life

What Covid Has Cost Us

/ momshieb / 8 Comments

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I haven’t written here for weeks.

I lost my voice a while ago. Covid took it, and I had no idea how to get it back.

I’ve been enormously lucky, and I know that. As the United States passes the point of half a million deaths from this terrible new disease, I am one of the few who can say that I have not lost anyone close to me. Yes, my family has been hit by the virus, and we have had our terrified days of wondering how badly our loved ones will suffer, but to date we have not lost a family member.

We are lucky.

I know that.

But as we come closer, day by day, to the end of this seemingly endless stretch of pandemic days, I am ever more aware of all that we have individually and collectively lost. As that faint light at the end of our universal tunnel grows incrementally closer, I find it harder and harder to look away from all that has been stolen from us.

I will turn 65 years old in three short weeks. I’ll be able to get my vaccination, and within six more weeks, I’ll be essentially free of the fear that has gripped the world for the past year.

I can’t wait for that moment. I am truthfully breathless at the thought of being so free, finally, and so able to once again embrace my life.

But this “almost there” feeling has somehow catapulted me right back to the early fears of this terrible global disaster. And I can’t stop thinking of all that we’ve lost, and all that we now have a duty to mourn.

I am so sad tonight.

My heart is breaking at the thought of all the birthdays I didn’t get to celebrate last year. It hurts to think about the weddings that didn’t ever happen, including the wedding of my youngest child to his wonderful, beautiful, much loved partner. I was so ready to dance and laugh and celebrate with them last summer, but it didn’t happen because of Covid.

I cry when I stop to realize that my newest grandchild is approaching a year old, but has never even once been held by the aunts, uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents who love him so much. He is already saying words, crawling around the house and feeding himself, but the people who should know him best have yet to even kiss his forehead.

I dream every night of earlier times. I dream of my now grown sons, and of the feel of their arms around me. Sometimes I dream of them as children, when I could fold them against my body and know that I was keeping them safe. Sometimes I dream of them as men, and how I loved to rest my head against their strong shoulders, knowing that they were happy and strong.

A year.

It’s been an entire year without those hugs. A full year without one shared dinner. Without a single morning of waking up in the same space. It has been 12 long, painful, difficult, exhausting months of wondering what would happen to us next. Week after week after week of Covid data and conflicting news reports and promises of better days.

For an entire year, everyone on this small blue planet has been waiting for some good news. We are united in our uncertainty and we share a common sense of loss.

We miss our lives. We miss driving to work, and having lunch with colleagues. We miss live concerts and dancing together in courtyards and fields. We miss holidays and forced family togetherness. We miss crowding around the table and bumping elbows with cousins. We miss our friends. We miss hugs and kissing cheeks and holding babies and holding hands and holding ourselves together with our shared laughter.

We’re still here. And there is a light at the end of this terrible tunnel. We think that someday all of this may become a memory.

But we need to grieve for now. We need to cry. We need to mourn the births that we were unable to celebrate and the deaths that we could not honor. We need to look at each other, every single human one of us, and we need to let out a cry to the universe about all that we won’t ever be able to regain.

We have lost a year. It won’t come back. There will be no second chance to live these months.

We’re coming up on a year.

And I am just so very very sad.

Looking Over My Shoulder

/ momshieb / 9 Comments

It’s late. The moon is just past full, and stars are peeking between the branches of the leafless trees. It’s cold, but not as cold as it should be in Massachusetts on the last day of the year.

My husband has gone to bed, but I am restless. I haven’t stayed up to see the New Year in a few years. But this year is different.

Everything is different.

This year the ending of the calendar count feels momentous. It feels like rebirth, like renewal. It feels like an ending, and this time it is an ending that we all crave.

I’m wide awake.

I am not sure why I’m so alert; I’ve been in bed by 8PM for months. Snuggled under the blankets with a book or the iPad, ready to rest. Ready to let go of another day in 2020.

But not tonight. No, tonight I am awake. I have a glass of wine, a bowl of popcorn and a dog on each knee. My right foot taps, taps, counting out the seconds. The curtains are drawn, but I feel the moonlight hitting the yard. I stand up, walk to the sliding doors, peer out into the woods.

