singing

Yesterday evening I texted my friend to see how things were in her neck of the woods.  We discussed family issues and I folded my 10 cranes (Day 3 of The100DayProject.)  Then she sent a link to Richard Thompson's Facebook concert and I listened to that while I finished the cranes and knitted 8 rows of the 3rd swatch (another project, using up the stash.)  I thought about all the ways people are dealing with isolation.  Musicians and restauranteers have it the worst, I think:  their livelihood depends on social gatherings.  I winced in sympathy as Thompson peered at the screen and said, "thank you, thank you very much" at the end of each song.  Hearing no applause, talking to no one, playing for himself, but trying to give a living room concert nonetheless.  "This is weird," he said, and launched into another song.

It's Easter weekend and Alexander Lingus shared some Holy Week music, courtesy of the Capella Romana archives.  I listened a bit to those as well and thought how forced but sincere these efforts are.  Patrick Stewart is reading a sonnet a day.  The Royal Amsterdam orchesra produced a zoom performance of Ode to Joy that brought me to tears.  Friends from my Portland symphony played Bach:  a little stilted and without dynamic nuance, but they were all doing their best, listening to the principal violinist's part through headphones, recording with varieties of technology.  I think, maybe I should try a Zoom rehearsal with my family or my friends.  And then I think about the sheer effort of pulling together the technology.  I can't even get Mom to clear out her tablet cache so she can unfreeze the screen and order groceries through Instacart.  I have to do it for her.

Still, I am ahead of the curve here.  I am comfortable with virtual connections;  that's how I have been keeping in touch for the last several years, ever since I moved to New Mexico, in fact.  My community is far flung, and my gregarious spirit is grateful for the possibilities offered by the ether.

A year ago, when I was very lonely, I listened to bird song and thought "sumer is a cumen in."  Dad used to say that, and years ago I finally learned the tune and the words.  My musical friend M taught it to me one day as we drove....where?  I can't recall.  Into the Gorge for a hike?  Down to Eugene for a concert?  It was someplace out of town, because we had plenty of time to learn the round.  But, I have had no one to sing it with since then.  M is in Portland, dealing with her increasingly debilitating MS. 

I meant to visit her last fall when I was in town and ran into her husband.  He has bought the Sovereign Gallery, down by the Heathman Hotel.  It was owned by a friend who sold him many paintings back in the day. M and her husband hooked me up with that former gallery owner, a tall blonde man with a handsome Scandihovian face and engaging manners.  We went to a CNW concert by Joseph Silverman, who performed all 6 Bach unaccompanied sonatas, playing beautifullyl by memory.  I still remember sitting in the cramped cafeteria at Reed: this was before the concerts moved to Kaul Audidtorium.  It was sweaty summer evening.  The area by the stage was filled with cushions.  Limber younger folk lounged on them while the rest of us sat bolt upright in tiered circles.  I think that was my olnly date with the gallery owner. But the music was gorgeous.

Anyway, it was long ago, and I am alone, unable to share or make music in any but virtual ways. So, last year I set up my cell phone recorder and sang "Sumer is a cumen in," several times until I had a round.  I shared it then and I'm sharing it now.  Some day, I'll find someone, or several someones, and we'll sing it again.

There are so many memories of sharing music.  I visited T years ago, in Oneonta NY.  His sister was getting married, but the family welcomed me into their home and celebration.  They had a huge New England style home, with an impressive front staircase and a narrow back servant's staircase.  There was wood everywhere, paintings, books, beautiful fabrics.  It was a home, not a showcase, and all the rooms were filled with activity.  It was a musical family, so his mother asked the women who were there for the wedding to sing Jerusalem while she played piano.  It was a thrilling sound, all those gorgeous female voices. The next day, for the processional, we all sang "come follow..."  Years later, when my family was at the beach celebrating our parent's 50th anniversary, I taught it to my nephew and sisters as we sat around a smoky beach fire toasting marshmallows and listening to the waves.  Years later still, E and I sang it together as we drove into Santa Fe.  We also sang "White coral bells," which brought my mind back to the summer drives up to Minnesota when I was very young.  We'd be crammed into the Buick Station wagon, passing the time with singing:  "White Coral Bells," "Barges," and, bizarrely, "Gaylord," an advertising jingle for a stuffed mechanical dog.  (That song surfaced when we drove through the town of Gaylord. My sisters still remember it.)

I think I'll always want to sing, even when my voice is cracked with age, even when I'm isolated.  But singing in the shower or on an empty trail does not bring the same joy of singing rounds around the campfire or driving through the prairie.  And creating virtual music is a poor substitute for the resonance of music shared with others.

From nomad to hermit

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.