stretch into weeks and the weeks stretch into months, with no clear answers ahead. Like many of you, I have harbored some ambitious plans for this period of isolation. Mostly, I'd love to read more, but my eyes can only read e-books for so long; I miss going to the library for physical books. I miss ballgames and seeing people and going to the movies. So I waste a lot of time reading random stuff online, doing social media, and trying not to should on myself.
There will be no sudden resurrection this year, and no miracles, and yet we can plan to easter this weekend--yes, Easter as a verb in the face of death and uncertainty. As the Rev. Scott Alexander once preached, "Easter is a decision to live with hope -- fully, recklessly, courageously -- even in the face of death and despair itself." I haven't been able to locate his original sermon on the topic, but here's one he gave last year in the same spirit (and I may tune in for his sermon this Sunday to hear what he has to say on the topic of Easter in the time of pandemic).
I would love to be more productive and proactive and useful during this time, but other than a few volunteer shifts at the food bank and a few feeble attempts at finding paid work, I don't seem to have it in me. (I can't even fathom how parents and their children are managing. My blessings and admiration to all families.) I will use my weekly news and social media sabbath starting tonight to at least try to tap into my inner reserves of solitude (as opposed to loneliness) and creativity.
Maybe I will consider what would happen if I extended my weekend sabbath into next week, placing myself beyond the news and the endless stream of social media connection that is a lifeline, to be sure, but is also so much chatter and clatter. My absence and silence would mean nothing to the world; it could mean a great deal to me.
When despair for the world grows in me ... well, take it away, Wendell Berry
If there's ever been a time to practice compassion for ourselves and others, it is now, as the days stretch into weeks and the weeks stretch into months, with no clear answers ahead. Like many of you, I have harbored some ambitious plans for this period of isolation. Mostly, I'd love to read more, but my eyes can only read e-books for so long; I miss going to the library for physical books. I miss ballgames and seeing people and going to the movies. So I waste a lot of time reading random stuff online, doing social media, and trying not to should on myself.
There will be no sudden resurrection this year, and no miracles, and yet we can plan to easter this weekend--yes, Easter as a verb in the face of death and uncertainty. As the Rev. Scott Alexander once preached, "Easter is a decision to live with hope -- fully, recklessly, courageously -- even in the face of death and despair itself." I haven't been able to locate his original sermon on the topic, but here's one he gave last year in the same spirit (and I may tune in for his sermon this Sunday to hear what he has to say on the topic of Easter in the time of pandemic).
I would love to be more productive and proactive and useful during this time, but other than a few volunteer shifts at the food bank and a few feeble attempts at finding paid work, I don't seem to have it in me. (I can't even fathom how parents and their children are managing. My blessings and admiration to all families.) I will use my weekly news and social media sabbath starting tonight to at least try to tap into my inner reserves of solitude (as opposed to loneliness) and creativity.
Maybe I will consider what would happen if I extended my weekend sabbath into next week, placing myself beyond the news and the endless stream of social media connection that is a lifeline, to be sure, but is also so much chatter and clatter. My absence and silence would mean nothing to the world; it could mean a great deal to me.
When despair for the world grows in me ... well, take it away, Wendell Berry
Friday, April 3, 2020
Pandemic postcard #3: Reality sets in
Hello again. How are you this first Friday of April? Wasn't it interesting that April Fool's pranks seemed in short supply this year? We definitely need moments of levity, but foolishness seems out of order in these very weighty times.
For me, this was the week when the reality of the pandemic--and its accompanying economic crisis--really hit home. As I write this, the world COVID-19 case total has passed one million and people are dying at an alarming rate. I was especially sad to learn we have lost songwriter Adam Schlesinger, whose smart work with Fountains of Wayne and snappy title tune for That Thing You Do! have brought me lots of joy over the years. If I need a smile, as I did when I got this news, I need only watch this scene of a band hearing its song on the radio for the first time. Talk about joy. Thank you, Adam. (And please hang in there, John Prine.)
I mentioned last week that a longtime magazine client of mine had abruptly shut down. This week, I confirmed the not-unexpected news that my top editorial client--another travel company--has no work for me for the foreseeable future. I haven't yet joined the official jobless roll; my state's jobless benefits site says it hopes to have information on how self-employed people can apply by mid-April. Meanwhile, I plan to start volunteering at my local food bank next week. They really need help and I have too much time on my hands. They are having people work six feet apart, and you can only volunteer one week at a time to limit any possible exposure to COVID-19. It feels a little risky, but I am healthy and it is a way I can be useful.
Meanwhile, I have also opened an online bookstore through Bookshop.org, a new venture that just launched in January, primarily as a way for small independent bricks-and-mortar bookstores to have a website, but also for authors and other lit lovers to buy and sell books. I have named my shop The Optimist, and its featured selections are books that I have personally enjoyed over the years--"timeless books and books for these times,"as I put it. I'm also featuring some of my photography on its pages. So if you are looking for a good read, please have a look. Your purchase will help me weather these tough times and it will benefit indie bookstores across the U.S., too.