All is quiet. I hear no owls, no coyotes, no restless neighborhood dogs. Everything is holding its breath. The night is holding its breath, and so am I.

I don’t know what I think will happen at the stroke of midnight. I don’t believe that the sky will fill with bursting light, or that night birds will break into song. I do not foresee a swirl of warm wind stirring up the leaves, or the sound of distant voices singing of freedom and love.

I don’t expect that the dogs, asleep in their canine curls, will feel the change in the universe.

But I will.

I will.

At the very moment when the second hand sweeps past the 12, and the meaningless human invention of the calendar turns to a new year, I will exhale. And I will lean over my knees, with my hands over my eyes. I might shed some tears.

In my heart I’ll say what I’m thinking.

“We did it,” I’ll say. “We made it.” I’ll think of how unbelievably lucky I have been, without having lost a single friend or family member. I’ll send out thanks to the universe for protecting me and mine.

But right after that, I’ll let the rest of my thoughts emerge. I just might open that slider and step out into the night. I might just howl into the darkness, a shriek of rage and frustration. If I do, I’ll be thinking of all of the lost opportunities. All the losses of every child who hasn’t been able to play with a friend. Of every teacher who has had to teach children she’ll never see. I’ll scream for the people who lost the businesses that they built step by step out of their dreams and their courage and their endless work. I’ll cry and shake my fist for everyone I know who has not yet met a grandchild, a nephew, a cousin. For every father or mother who lost a job in spite of every best effort, when the pandemic crashed the economy. For every loving couple who postponed a wedding. For every graduate who missed that chance to “walk” and accept a diploma.

I’ll scream for every friend who has had to say goodbye to a parent, a sibling, a friend, or a child.

I’ll bark and snarl into the wild woods, letting Mother Nature know that I am not amused at her sudden attack.

I know that we are lucky. I know. I thank the goddess, the universe, the powers of heaven, every single day. Every day. I have had my beautiful grandchildren in my arms throughout this terrible year. That makes me lucky beyond anyone else I know. My sister and my mom, both of whom I love beyond words, have survived this awful virus.

And yet.

The last year, the infamous 2020, was a horrific, awful, exhausting shit-show of a year. From the political machinations, to the overt racism, to the incompetent government, it has been a year of disaster. Lost jobs, lost friends, lost classroom time, lost loved ones, lost hugs, lost dreams, lost opportunities. Twenty-twenty was full of loss.

I intend to tell it goodbye. I intend to tell it to go straight to hell, where it belongs.

Another fifty minutes, and I will stand on my deck. I will bang on a pot with a wooden spoon, ring some Tibetan bells and I will yell, most likely at the top of my aging lungs.

“Good fucking riddance, 2020!!!!”

Then I’ll probably cry myself to sleep, out of pure relief.

Athletic Injuries Explained

/ momshieb / 13 Comments

The world is full of people who love to get out there and embrace life. They are hearty, healthy souls who aren’t afraid to take risks. They thrive when they can breathe in the fresh cold air of a challenging ski slope. They are happiest facing whitewater rapids, hiking the steep and rocky slopes of giant mountains or surfing the steepest of waves.

I am not one of those people.

Nuh, uh. Not me.

Nevertheless, I am constantly injured and in pain.

I once broke a bone in my foot by falling off a flip-flop in the wet grass. Not only did I break a metatarsal, I was too faked out to see a doctor. So I walked on it and broke it over and over for six long weeks.

Then there was the time I had to go for an emergency endoscopy after getting a bite of KFC lodged in my throat.

One time a few years ago I was persuaded to go snow tubing by a group of my closest and most beloved friends. Predictably, while they were flying down the hill head first on their bellies, I carefully sat on my big old butt and went down the safest slope. In spite of my best efforts, I managed to break a rib by smacking into a five year old and then ricocheting off the teenaged boy who was there to stop people from flying into little kids.

I am a walking, talking injury report, even though my most athletic undertaking is baking bread.

I mean, I like my life. I want to hold onto it for a while. I like this old body. I try hard not to hurt it.

Even so, here I am, on this bright sunny winter morning, with an ice pack on my face, a hot pack on my back, and cannabis/menthol rub on my elbow.

What happened, you ask? Was I wrestling alligators for fun? Did I participate in a bronco busting event or play tag football with local teens?

