We received word a few hours ago that the county is to shelter-in-place until April 7th, the seventh bay area county to do so since the novel coronavirus (which research told me yesterday is named SARS-CoV-2) started to really dig in enough for even the POTUS to pay attention.
With the opportunity to spend three weeks at home, not working, not traveling, I am both extremely grateful and hopeful that I will use the time well, and at the same time I'm cognizant of the difficult circumstances that have brought us to this point - circumstances that for some have been, or will be, fatal.
I know I am not the only person walking around the county, the country, even the world, with R.E.M.'s "The End of the World as We Know It" running through my head like a constant low-volume soundtrack. This is a defining point in history. It is not the first viral threat to humanity, and it will certainly not be the last. But I can't remember the word "pandemic" being used before in my lifetime like this. We are united in our concern. As a world. We watch the numbers rise and fall, and we fight to keep the charts from spiking in the U.S. as they have elsewhere, like Italy, where no amount of accordion playing from one balcony to another can offset the grim reality of too many bodies stacking up to be buried.
It's very, very easy to feel as though we are stepping into the backstory of a novel of dystopian fiction. And at any rate, I am compelled to write. What else to do with the time I'll have? (Although a list has already been forming in my mind: go through paperwork, inventory the house, plant the vegetable garden, weed belongings inside and unwanted plants outside, hike, submit writing, lift weights, watch that yoga video, play games with the family...) But top of the list? When I think of beginning as I mean to go on? Write. And then write some more.
This is pre-day-one of the shelter-in-place. What strange times we live in.
Photo courtesy of the CDC:
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