Here are a few other things that got me through this week:
Long walks, as always. I average four miles a day.
Plenty of sleep
Lots of time to read (and spending a little less of it on the news and social media)
Mariners classics baseball, often accompanied by a solo game of Bananagrams
A concert-from-home by Josh Ritter
Online church each Sunday
Watching the classic movie Groundhog Day (An aside: It's only been a month or so, but I miss movies in the theater.)
I mentioned above that reality hit home this week, but here's something else we all know: As bad as this pandemic is right now, we will get through it. Stay safe, be well, and be kind. See you next Friday.
For me, this was the week when the reality of the pandemic--and its accompanying economic crisis--really hit home. As I write this, the world COVID-19 case total has passed one million and people are dying at an alarming rate. I was especially sad to learn we have lost songwriter Adam Schlesinger, whose smart work with Fountains of Wayne and snappy title tune for That Thing You Do! have brought me lots of joy over the years. If I need a smile, as I did when I got this news, I need only watch this scene of a band hearing its song on the radio for the first time. Talk about joy. Thank you, Adam. (And please hang in there, John Prine.)
I mentioned last week that a longtime magazine client of mine had abruptly shut down. This week, I confirmed the not-unexpected news that my top editorial client--another travel company--has no work for me for the foreseeable future. I haven't yet joined the official jobless roll; my state's jobless benefits site says it hopes to have information on how self-employed people can apply by mid-April. Meanwhile, I plan to start volunteering at my local food bank next week. They really need help and I have too much time on my hands. They are having people work six feet apart, and you can only volunteer one week at a time to limit any possible exposure to COVID-19. It feels a little risky, but I am healthy and it is a way I can be useful.
Meanwhile, I have also opened an online bookstore through Bookshop.org, a new venture that just launched in January, primarily as a way for small independent bricks-and-mortar bookstores to have a website, but also for authors and other lit lovers to buy and sell books. I have named my shop The Optimist, and its featured selections are books that I have personally enjoyed over the years--"timeless books and books for these times,"as I put it. I'm also featuring some of my photography on its pages. So if you are looking for a good read, please have a look. Your purchase will help me weather these tough times and it will benefit indie bookstores across the U.S., too.
Here are a few other things that got me through this week:
Long walks, as always. I average four miles a day.
Plenty of sleep
Lots of time to read (and spending a little less of it on the news and social media)
Mariners classics baseball, often accompanied by a solo game of Bananagrams
A concert-from-home by Josh Ritter
Online church each Sunday
Watching the classic movie Groundhog Day (An aside: It's only been a month or so, but I miss movies in the theater.)
I mentioned above that reality hit home this week, but here's something else we all know: As bad as this pandemic is right now, we will get through it. Stay safe, be well, and be kind. See you next Friday.
 |
| Another kind of food pantry. Pinehurst, Seattle, March 2020 |
Friday, March 27, 2020
Pandemic postcard #2: All in this together
Hello again, and how has your week been? I am going to write here every Friday, as I am able.
After I posted last Friday, I took a 36-hour sabbath from news and social media. It was good for my soul, and I highly recommend it. Originally, I was going to stay offline from sunset Friday through Saturday evening, but I wound up staying away through Sunday morning, when I finally logged back onto the Internet to attend church online. We need rhythms and patterns in life; we're all coming up with new ones these days, aren't we?
Another pattern for me: I have been confining my essential errands to one day a week. I've chosen Thursday, mainly because it's the day when the landscape crew arrives at my apartment complex, high-decibel power tools blazing to wrangle our lawn, trees, and hedges into submission. There's no sense trying to read, write, or think during this time, so I take that as my cue to do the necessary business of reinforcing my grocery supply--and I went to a laundromat, too, figuring it would be cleaner and safer than the unattended laundry room I share with several dozen other apartments.
After the laundry, I drove to my old neighborhood grocery store, a sprawling Fred Meyer. I usually use the self-checkout at this store, but yesterday I stocked up, buying another full two weeks' worth of food and three months' worth of craft beer. (These days, that's two six-packs for me. Everything in moderation, including one IPA a week.) I also wanted to thank the people who are keeping the store open, so I chose an attended line. The shopper in front of me had a mask on. The cashier had gloves.
When it was my turn, the cashier and I exchanged some mild pleasantries as he started ringing up my stuff. I'd heard it was no longer OK to bring my own bags. He said it's allowable, but I'd need to bag my own groceries. Good to know, that makes sense, I said--but I was glad to have him do the bagging of this big-for-me order. I thanked him for working on the front lines. He said he was glad to do it and that he even had a permission slip in case he got stopped on his way to work--but that was unlikely, since he lives around the corner. I used to live just down the block in this neighborhood, too, I said.
No one else was waiting in line, so we chatted even as he finished my order and I paid. He mentioned that his girlfriend is working from home these days, but that she might get a job in Olympia, our state capital, at some point. Well, there are Fred Meyers down there, I said. "But by then, I hope to be a teacher," he told me. What did he want to teach? English. Oh, I said, "I just got back from Mexico. I was down there learning how to teach English as a foreign language." And so on. I'm a writer, I said. He said he is a writer, too, "even if I've never published anything except in my school magazine." Well, that counts, I told him. He thanked me for coming in. "You're welcome and thanks again," I said.
