Blursday

Saturday morning. Blursday morning. These days the days and weeks have a weird sameness. Shorn from their usual geographic reference points they blend together. Many of us no longer traveling to work or to see family around the country or even going out to diner for breakfast and coffee with a friend. My meetings have no specific place, they simply appear, one after another on the computer screen. My days and weeks have no specific place, they mostly happen here. And, now that it’s winter, here is pretty much inside—in these rooms where I live that are now more familiar to me than every before.

The new normal is not moving around too much—not consorting with human beings like we used to. We are told we must carefully keep our distance and stay safely beyond the point of contact. Invisible enemies surround us, now killing nearly 4,000 of us Americans per day. We must be constantly on alert. We have to stay away from each other. Our situation is beyond serious and yet some of us can still not comprehend the danger enough to wear masks, wash our hands and stay safely distanced.

This time is hard for us all.

The vaccine is here, but the coordinated roll-out will not apparently begin to begin until January 20 when a new administration is formally sworn in. The lies and rumors spread by the outgoing administration, including a number of ongoing Congressional Republicans, have created a culture of paranoia and disregard for basic science and the hard-won wisdom of our public health officials.

But I don’t want to go all political again this morning. I’m tired of writing and considering and wondering about the current state of our democracy. I’m tired of being outraged. (At this point, I notice the urge to list all the things I am outraged about. But, alert to my own part in disturbing myself, I choose, this morning to walk down another path. I’m taking an outrage break. Enough for the moment.)

So bleary eyes in the dark this morning. Cold January rain falls outside. The gutter company scaled the Temple building two weeks ago during one of our thaws and cleaned out the gutters, so the water that was spilling noisily over the roof edge above my window now quietly follows the gutter to the silent downspout.

Recently I’ve been singing ‘Itsy-bitsy Spider’ to my grandson on Zoom. For those of you who don’t know, it’s a dramatic song with gestures for little ones. A spider of diminutive proportions bravely ascends the water spout only to encounter a reversal of fortunes when the rain water sends him back to where he was before. But there’s a happy ending as the brave spider is heartened by the reappearance of the sun and sets out once again on their perpetual task.

Itsy-bitsy spider went up the water spout.
Down came the rain and washed the spider out.
Out came the sun and dried up all the rain,
Then the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again.

Though the functioning of zoom and the reality of people on the other side does not appear to fully make sense to my grandson as he approaches his second birthday, he seemed to recognize the song and be curious about the hand gestures his Nana and I were making as we tried to make virtual connection. But the puzzling thing to me, was that when the sun comes up, the gesture he made was covering his eyes (with his cute little hands) rather than spreading his arms to be the reappearing sun.

I’m wondering if he is perhaps being taught an alternative version at nursery school. The correct version of the gestures encourages identification with the sun—manifesting self as the whole world. Apparently there is a heretical version circulating where you are supposed to respond as if you were there and the sun was bright in your eyes. This is clearly an inferior interpretation that not only encourages separation from the world around us but also leads to smaller gestures and diminished engagement.

But, I suppose this rainy morning, it’s all academic. Any spiders that had been safely playing and living in the non-functioning downspouts of the Temple with no need to climb back after every rain, are now fully washed out. It’s still dark, but the rain continues and there will be no visible sun this morning to dry up all the rain. We’ll be wet for the day.

So this wet day is all we have.  Cars pass on Pleasant Street as per usual. The pandemic rages and drags on. Democracy holds for the moment. My pleasantly mild oolong tea is now cold in my cup. Time to cease and desist with the complaints and speculation. Time to make my bed, fold the clean laundry that has been patiently waiting in a pile on the floor and climb up the waterspout of this new day.