Nope, nope and nopie.

The back hurts from holding my eight month old grandson, and lifting him in and out of his crib.

The elbow hurts from…..well….from playing the violin. I played for an hour yesterday. AN HOUR!!!!

And the jaw?

It appears that I dislocated the left side of my jaw while eating eggplant.

No, I am not kidding.

I should explain that I’ve had problems with my jaw for about 50 years. I have “TMJD” or “Temporo-mandibular-joint Dysfunction.” This means that pretty much every time I open and close my mouth the joints in my jaw make an audible “pop” as they slide partly in and out of their sockets. They ache a lot, and once in a while one side locks, meaning that I have to use heat and ice to gradually release it.

Last night I was enjoying a lovely dinner and chatting with my husband when I suddenly felt a sharp pain in the left socket. When I say “sharp pain”, I mean that for a minute there I was pretty sure someone was sticking a red-hot pair of scissors into my face. The pain radiated into my chin, my cheekbone, my left ear and my eyeball.

I dropped my fork and clutched my face.

I thought that it was just one of my usual lockjaw moments. I thought I could just massage it away.

Three hours later, my mouth was still stuck. It was open about a half-inch, but nothing I did would get it any further. I went to bed with a hot pack on my face and a couple of ibuprofen in my belly. Somewhere in the middle of the night I realized that I couldn’t actually close my mouth, either. I could get my front teeth together, but my molars felt like they were on different tracks, with the top set heading east and the bottom heading west.

There will be no steak in my immediate future.

I’m not writing all this to make you feel sorry for me (although if you’d like to send a donation to my ice-cream fund, I won’t turn you down). No, I am writing this because I want you all to understand that there is a very good reason why some of us are not the most athletic people on earth.

I want to share the pain and embarrassment that comes with being a fragile flower. There is a reasonable medical explanation for why people like me spend our days on the couch instead of the ski-slopes.

If I can be injured while walking, can you imagine me trying to skydive? I’m in serious pain and possibly headed to the ER in the middle of a pandemic, all because I was injured while EATING EGGPLANT.

No, thank you. I’d rather pass on riding my bike through the Himalayas.

Be careful out there.

An Ode to 2020

/ momshieb / 6 Comments

In the first month of Covid
2020 gave to me
A shortage of P.P.E.

In the second month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the third month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the fourth month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the fifth month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.



In the sixth month of Covid
2020 gave to me
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the seventh month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.


In the eighth month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the ninth month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Nine glasses fogging
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the tenth month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Ten families Zooming
Nine glasses fogging
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the eleventh month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Eleven schools in lockdown
Ten families Zooming
Nine glasses fogging
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

In the twelfth month of Covid
2020 sent to me
Twelve vaccine trials
Eleven schools in lockdown
Ten families Zooming
Nine glasses fogging
Eight masks a-slipping
Seven Charmins missing
Six feet of distance
Five Murder Hornet Stings!
Four science nerds
Three sanitizers
Two rubber gloves
And a shortage of P.P.E.

Wait, Who Am I Taking for Granted?

/ momshieb / 6 Comments

So you guys sort of know me by now. I’m a nice lady. I love babies and little kids and puppies. I watch shows about unicorns and neighborhood helpers and Scottish Vikings with talking dragons.

I try wicked hard to be appreciative of all the people in my life who are helpful and kind. Thanks, nice grocery store produce guy who always smiles and says hello! So grateful to you, kind stranger who holds the door to the library open for me!

You get the idea.

I work hard to be the kind of person who will have acquaintances come to my funeral just because “She was just such a nice lady!”

But the pandemic has made my efforts to be nice and grateful ever more challenging.

In the first place, I’ve hardly ventured out of this house since March. Sure, I go to the local grocery store, the pharmacy and the (cough, cough) liquor store. But I haven’t been in a position to tip a waitress for months. I haven’t been mingling with strangers or chatting with people I meet around town.

It’s hard to stay tuned in to everyone around me as my circle continues to shrink.

Today I realized that there are people who appear in my life every day, but whom I hardly ever acknowledge.

