Life on the curve

I want you to know I washed my hands before setting them on the keyboard. Don't worry. There may be viruses in your computer but they aren't mine. And you might want to know that before I sat down I took out the trash and picked up my mail and then dutifully cleaned the doorknobs, keys, cupboard handles and my glasses with a disinfectant. So we're good now. Temporarily.

This is not really my thing, all this cleanliness. I have never worried much about germs and though I like a tidy house I admit I'm pretty casual about actual cleanliness (except when cooking). I accept that there are invisible lifeforms living in and on my body and in my vicinity and only trust they are happy. It's not my job to kill every bacteria that comes my way.

On the other hand, I have been self-isolating since the end of February, though Governor Brown didn't issue her six-page "stay home, save lives" order until March 23. It included closure of all parks and recreational facilities, including national parks and trails. Since it's hard to keep Oregonians home when it's 32 and sunny, you can imagine the pent-up exasperation when it's 65. But I digress.

It's easy to be overwhelmed by the instructions and advice coming at us from every direction. I now know how long the virus lives on various surfaces; how many new cases there are; how many times Cuomo has asked Trump for ventilators; how to sew my own mask, and when I need to wear it. I'm told not to eat with my hands—even though I just washed them—but one can't eat potato chips with a fork and really, isn't this carrying things too far?

Who knows? It is indeed a wicked virus and the loss of life is sad and discouraging, and shameful because much of it could have been prevented.

But I am alive and must keep going. Again. So I've labeled this suspension of normality a Respite. A time to look deeply at where I am and what I think, as an individual but also as part of the collective. And I feel an urgency to go deeper, through reading, or meditation, or just sitting and staring out the window: being. This pause is the universe telling us enough is enough. We don't need all these wants, all this worry, all this animosity. Stop. Breathe. And come sit with me in the now for awhile. Because that's really the only thing that matters.

(And wash your hands.)