Not everything is lost

Not everything is lost. There is a tenderness when people come close on the street, a little embarrassed nod toward each other saying, “You know why I’m stepping away from you, into the gutter, into the gravel of the parkway”. At normal times we wouldn’t even see each other. Now, staying apart, we appeal to each other to understand. To acknowledge that we know this new reality – it isn’t that I don’t like you but I have to step away and avoid you.

A shared sense of purpose, then, breaking through the miasma of individuality. We are being fragile together. In ridiculous bandanas that only the most cliched cowboy would wear. Even that looks familiar now. Where’s my pop-gun when I need it?

Part of my fragility is that I staked a claim about this being serious early. Amy said she thought I was overreacting. My family was surprised when I told them we were under self-quarantine on March 2. So, weirdly, I have a stake in being right. When I heard about a Bishop in Virginia who refused to shut his church down and then died of the virus I wrestled with my smarmy thoughts: “That will show him…See? We who believe in science told you so…What’s the matter with you? You put all your parishioners in jeopardy.” What’s wrong with me? I’m so busy being right, and righteous about being right, I have lost my compassion.

I know acting strange is part of this. A friend says she was talking to a bunch of girlfriends and one thing they had in common was eating more bread. Lots more bread. Another friend still isn’t sure this is happening and doesn’t see why all the precautions are necessary. Our President is trying to shut down the US Post Office just as we depend on it for increased package delivery. The animals have taken back spaces we occupy: coyotes roam the freeways, bears lumber between the tents in Yosemite, bobcats take naps on sunny, quiet blacktops. For the first time in several generations the people of India can see the Himalayan mountains.

And then there is the not-so-strange. Battered boxes of Scrabble are unearthed and set up. Chairs are dragged around the old card table and a new generation learns the complexities of Texas holdem. Candles light the dinner table. We openly share our gratitude for ice in our drink, food on our table, lights in our kitchens. Such moments, such feelings, have to mix-it-up with worry and loss and dislocation. It is easy to lose our bearings: I look for my phone while it is in my hand, or hunt for the glasses that are on my head. I forget what day it is. But maybe this is as it should be: who cares what day it is if we let homeless people rot in our cities? What is a little forgetfulness compared to the gigantic abandonment of common decency? I include myself among the guilty: in my imagined peril I felt a smug satisfaction about being right when Bishop Glenn died. I have been infected with the greater pandemic of our time: loss of kindness and goodwill.