Dispatches From the Home Front #7

It feels like the world has exploded this week, doesn’t it? I watch and read and listen, my eyes filled with tears, my stomach clenched in disbelief and fear at so much injustice, anger, and hatred. Folks have been sitting on a powder keg all year - the pandemic, the job losses, the quarantine - and it has erupted. It is at times like this that my small attempts to say something meaningful seem useless at best and narcissistic at worst.

But what good does it do to let these emotions eat me up inside until I become another embittered, angry person? So many days I feel like I’m already there. Last night my stomach churned, my vision blurred. I spent some time lying on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, literally physically sick with all of it.

Because this is not just MY world. This is my son’s world. My grandson’s world. It’s the world of all the young people I’ve watched grow up in the schools where I’ve worked, and it’s the world of their children. My heart hurts and fears for them at the same time it soars with pride as I see them rise up and take on the mantle of hope and change.

Dispatches From the Home Front, #6

We had a bitterly cold weekend here in Michigan. Despite the beautiful greenery bursting out on the trees in our community and the deep green carpet of spring grass, there were snowflakes in the air even as the sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky.

Sometimes this week it has felt like the entire world was turned upside down and gone just plain crazy.

Dispatches From the Home Front, #5

Today begins our eighth week of personal self-isolation. The Michigan state mandated Stay Home orders came about a week later. Anyhow, it’s been two months or so of this “new reality,” a term I’ve begun to prefer over “new normal” because I don’t believe this is “normal” in any sustainable way.

We are seeing a decrease of COVID cases here in Michigan – it’s nowhere near contained, but the daily explosion of new cases and corresponding deaths is slowing down. It’s apparent that closing so many businesses, schools, and other public places has contributed the desired effect. The Governor has begun to ease some of the most stringent of restrictions – landscaping companies are now back to work, as evidenced by the barrage of mowers, saws, blowers, and weed whackers that descended on our back yard at 7:45 this morning. (In the rain, I might add.)

I’m grateful they’re out doing this work, keeping our community looking neat and nice. But. Oh. My. The noise – especially after eight weeks of almost preternatural quiet – sets my teeth on edge. I have retreated to the creative cave in the basement where I plan to stay until they’re gone.

Dispatches From the Home Front, #4

I was talking with my friend the other day, a 78-year old retired music teacher and theater director. “Silly me,” she said, “I thought I knew everything there was to know about people, including myself, but during all this I keep learning something new everyday!”

So do I. This week I learned how much I need to be in charge of my pantry.

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Dispatches from the Home Front (#3)

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Four weeks ago today we began our personal “shelter in place,” with the state mandates following suit within a few days.

This is the week I’m calling the “A” week. Acquiescence. Acceptance. Assimilation.

I realize just how deeply physical distancing has become ingrained in my psyche when I mentally scold actors in TV programs for gathering in groups. Or when the characters in the novels I’m reading take trips, go shopping, or meet for dinner, I pause, puzzled.