I’m talking about you, dear beloved local small town mail carrier!!!! In our case, the mail carrier is a woman who leaves doggie treats in the mailbox. She knows the names of all of the dogs and all of the kids on our entire side of town. She is so warm and friendly that my grandkids sometimes use old boxes to play “Laura Brings a Package”!

I used to think I was appropriately thankful for Laura. But now?

Oh, my dears. We are in pandemic mode. We are staying home. We are staying safe.

We are happily embracing the perfect excuse to sit on the couch and order stuff online. I mean, sure, I used to sit on the couch and order online before this whole pandemic thing, but I used to pay at least a little attention to the weight of what I ordered. And to the frequency. And the cost.

Way back in the BC era (before Covid, obvs) I used to feel slightly guilty as I’d click “place order”. I thought that I was a bit too lazy, a bit too entitled, a bit too privileged, if you know what I mean. I’d feel mildly embarrassed as Laura unloaded my small-to-medium-sized packages. And I’d thank her, wave to her, talk to her face-to-face.. Those were the days.

Now things are different.

In the first place, I have shed every semblance of guilt associated with online ordering. Back then I was a lazy old wench. Now? I’m a forward thinking, neighbor protecting, smart woman.

And I have embraced the “no touch” delivery, too. So when my dear friend the mail carrier comes by, I usually let her drop the goodies on our porch. I don’t go out to greet her even though I enjoy chatting with her about music and life and politics and pets. I stay safe in my house. On my couch. With a cup of tea in my hand. Because….Covid.

But yesterday I realized that things have changed. I became aware of the fact that I have officially become an ignorant, selfish old bat who totally takes other people for granted.

I learned this ten minutes after Laura dropped off our “mail” on the doorstep. As she drove up, I relaxed, ignored the delivery, finished what I was doing. Then I casually strolled down the steps and opened the door.

And HOLY FREAKIN’ HEAVY. There was a box the size of a Volkswagon on my porch. And three more packages on top of it.

I was able to bring the top box inside the door, but I had to use both arms to lift the second box and then, after a minute, the one under it. By the time I had brought all three boxes upstairs into my living room, my arms, neck and shoulders were aching. I looked at the giant box outside my door. I tapped it. I pushed it. I tried to rock it back and forth.

I gave up.

It weighed roughly 698,350,287,650,001,293 pounds.

And I’m not exaggerating.

When my young, strong, healthy daughter arrived at my house, the two of us managed to wrestle the giant box into the front door. It only took us about an hour.

We used scissors to get the box open.

Oh, my goodness, hahahahaha! Look at that, I said out loud. Two 25 pound bags of birdseed!

Hahahahahaha.

Yeah.

Awesome for the birds. More awesome for me.

NOT so awesome for Laura, the wonderful, kind, hard working mail carrier who I now take totally for granted.

So.

Here I am. Looking for some advice.

What’s a really good Christmas gift for the person who has delivered ten badillion pounds of boxes to Nonni’s house, just so that Nonni won’t have to step out the door?

Anyone?

Figuring Out How Time Flies

/ momshieb / 2 Comments

They say that times goes faster with every year. It’s as if the reward for surviving a year on earth is to make you ever more aware of how little time you have left.

I remember being a young child, and the way that each season took on its own lifetime. Winter was endless repetitions of snowfall, sliding down snow mounds and frozen toes. Every school day contained an entire lifetime of social interactions, moments of boredom and waiting for the bell of freedom to ring at last.

Why did time move at such an oozing, ponderous pace?

And why does it race by now? Why does it seem like summer has hardly come when the leaves start to turn?

I don’t know. I don’t have any unique philosophical response for you.

But I do have a theory.

I think time seems to be racing by for adults because we have so damn many reminders of it hitting us on the head.

We wake up to an alarm, reminding us that the night just flew by while we were tossing and turning and trying to keep the ice pack on our elbow. We head for the coffee maker and realize that it’s time, again, to take our morning medicine.

Just looking at the weekly medicine dispenser is a reminder that another day has ticked off our lifetime. Every Saturday, we’re reminded by the empty slots in that dispenser that ANOTHER week is over, even though we swear we just filled this stupid thing like yesterday.

It’s the same when we hear the sound of the trash collector’s truck, and remember that it’s TRASH DAY again. AGAIN!!! Didn’t we just put the barrels back in the garage last night??

