Spring 2020

04/03/2020

The daffodils are smiling and hyacinth perfume envelops me as I step outside. The backdrop is green and magnolia buds swell with anticipation. I can feel the roots stirring and the energy of awakening, of life, is in the air. I tip my face upward to absorb the warmth of the sun and feel the joy of spring. Wardrobes shift into pastel and light colors and communities come together in church, in Easter egg hunts, and for family dinners. There is a happiness that comes with Easter and sunshine and baby chicks. Spring is dressed in hope and possibility.

I step outside and I see this.

I see life blooming and smell the sweet aroma. My eyes recognize this and my soul is ready to jump in, but this dystopia is deceptive to say the least. A sad feeling of dread settles in as I know that none of these things will happen this spring; no church, no egg hunts, no family gatherings. Neighbors make small talk from the safe distance of their own driveways and we all wonder in silence if the other could be contaminated.

This alternate reality feels much like an episode of 24 with biological warfare underway and the enemy is everywhere with the superpower of invisibility. I sometimes feel like Sandra Bullock in Bird Box, only instead of navigating without seeing, I try to maneuver any necessary public exposure without breathing. Each time one of us needs to go out into the world for essentials or work, I wonder if the enemy will enter our safe space upon their return. Is it hiding on a piece of mail? Or on a UPS delivery box as they come in waves so that we can avoid the dangers of leaving?

This is like a terrifying movie; a bad lottery.

The numbers of dead from Covid 19 rise daily: 429 in NYC  in 24 hours yesterday. Our numbers rise in CT and the victims are no longer a collection of elderly, as we lost a six- week-old baby this week.  The stories in the news erode my confidence that this will pass us by. A 30 year-old healthy athlete in NJ died in his bed after being sent home from the hospital. This is now a numbers game and drawing the short straw is random.

SCSU where I attended college and Cadence is now a student has morphed into a satellite hospital; the dorms housing medical staff so they can try to keep away from their own families and the sports arena converted into a 250 bed treatment facility for Covid19 patients. It is not the type of hospital we think of in first world countries.  No, this is a sea of cots lined in neat rows; each with a chair bedside it and a bag of bedding atop. No bathrooms. No walls. Just rows of cots ready for the collateral damage of this war. The only weapon we have is to separate ourselves from one another. We keep six feet away in public places and give “air hugs” over Facetime calls instead of snuggling with grandchildren.

I vacillate between these realities. Between the news of death and the life of spring. I am trying to limit my exposure, not only to the virus that waits everywhere, but to the news that erodes the joy of life.

People made proclamations on New Year’s Day this 2020 dappled with puns about “seeing clearly” and this being the year of “perfect vision.” I was among them and felt that this year would be a turning point. I guess this has been a self-fulfilling prophecy. I do believe that we are meant to see something clearly; that we are meant to learn something through all of this.

I watched a video from NYC this morning.  At 7:00 pm, every night, New Yorkers applaud and cheer out of the endless rows of windows for the medical workers and first responders. These stories are everywhere; families in Italy singing from their balconies amid the confinement and loss. I see neighborhoods in West Harford CT performing “One Day More” from Les Miserables in unison while sequestered in their own spaces. I see stories in my community of people reaching out to help others; buying gift cards from restaurants to keep them afloat and donating them to the families of nurses and doctors. I see people sewing face masks by the hundreds to donate to those unprotected on the front lines.  

Acts of generosity, of kindness, of love. We may wear masks, but troubled times expose our true identities and we can see what lies in the souls of others.  We are meant to care for one another and we need to hold tight to our humanity, even from six feet away.

Tomorrow I will pick up three baby chicks from a local farm and remind myself that God is good and new life is happening all around. They will symbolize hope for me and the joy that comes with spring.

Even with this spring.