Change is Swift(s)

May 17, 2020

I should have known I was inviting trouble with that last post. Things aren’t as sunny here today, in any sense of the word. It started two days ago with the announcement that a local theater group will not open their proverbial doors this year.

As with all closures, protecting the health of everyone involved is the imperative here. I would never question such a decision. But, like the loss of our cafe with its gorgeous patio, this one delivered a sting. Theater was just about the last “normal” thing I could rely on to get me through the summer. (I don’t think I’m alone in this, either: if the group had required guests to cover themselves in plastic wrap before seeing a play, there would have been a run on my local Piggly Wiggly.)

Better luck next year, I guess. With summer drawing closer, I’ve moved from dread and uncertainty to grief at the loss of my best-laid plans. While it’s exciting to dream up a new way of life, I can’t help but compare it to what might have been. This comes with being a member of a social species.

And yet, new traditions — new bright spots — are popping up all around me. For the past two nights, I’ve joined a friend at dusk to watch the gathering of chimney swifts. They swirl around in seeming chaos, then zoom into a chimney at some unheard signal. It’s a simple but hypnotic event. I found I was content just to sit there, smack in the middle of my town, smelling the river as darkness descended.

In all honesty, I might never have taken time to watch the swifts if my calendar hadn’t been so clear. I would have been too busy seeing plays.

Roaring Twenties

May 14, 2020

After a chilly week that included several late frosts, the sun’s warmth (if not the sun) has returned. It’s fitting, as I have just emerged from what felt like a week-long sleepwalk. On both the weather front and the Grace front, May is looking pretty good all of a sudden.

Why? Not only is my financial situation better than expected, but I’m also applying for an exciting new job. I might even have a shot at this one. Not only am I enjoying my daily routine, but I also get to do some out-of-the-ordinary things like helping my mom move to a new place. Not only have I taken some great little drives through the country, but I’m also getting out and using my feet to visit my state’s natural wonders. I can’t get enough of the delicate colors of springtime leaves.

It has reached the point where I sometimes forget what’s taking place in the world at large. Pandemic? Huh?

To top it all off, yesterday I made a triumphant return to my favorite coffee shop. It looks different (taking away all the furniture will do that), but the rhythm is the same. Just seeing the illuminated “open” sign made my heart soar. This place is my second home, and I typically stop in a few times per week. It was pure joy to be back after two months away.

I suppose there’s not much that won’t look different after this. But I can’t know the future, so I’ll try not to fret over it. Yes, the pandemic is very real — but so is spring. Here is an extended opportunity for me to “stop and smell the flowers”. I might not even need to take off my mask.

This One Hurts

May 5, 2020

Though I rarely look at my calendar nowadays, I can still sense when the weekend has come around.  The neighbors tending their lawns outside my window are visibly relaxed.  In the park a few blocks away, cyclists and dog walkers and fishermen are out in force.  The park, which borders the Wisconsin River, is large enough that each group gets its own socially distant segment of shore.

The weather this past weekend was almost painfully gorgeous.  When I wasn’t outside, I threw open the windows of my house so I could pretend I was.  In the absence of cafes with patios, it was the best possible compromise.

Our small community has been feeling that absence a little harder lately. Last week, the owners of a beloved local establishment announced that it is closing for good. My heart goes out to the supporters of the business as well as its employees.  I know I’m not the only one in these parts feeling like a dear friend has been lost.

The crown jewel of this particular cafe was a multi-tiered patio overlooking the river.  Because of this feature, the place has held a mythical status for me since my childhood.  Before the pandemic set in I was eating there several times per month.  And if I didn’t bring friends along with me, I usually ran into some.  It was a pleasure every time.

I had the superb experience of biking there one wide-open Sunday in July of 2018.  I rewarded myself with iced coffee on the patio as the river slid by below.  It was the best seat for miles in any direction.  I always told myself I would do that again someday. For the next few months, at least, I’ll have to make do with nature’s patio of grass and sand.

It’s a loss that is somehow tempered by knowing I have a community to mourn with. All those hungry families, corporate workers with lunch breaks, and friends looking to catch up on local gossip are missing the place too. I’ve probably encountered some of them in the park, searching for that same feeling of closeness to the water. We all watch the ducks and pelicans (at a distance from the birds and one another). We’re all living in this uncertain time, and we all hope that brighter times are yet to come.

Thumbs Up

April 29, 2020

On Monday afternoon, while visiting my mom, I managed to slam my car door onto my thumb. It hurt badly and looked even worse. But when the initial shock had subsided, what I mostly felt was embarrassment. In the midst of a societal slowdown, I could have avoided an injury if I’d only been in less of a hurry.