As if the hourly, daily and weekly reminders are enough, the bills remind us of the passing of every damn month, too. What? The mortgage is due already? Didn’t November just start? How is it fall already?

Am I ready for Christmas???

Little kids don’t note the passage of time because they don’t have to. They wake up for the most part when they are done sleeping. They eat when they’re hungry or when a meal magically appears in front of them.

A school year is 180 days of the exact same routine. Week after week after week, PE is on Friday at 10. Repeat that enough times when you are little, and it becomes as much a part of your life rhythms as your heartbeat.

But when you grow up, a school year if filled with things to remember. Open house, gym shoes day, drum lesson day, football practice season, vacations. The repetition of the year is filled with concrete reminders of its passing.

Jobs, bills, medical appointments, getting the snow tires put on, they all serve as reminders of time’s passage. The gentle spinning of earth isn’t a smooth and endless flow for adults, as it for kids.

Instead, it’s a furious train filled with deadlines, hurtling past us every minute of every hour of every single day. It’s filled with reminders that we need to hurry, that today is over, that autumn is waning, that our lives are one season or one hour shorter.

Wouldn’t it be great to be able to slow that down and go back to savoring the endless days and weeks of summer vacation? I’d like to be able to do that.

Even if it meant forgetting to put out the trash once in a while.

Image : “Clock” by bigpresh is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Wishing You the Happiest Possible Thanksgiving

/ momshieb / 4 Comments

Well, it won’t be our usual Thanksgiving this year, that’s for damn sure. We won’t gather in our house, surrounded by 30 or 35 of our favorite relatives and friends. There won’t be a 25 pound turkey with ten different side dishes. I am not anticipating 7 pies and a cake, plus boxes of chocolates, two delicious vegan appetizers and three kinds of bread.

It won’t be a full day of beloved faces moving in and out of our kitchen. We won’t be celebrating for two full days.

But.

Here we are.

It’s Thanksgiving 2020.

The election is (sort of) over. The weather is turning (sort of) colder. And the damned Coronavirus is raging across the globe.

We are all tired. We are sick to death of “social distancing”. We are angry. We are sad. We are lonely.

We want to gather our children, our siblings and parents and friends and uncles and aunts and cousins and everyone. We want to hold them all against our hearts and tell them that we are so very grateful to have them in our lives. We want to feed them. We want to argue over football and politics and favorite pies. We want to laugh at the whipped cream on our nephew’s nose.

But this is 2020.

Instead of cooking for 35 this year, I’ll be celebrating the holiday with my Mom, my younger sister and my mother’s home health aide.

My Mom is 90. She is physically more frail than I ever thought I’d see. She has dementia, and is hanging on desperately to her most beloved memories. Time with her is a sorrow and a joy all rolled into one. Her children feel every moment ticking away. And we feel the pull of her happy past, tugging at our hearts as we think of all of the holidays past.

My sister is my closest woman friend. She is my anchor. My rudder. She keeps me balanced and whole. She makes me laugh out loud. She takes me on vacation, shares her memories with me, pushes me to look outside of my own preconceptions.

And Mom’s health aide, Lynn, is a woman I am so blessed to have met. She is intelligent, kind, thoughtful, confident, fun. My Mother loves and respects her in a way that is a gift to me. This new friend brings a unique perspective to our family. She has only known Mom as the elderly, fragile, but still feisty woman that she is now. She is able to embrace and accept Mom for all of her strengths.

So.

This Thanksgiving will, for me, be more about gratitude than any that has come before it.

I will miss my children this holiday. I will miss my grandchildren. I will miss the crazy cooking frenzy that usually precedes the day and I will surely miss the crowd of well-loved faces around my table.

But I will be so grateful this year. I will be so grateful that my sons will share a meal with each other. That my daughter and her family will celebrate together and will all be healthy. I will be so happy that my husband will be at their table for the holiday.

Mostly, I will be grateful that my family is still safe and healthy. I will be eternally grateful to still have my Mom in my life, and to be able to make her famous stuffing in her kitchen. I’ll be grateful to have my sister at the table, and to be able to put on party hats and sing her “Happy Birthday”.

I’ll be so very grateful to know Lynn, to have her on our team, to know that Mom trusts her and loves her.

So.

