I haven't posted on this blog in two years. It began as a blog to catalog my 2007 academic sabbatical in France, then grew into a travel blog of a sort. Sometimes I'd post about my musings, but most of the time I felt my ordinary days weren't really worth chronicling unless I was hiking every day in Sedona,
or visiting a Nevada AAA hotel that was once a mining camp.
But now it's the season of celebration (Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year) coinciding with Covid-19 isolation. How quaint, last February, when I prepared for a state-wide shut down by buying six weeks of beans, rice, dogfood, cat food, and cooking broth. How naive to think that six weeks of isolation would somehow fix a global catastrophe. And then six weeks turned into six months, then ten.
I am lucky that by nature I'm an introvert, and am pretty good at being alone. I like watching movies and don't miss sports teams. I've lived alone all my adult life. But it's taken some pretty active meditation on being grateful for small things and a lot of self-care to give myself permission to feel my personal alienation and despair and to somehow live with the ghastliness of more than a quarter of a million Americans dead.
One of my first bad days was last February when a dear friend of mine and his partner delivered "Quarentreats" to my door. At first, I didn't even recognize them behind their masks. I stood behind my glass storm door and waved as they backed up my driveway and then was consumed with wracking sobs because I couldn't hug them. I wanted so much to hug them. It's become my Covid mantra, of a sort.
I was pretty okay in the summer and the fall. I had two dear friends move to Cleveland from New York, and they both had already suffered through Covid. They rented a house with a big front porch and a back yard barbecue space. So our little pod shared outdoor meals during the summer and had a semblance of human contact, though always six feet apart. I wanted so much to hug them.
My birthday is July 5th. My usual birthday ritual is to pamper myself with a pedicure and go out to a really great restaurant for dinner, maybe sharing that meal with a friend. I like to watch fireworks on the 4th because they've always felt part of my birthday celebration. Last July 4th was the day before my 60th birthday. I was feeling sorry for myself that I was forced to spend it alone, and couldn't do my normal birthday rituals. I finally knocked myself upside the head and told myself to do something to make myself feel better. I called my pod friends and they came and sat on my patio with me. We shared wine and stories, and they brought me home-made ice cream.
As it happened, my backyard neighbor had secured some professional quality fireworks, so we were regaled with a spectacular private fireworks show. It was one of my favorite moments of the Covid shutdown-- I started the day feeling sorry for myself, decided to change my narrative, was gifted with friends visiting, and received an unasked birthday surprise of a night sky illuminated with light. A fair metaphor for the day.
Last fall was relatively warm, so my pod friends and I were able to walk once a week in Cleveland's marvelous Metroparks. I was teaching three remote classes and was feeling pretty good about the outcomes-- last spring's anxious crash course in Zoom and everything virtual had transposed into a feeling of competence with the new medium. But the students were needy and anxious, and trying to be present for them took a toll on me. I was glad for the Thanksgiving break to finally arrive.
Usually, I spend Thanksgiving at my friend Sue's house, sharing the holiday with her large extended family at her beautiful home that has lots of spaces for indoor and outdoor gathering. She invited me to come this year, with the added caveat: "I wouldn't come if I were you." I did not. I had a pretty lovely Thanksgiving alone in my house.
I shared extra food with friends in town. My girlfriend Andrea and I decided to make two of the same recipes for Thanksgiving and communed throughout the day by texting about preparing them. I wanted so much to hug her.
Then my 91-year-old father got Covid and was hospitalized. He hung in through it and was released back to his care facility. But he lost his appetite, regained a fever, and was hospitalized again for sepsis. He's still there. At one point I talked with his nurse and she held the phone up to his ear. I told him I loved him and he replied that he was looking forward to seeing me soon. If only that were so. I want so much to hug him.
Last week I had a pre-Christmas walk with one of my pod friends. We talked about my fears for my father and the ever-present anxiety I endure. As we ended our walk, he asked simply, "can I break protocol and give you a hug?" I nodded. We hugged, masked-up, heads not facing each other for fear of our own breath. I sobbed. It was the first physical contact I'd had in 10 months.
And now, Christmas. The 24th was beautiful, with a lake-effect snowfall and an afternoon listening to carols and preparing Christmas dinner.
I watched several renditions of A Christmas Carol on television, and even though I can probably recite it by heart, I am still in awe of its tale of divine intervention and simple transformation. My friend Ben played Christmas elf and left a bag of lovely small presents hanging on my side door latch. One of my nieces sent me a beautiful and fragrant flower arrangement.
My sister sent me a warm hug in the shape of a green fleece robe. I have been alone today, but have not felt lonely. I have a lovely meal to make shortly. And tonight my family is sharing a zoom call.
I want so much to hug all of you.
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