It was a timely reminder that accidents happen even to people in good health. In the days since, I’ve just been thankful that my injury was a minor one. I didn’t need to see a doctor and risk exposure to the Dreaded Virus. I also have a new appreciation for everything our primate thumbs help us with in daily life. All told, the ordeal was an excuse to relax a little more in a time when relaxing is the order of the day.

Our mandated social isolation has gone on for six weeks — or is it seven? I’m not sure how to interpret that fact, as it seems likely that there are many weeks yet to come. I could look at my calendar and note the events I had scheduled for this week. All of them are un-Zoomable, and were therefore cancelled.

I’m not the only one operating blindly. Most of us want to know more about this pandemic , but we don’t. We don’t even know when we’ll know. Meantime, I’ll stick with what I do know a thing or two about: my mom, who helped nurse my sore thumb (I now understand where that famous expression comes from); my friends, who send good wishes from afar; books that fill the time and inspire me; and coffee, of course. With all this to my name, I should be able to tackle anything when I return to work. Whenever that is. 👍

Standstill

April 25, 2020

In “things I should be doing” news, today would have been the annual Ice Age Trail conference. What have I done today? Not much. I have a daily routine, but it’s nothing profound — and even that falls by the wayside sometimes. As an illustration, the highlight of my day was making and drinking a particularly good cup of coffee.

Whether overcaffeinated, overtired, or both, I’ve fallen short of the meager goals I set for myself today. I did get to enjoy reading some letters, responses to the flood of cards I’ve sent out. One was from the friend who would have attended that conference with me. More than anything else lately, these letters are weapons against the darkest parts of social isolation. They’re a tangible reminder that I have people out there who care for me.

Besides the letters and my blog, I haven’t put much creative work out into the world since all this started. I’m not getting much out of it, either: I haven’t taken advantage of the wealth of free online concerts, lessons, and so forth. I am simply existing. I can’t give a reason or tell if this is the right approach to these strange times. But it’s my approach, at least for now.

What I’m trying to say is that, if the world ever gets back on course, I hope I don’t look back on this era with disappointment. It may be that I accomplish something extraordinary between now and May 26. If so, I’ll be pleased. But I hope I can avoid kicking myself for not doing more. (Admittedly, I scored in the 27th percentile for “industriousness” in a personality test earlier this year.) 

Maybe I sorely needed this time to relax, to reëvaluate, and to just be myself. After all, doing isn’t always the point.

Mostly Sunny

April 21, 2020

Momentary panic aside, the last week or so has felt like a dream to me. I say “dream” not only in the surreal sense, but in the sense that I’m leading the kind of life I have always hoped for.

I’ve gotten used to the rhythms of my new town. I know how many people I’m likely to encounter on a walk in the park, and which streets are empty of cars (the ones that don’t lead to the grocery or hardware stores). The adjustment has been so easy that I feel as if I’ve always lived here. It’s not even unusual for me to go several hours without remembering there’s a pandemic on.

I couldn’t help but remember the other night, though, after I took a drive through another downtown. This is a place stuffed with as much culture as can possibly fit in a small Wisconsin village. I’ve spent my share of time and money there on beautiful spring days like this one. But that evening as I passed through, I found it completely deserted. I felt shock and disappointment not unlike what I experienced when I lived up north and we’d get blizzards in late May.

Confronted once again with our historic crisis, I was reminded of the need for action. Adjusting to my new routine is the very least I can do to protect my friends and family. And to all of you in your own new routines and smaller spheres of movement: thank you. By giving up some of your old ways, you are protecting the community of which you are a part.

Love to you all, until we meet again.

The End of the Beginning

April 16, 2020 (better late than never)

Staying in, as I’ve come to realize, is a necessary task that keeps us all “safer at home”.  But there’s a part of my brain that insists on treating it like a game, Mary Poppins-style.  How long can I go without encountering another person? How many nutritional meals can I create with only the food in my house?  For the first time in weeks, I feel confident in my ability to make it through.

I’ve assigned myself a few jobs, all fun: blogging, working through my reading list, starting a modest garden.  I’m writing and mailing cards to one or two friends each day. (If you were to read all these notes, you’d see them growing sappier in proportion to my positive attitude.)  And thanks in no small part to the federal government, I am financially stable. So why not walk down to the river to sit among the geese, glorying in the sunshine?

Then I learn that Governor Evers has extended his Safer-at-Home Order until May 26.