Happy, sad, gentle and lonely Thanksgiving to everyone. This is one year in a century. It is one for the history books.

It can be our saddest.

Or it can be out most grateful.

I’m working hard to embrace the latter.

It’s All About Perspective

/ momshieb / 7 Comments

One of my greatest joys as a mother has been the way that I am constantly learning from my children.

As adults, my children have helped me to broaden my views in so many ways. They’ve challenged me to look beyond my own “echo chamber” and to recognize the validity of other viewpoints.

One of my sons, in particular, has been consistent in his gentle reminders to take other people’s perspectives into account when I form my many opinions. Whether the topic is politics or family dynamics, he has reminded me more than once that my idea of the facts is only my own personal perspective. The other person’s views are based on the way that they experienced the same events; their perspective is valid, so their opinions are valid.

While these ideas have made me uncomfortable more than once, and annoyed quite a few times, I treasure their honesty. I treasure the fact that they have helped me to keep my mind at least a little bit open as I move through this complex life.

Tonight I am thinking of that son. He is on my mind, and in my heart, because thirty years ago tonight, I was working very hard to bring him into this world.

I’m thinking about his birthday from the perspective of a mother. At the same time, I know that he is experiencing the same day from the perspective of a young man.

I think about the night of his birth. I think of my fear that I wouldn’t be able to deliver him safely. I think about my pain, and my hopes and the overwhelming love that I felt for him before he had ever drawn a breath.

For me, this night is a time to reflect on the sweet, careful, thoughtful little boy who filled my heart with his tenderness. I think back on his first smiles, his first steps, his raspy little voice and his wide green eyes. I remember, as if it had been only yesterday, how his absolute beauty took my breath away.

I remember the rigid and righteous boy who saw the world in black and white. The stubborn child who was the only one of my three with enough dug in determination to wait out any mother’s ultimatum.

For me, this birthday is a reminder of all of his birthdays; every party, every game, every sleepover with the boys in the backyard.

Mostly, this birthday is my celebration of the kind, smart, articulate man that grew out of that night of labor. This is my sending up of gratitude to the heavens for having put our son in our lives.

But perspective is everything.

I am well aware of the fact that while I remember the feeling of my baby in my arms, my son is looking back on the first part of his life. I am aware that this birthday is mostly likely a look back, an assessment, and a kind of measuring of where he has come in life thus far.

I suspect that this birthday is, for him, equal parts happy memory and sadness at lost opportunities. I suspect that it is a time to regroup and plan the next steps on his journey.

Perspective is everything.

Tonight I sit on my deck, looking at the darkening sky. I think about how much my love for my children has grown with every passing year. I wish that somehow I could show my son just how much I still love him, and how grateful I am for him.

Happy Birthday, honey.

I love you more than my next breath.

Gratitude in a Time of Crisis

/ momshieb / 13 Comments

“dragonfly” by davedehetre is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Like all of you, I am living in the strangest and most stressful of times. Like you, I am dealing with all of the sadness, worry and fear that has come with the Covid-19 global pandemic.

I am afraid of getting sick and dying. I am afraid of passing on this terrible sickness to my 90 year old mother, and to my newborn grandson.

I am worried about the collapsing economy, and about all of those I know and love who suddenly find themselves without jobs. I worry about the trauma of having done everything right, from completing college to getting a decent job, to paying back student loans, and yet having it all fall apart because of a microbe that none of us can see.

I am sad about the people I can’t hug. My sons, my siblings, my friends. I miss the contact. I miss the support. I miss the feeling of being loved.

But even in the midst of all of this, I know that I am incredibly blessed. I know it, and I am trying to hold on to that awareness.

In March, when the world shut down and all of us huddled in our respective nests, I was grateful to have a spouse whose company I treasure. I was grateful for our house, for the safety of our three kids, for the fact that his job could continue from home.

In April and May, I was grateful that my daughter and her family live only a half a mile away, and are part of our “quaranteam”. I was so thankful to be able to see them and hold them and be a part of their Covid life.

In June I was grateful for my big yard, and the chance to grow some food. I was grateful for the fact that I live in a place where farms and farmstands and local markets abound.