It's a wrenching time for our world, and yet we are actively choosing to connect in ways big and small, mostly via phone and text and Zoom and email and social media, but sometimes in person. I understand why people are ordering grocery and food delivery, having their shipments left on the front porch so there's no contact. But I'll go out for groceries once a week as long as I can. We are all in this together--a cliche, but it's especially true now, when we need to be apart.
I also learned this week that my most longstanding magazine client, a publisher I've written for since the 1990s, is folding. They were my second-biggest source of income last year, so it will hurt. But this news came the same day that the Senate advanced the humongous fiscal package that finally gives self-employed people some unemployment protection. I continue to believe, as the Rev. Theodore Parker once said (and Dr. King echoed) that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice. Still, my heart aches for my editor at the magazine.
There's plenty of pain to go around right now. I am grateful I remain healthy and that no one in my inner circle has fallen seriously ill. I am grateful for the conversations I have had this past week with my beloveds. I am grateful I can get out and walk every day. And I am grateful for you, reader. See you next Friday.
P.S. I think we need a song called "Handshake Anxiety" right about now, yes? I am proud to say my daughter is the artist. She recorded this before COVID-19 became a thing. The whole album, released a month ago, is worth a listen. Be well.
After I posted last Friday, I took a 36-hour sabbath from news and social media. It was good for my soul, and I highly recommend it. Originally, I was going to stay offline from sunset Friday through Saturday evening, but I wound up staying away through Sunday morning, when I finally logged back onto the Internet to attend church online. We need rhythms and patterns in life; we're all coming up with new ones these days, aren't we?
Another pattern for me: I have been confining my essential errands to one day a week. I've chosen Thursday, mainly because it's the day when the landscape crew arrives at my apartment complex, high-decibel power tools blazing to wrangle our lawn, trees, and hedges into submission. There's no sense trying to read, write, or think during this time, so I take that as my cue to do the necessary business of reinforcing my grocery supply--and I went to a laundromat, too, figuring it would be cleaner and safer than the unattended laundry room I share with several dozen other apartments.
After the laundry, I drove to my old neighborhood grocery store, a sprawling Fred Meyer. I usually use the self-checkout at this store, but yesterday I stocked up, buying another full two weeks' worth of food and three months' worth of craft beer. (These days, that's two six-packs for me. Everything in moderation, including one IPA a week.) I also wanted to thank the people who are keeping the store open, so I chose an attended line. The shopper in front of me had a mask on. The cashier had gloves.
When it was my turn, the cashier and I exchanged some mild pleasantries as he started ringing up my stuff. I'd heard it was no longer OK to bring my own bags. He said it's allowable, but I'd need to bag my own groceries. Good to know, that makes sense, I said--but I was glad to have him do the bagging of this big-for-me order. I thanked him for working on the front lines. He said he was glad to do it and that he even had a permission slip in case he got stopped on his way to work--but that was unlikely, since he lives around the corner. I used to live just down the block in this neighborhood, too, I said.
No one else was waiting in line, so we chatted even as he finished my order and I paid. He mentioned that his girlfriend is working from home these days, but that she might get a job in Olympia, our state capital, at some point. Well, there are Fred Meyers down there, I said. "But by then, I hope to be a teacher," he told me. What did he want to teach? English. Oh, I said, "I just got back from Mexico. I was down there learning how to teach English as a foreign language." And so on. I'm a writer, I said. He said he is a writer, too, "even if I've never published anything except in my school magazine." Well, that counts, I told him. He thanked me for coming in. "You're welcome and thanks again," I said.
It's a wrenching time for our world, and yet we are actively choosing to connect in ways big and small, mostly via phone and text and Zoom and email and social media, but sometimes in person. I understand why people are ordering grocery and food delivery, having their shipments left on the front porch so there's no contact. But I'll go out for groceries once a week as long as I can. We are all in this together--a cliche, but it's especially true now, when we need to be apart.
I also learned this week that my most longstanding magazine client, a publisher I've written for since the 1990s, is folding. They were my second-biggest source of income last year, so it will hurt. But this news came the same day that the Senate advanced the humongous fiscal package that finally gives self-employed people some unemployment protection. I continue to believe, as the Rev. Theodore Parker once said (and Dr. King echoed) that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice. Still, my heart aches for my editor at the magazine.
There's plenty of pain to go around right now. I am grateful I remain healthy and that no one in my inner circle has fallen seriously ill. I am grateful for the conversations I have had this past week with my beloveds. I am grateful I can get out and walk every day. And I am grateful for you, reader. See you next Friday.
P.S. I think we need a song called "Handshake Anxiety" right about now, yes? I am proud to say my daughter is the artist. She recorded this before COVID-19 became a thing. The whole album, released a month ago, is worth a listen. Be well.
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