When the news arrives on my phone, I re-read it in case I misunderstood. I didn’t: Wisconsinites must tack another month on to the half month we still had left. While the concept isn’t new to me, I think I must have been in denial. Until the official announcement, there was still the small, absurd possibility that everything would resume on May the first. Now finality — and with it reality — has set in.

Let me be clear: I don’t dispute the need for aggressive social distancing (what a phrase!). But I’m grateful for my newfound positivity, as I suspect I’m going to need it.

Disenchanted April

April 12, 2020

A stroll through the misty and deserted streets of my new town was just what I needed this Easter morning.  It’s no substitute, though, for everything else I should be doing this time of year. My not-to-do list has quickly become a want-to-do list.

I’ll admit that there are perks to the homebound life.  But my own life was already fairly homebound pre-pandemic.  I’ve come to rely on a few key social events for my sense of connection.  Now I find myself staring down months of isolation with dread. The warmer weather both tempers this feeling and adds to it: could I even imagine a summer without outdoor concerts, art fairs, or bonfire parties? I’m not sure. I certainly don’t want to.

I might look forward to such a change of pace if I had chosen it for myself. I love walking, biking, watching the river, reading, making crafts, and tidying my apartment — when I don’t have to. This is the same restlessness I used to feel early in the summer, when I was cut off from the familiar structure of school. Despite the name, too much “free time” can be daunting.

I will try to take each day as it comes. If I set my own structure and (reasonable) expectations, this could be a rewarding time for me. In the end — and I never thought I’d have to type or even think this sentence — Queen Elizabeth is right: we will see one another again. Or, as someone in the social-media-sphere recently put it, “April Distance Brings May Existence.” I won’t hold my breath for a normal summer; normal is overrated anyway.

Change of Address

April 8, 2020

The man in his garden was right.  Life does go on amid all this darkness.  Last week, my life took me to a new apartment about twenty minutes’ drive from my childhood home.

I can’t remember why I was in such a hurry to move – all that packing and driving and arranging just so I could sit alone in a different room.  The new place feels right, though. Last night’s pink-tinted moon rising over the bluffs that line the Wisconsin River was one small reminder of this.  There’s also the very big reminder to be thankful that I haven’t caught COVID-19.

With that in mind, as I sit watching the rain and sipping coffee (my home coffee-brewing skills will definitely improve as a result of all this), I want for nothing.  All is well in my corner of the world.

It’s tempting to think of this period as one giant vacation.  But that would be unfair at best to my friends and relatives classified as essential employees.  My newfound leisure time stems from a dire need for social isolation. That’s another reason I love my new place: I can choose from any number of hiking spots and barely even see another person.  I’ve certainly hiked and biked my share since I arrived.

Still, I like to think I’m keeping the goal in mind.  I know there may come a time when I will need to stay indoors, no exceptions (or at least show off how stylish I look in a mask).  As I wrap up this process of switching homes, I’m understanding more and more that it’s the staying home that counts.

New Growth

March 26, 2020

It’s getting crowded out there.  I don’t mean the roads: even the main highway through town has taken on an eerie post-apocalyptic quality.  Gone are those hordes of what I like to call “sun worshippers”, commuters who head east to Madison in the morning and west at night.

The foot traffic by the creek, however, is noticeably heavier.  I used to have the place to myself. Now I pass joggers, dog walkers, and families of all sizes (keeping six feet away, of course). Some of them look determined, like they’re starting an exercise regimen. Others were likely driven outside through sheer boredom.  I couldn’t be happier to see people taking walks, but I wish they would spread out a little.

Travel one block north or south of the creek, and you’re in a ghost town.  Clearly some families have shut themselves in. I imagine I’m being watched out of every window.  On my walk last night, despite the mild weather, hardly a soul tinkered in their garage or mowed their lawn.

One exception was an older couple puttering around their garden.  The woman waved, her face hidden by shrubbery. The man gestured to where a few green shoots poked through the leaf litter at his feet.

“There’ll still be life after this,” he announced to me.  I wasn’t sure if “this” meant winter, COVID-19, or something else.

“I hope so.” I sounded gloomier than I’d intended.

He was right, though.  Spring isn’t going anywhere — and neither, apparently, are we.  Seeing the two neighbors inspecting their turf reminded me of the projects I hope to start during this time. Start them I will, but I don’t plan on rushing. If that cleaning project takes longer than usual, or if I tack twenty minutes onto my nightly walk by the creek, so be it. It’ll still get done and (I wager) I’ll enjoy the process a little more. Then I’ll do it all again the next day. Slowly.