But July came around, and I found myself tired of the stress, worried about the worry, anxious about the future. My daughter is a teacher, and I am scared to death of her return to the classroom. My sons have jobs that have them interacting with the public, and I am so afraid of them getting sick.

I am worried about my 90 year old Mom, and about my siblings who help to care for her. I am worried about my little granddaughter, who won’t be going to kindergarten in September after all.

It is getting harder every day to stay grateful.

But sometimes there is a moment of grace, and we are forced to see how lucky we are.

At 64 years old, it isn’t surprising that I have developed a set of cataracts. My eye doctor told me a year ago that I should think about having them removed “in a year”.

But in early February I realized that I couldn’t see to drive at night. I realized that my vision was getting more and more murky, and so I made an appointment to go back to the doctor.

He checked my vision and told me with a bit of surprise that my vision was deteriorating much faster than he’d anticipated. We made an appointment to have my cataracts removed in late March.

But, alas, Covid arrived and elective surgery went away.

So I waited. My vision grew foggier and grayer, and driving even in the light of day became a challenge.

And here is my moment of gratitude.

Last week, at last, I had my right eye repaired. The cataract was removed and a new lens was put in place. The vision in my right eye went from 20/80 to 20/25 in an hour.

Last night I sat on our deck, watching the sun set and feeling the breeze. I laid my head back against the deck chair, and looked up.

Far overhead, whizzing along like a rocket, I saw a dragonfly. He swooped and dove and sped off over my rooftop.

And I could see him.

I held my breath, and let the tears flow down.

“I can see you,” I whispered. Another dragonfly sped past, and then another.

We are still living in a time of danger and sadness. But I am suddenly so grateful.

I can look up. I can see a dragonfly.

I am more than blessed, and I am determined to remember that.

Self-Care in the US, July 2020

/ momshieb / 9 Comments

It is so hot today. The air is dense and wet. Sweat is dripping down my spine, making me feel achy and tired.

Paul and I decide in the mid-afternoon to give ourselves a break. We drive across town to our local state park, stopping in the nearly empty lot, leaving our glasses and our wallets in the car.

There are two families swimming in the tiny roped off “safe area” of the pond. The air smells of pine resin and wood smoke, drifting from the little campground across the pond.

I drop my towel on the gritty sand. I shed my shorts and sweaty tee-shirt. My glasses land on the pile. I draw in one deep resonant breath.

I am in the water, well past the ropes. I am on my back, my arms and legs loose and boneless around me. The water surrounds my face like the cowl of a nun.

With water in my ears, I can’t hear the world. I can’t hear the angry yells or the complaints or the demands. I am deaf to everything except the beating of my own heart. I listen to the silence. My body relaxes.

I lie with my vision limited to a circle right above me. Smooth blue sky. Silky blue. Two small puffed clouds. Nothing else. I let my eyes relax, I let them stop trying to focus.

I drift.

Afloat on the gentlest of currents, my arms are floating at my sides. The top of the water is warm. Liquid sunlight fills my palms. An inch lower, and that same current brings water so cold that my bone marrows thickens.

I swirl my hands and my arms through the green water of the pond. Warm, cold, sunlight and ice. I cannot hear the world, I cannot see the world.

But I feel the earth around me. I smell the trees and the mud and the tiny green frogs that jump out of the grass. A dragonfly lands on my forehead, decides that I am neither flower nor insect, and bursts away across the top of the water.

I float. The sun hits my skin.

I am carried by the water, and for the first time in weeks, I feel no pain. My joints are loose, my muscles free. No part of me catches or clutches or aches.

I float. The breeze brushes my lashes.

Here in this tiny pond, in this small American town, I am free. I am neither too much nor too little. I am none of the things that pull on my mind and my heart. I am not needed, or depended upon, or subject to anybody’s judgment.

Here in this cool/warm sunkissed water, I am only one more floating organism, drifting on the current, touched by the sky, held up by mother nature for no particular reason.

Here in this silken green water, I don’t have to think about the left or the right or the virus or the stock market. Here in the arms of this water spirit, I am not fighting or struggling or arguing or trying to change the world.

Right now, in this small pond, in this small town, I am only a woman taking a break from the heat and the worry and the world.

This is self care. This is how I can take care of me.

I hope that you have all found a similar way to turn off this human mess and embrace the real world around us.