Shelter-in-Place end of Day 1

I found myself almost not writing this post, and it's only the second day in a row that I'd intended to log this forced social distancing we're all experiencing. Not much of a streak if you can't go more than one day in a row.

Mornings are better for writing, I've found. I managed to spend some time at it before noon, and even mid-day. Primarily finishing some notes on poems from my critique group. I assiduously worked on that rather than working on a clunky poem or two I'm trying to write. I also took a break in the early afternoon to go on a dog walk with a friend. We were fairly compliant - air hugs, stayed a few feet apart, bumped elbows to say good-bye. Later, I worked on the garden until the rain drove me in. Then I made dinner for the family and lost myself to episodes of The Office on Netflix. How many of us are binge watching things as an escape between news stories?

The recorded numbers from Johns Hopkins right now:
218,814 confirmed cases
8,810 deaths
84,113 recovered

In California, I watched the deaths jump from 4 to 6 to 8 to 16 over the last few days. The figures will get worse, maybe even much worse, before they get better. But for now, stores still have lots of groceries (although, inexplicably, no potatoes and not much iodized salt). People are fairly mellow, the streets are quiet, and I think about the unexpected blessings that can come from difficulties.

A poem has been making the rounds, delivered into my inbox through Larry Robinson of Rumi's Caravan fame. It also apparently showed up on the Nextdoor app. It's by the poet and minister Lynn Ungar, and it is a message of hope and encouragement posted on her website 3/11/20.


Pandemic

What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.

And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love–
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.

And here's a picture from today's walk. I think it's Ranunculus calfornicus, the California buttercup. Not the best shot, but they were a pretty burst of color at our feet.