Last week at this time I was on a road trip to photograph desert wildflowers. I was roaming among Saguaro cacti while woodpeckers shrieked at me to GO AWAY. I was chasing rainbows en route to the perfect sunset site. I was stepping in and out of the car as I pursued shadows and rocks. And I was watching the news reports for information about the pandemic. Saturday morning, as we departed Tucson en route to parks in northern Arizona, I read B an essay that did the math regarding the exponential spread of pandemics and the subsequent health care overload. The writer said that self-quarantines are inevitable, and that it is better to do so sooner rather than later. We decided he was right and changed our route, reaching my home the following night. B took off the next morning. I drove the eerily traffic-free highway to the Apple store, because my chargers had stopped working the day before. The outdoor shopping center was empty of people, other than one policeman, who sat on an ornamental boulder and talked into his radio, and a greybeard, who nodded to me as he passed at the correct social distance. The Apple store was filled with dark blue T-shirted 20-something employees who were watching the doors. Two young women opened the door to tell me that the store was closed. I thought, huh? and the earnest young thing explained that they were just there to tell customers that they were closed. I thought again, huh? and explained that my phone was not working and asked if it was possible for someone inside to look at it. She said, no, but they had a service number I could call. I said, that's nice, but MY PHONE DOES NOT WORK. She said, so, you don't want the number?
Sigh.
I next drove to Walmart. One solitary woman wearing blue nitrile gloves manned the electronics desk. She spent several minutes on the 4 people ahead of me, even though the transactions seemed simple enough. While they were out of white vinegar, they did have Apple chargers and I bought two. In 2 minutes I was again connected to the world. I then drove to the clay studio, hoping they would at least have someone to let me get my clay. They are actually open for business: their concession to the pandemic is to supply sanitizer stations and forgive the fees for people who decide to not attend classes. I spent the rest of the day glazing my bisque-ware and then gathered up my supplies for the duration. My plan is to set up a studio on the deck and do work from home. But the weather has been rainy and windy and cold since then, so I only put in a few hours yesterday before being driven inside. I don't want to scatter clay dust in someone else's home, so I'll have to await better weather.
I reached out to my peeps, many of whom are musicians, teachers, and service industry workers. They all seem okay for the time being. A stock market crash will be a problem for retirees (including me), but there's nothing to do about it. I guess I need to reconsider my online tutoring gig, which I have been avoiding for the past several months.
The stories I've received range from my brother's rather hilarious diatribe about gluten to my friend's plans to delve deeply into personal dark places to my cousin's warning about NSAIDs and concern about a probable home birth. Some have been suffering from seasonal allergies and colds and wonder if
they have the virus: only testing can determine that. Everyone agrees that, while we have plenty to occupy ourselves at home, it feels claustrophobic because we are forced into solitude. Businesses are closed, gatherings and concerts are canceled, and most activities have gone virtual. Everyone seems to be reasonably well supplied with sanitizing products and food staples, which is fortunate because so many products have been raided and not replaced. Happily, coffee and chocolate are still well-stocked. I guess they truly are luxuries, not worthy of stockpiling. I scratch my head over the empty white potato bins, when sweet potatoes remain available. I kick myself for not replenishing the white vinegar before the trip.
There are plenty of stories to tell. There are many statistics to digest. There are many poems to write and philosophical musings to ponder. And yet, I can't find it in myself to do any of that. I can't even point fingers or rage at revisionist history (Trumpists claim that he was forecasting
today's reality, when in reality he was saying "there's no crisis, we
are beating this, it will all go away when the weather improves.") In fact, I don't know what I think about this. I don't know if we are over-reacting or under-reacting. I do lean towards a dull sort of pessimism. I don't believe that our human nature will allow us to take away lessons of community. I don't think we will engage upon global care for the planet. It is no comfort that previous pandemics have not killed off the human race, that previous recessions and depressions have not destroyed our countries, and that these sorts of crises are cyclical. In fact, I can't think big picture thoughts. My fears focus on the purely personal: will my family and friends be okay? Will my income continue? Will my necessary drugs be available? My conclusions are vague: probably, but who knows? The world will continue, but individuals I care about may not.
B says we need a plague to reduce population. Neither of us are worried about our deaths, per se. I know some people would be sad if I were no more, but my main worry is about the potential pain of the process, not the final result. I don't know if I believe in an afterlife or reincarnation or the end of self. I don't think it matters what I believe, just as I don't think it matters what I do in this crisis. Free-floating anxiety is my response to imminent global catastrophe. Somehow, it seems too mild a reaction.
And, of course, I think about my reactions to this crisis. I've spent close to three years as a nomad. That was a reaction to the 2016 election. It worked for me, although recently I have been pondering revising that lifestyle and establishing a home base. However, outward exploration and travel have remained firmly in my plans. Now, overnight, I've been transformed into a hermit. Or rather, to a recluse. It was not my choice, but my response to the change is still under my control. I'd like to be a hermit rather than a mere unwilling recluse, but that requires a force of character and a firmness of belief that I do not possess. How DOES one live a life of contemplation? How does one reach internally for personal growth and understanding? How does one personally and positively impact the world from seclusion? How does one change a shallow, pleasure-loving, outgoing lifestyle and become deep, quiet, and filled with inner light?
I remember a line in Peter S. Beagle's A Fine and Private Place: "You have to be very deep to be dead, he thought, and I'm not. He began to have some concept of forever, and his mind shivered..."
I too am not deep, I too shiver at the future. I've never been good at inner exploration. I use meditation to resolve
insomnia or anxiety. I use crafts to pass the time. I am not drawn to
projects that require prep, practise, or energy. While I can take this time and make it productive and even enjoyable, while I can reach out to others to give and receive support, while I can find ways to exercise and take care of myself, I don't see myself in anything but a holding pattern.
The ghost in A Fine and Private place tries to escape death and actually succeeds, in a way. He makes a life out of death by falling in love with another ghost. Love is apparently the answer for Peter S. Beagle. But is it for me? Can love help me become a hermit? Do I want it to? Probably not. But I do think that I must find a path. It seems that this enforced seclusion is the next step in my Third Act. I will probably have to redefine myself every few years when physical, financial, and global forces act upon me. Goals will become more short term and subject to change. (Perhaps they always were). It would be nice to find a way to be involved in the process. Although a sense of control is illusory, it would be comforting to have it.
For now, all I know is the self-centered reality: I am no longer a nomad. From herding cats, I have retreated to hoarding caches.
No comments:
Post a Comment