covid-19 diaries, 4

The signs are everywhere; spring is here.

Easter has come and gone. The trees in my parents’ backyard are beginning to sprout leaves. Bees gather around the budding flowers. Hummingbirds hover picking at whatever it is they look for. The weather warms. The days are getting longer.

Virus or not, life moves forward. There really is no such thing as rest, no such thing as pause.

I realize this means that it is already halfway through April.

One of the (many) running jokes right now is that everyone has lived through multiple decades, including March of 2020.

The joke’s corollary is that March might have felt like a decade, but it feels like only three days have passed and suddenly April is already almost over.

I love to dwell on the nature of time because it genuinely fascinates me.

Whenever we encounter something new, something incredibly jarring, we expend so much brain power trying to figure it out, what to do, how to survive it, that time feels like it slows to a crawl. This was true when I first encountered my life as a backpacker with no home. It was true when I first came home to figure out how to be a caregiver to my folks. It was true only one month ago.

But like all of those things, including now, we figure out a routine, we figure out what normal looks like, and then time just starts to flow and pass. Maybe that’s what our brains want, to not have to spend all our time and energy on how to survive so we can do other things. This has benefits, like less stress. But it also means sometimes we start to go on autopilot.

I count myself lucky, knowing that I can begin to go on autopilot. There are folks out there who are—whether because of the state of the world, or otherwise in their lives—struggling to figure out how to survive, how to feed their families, how to pay their rent, how—and if, their bodies can handle covid-19 or any of the other billion life-threatening illnesses they or their loved ones might have. It’s not like cancer has gone up and suddenly disappeared.

I keep this in mind as I go about my days, whether I stay at home, or whether I go out, and when I do go out, I choose to pay attention, close attention.

I go to the grocery store, and I think it’s funny the things that people buy, and the things they don’t. I check the frozen section and all the frozen vegetables are gone (which in itself, is funny because this is usually never the case). There are two exceptions: frozen peas, and frozen asparagus. I feel bad for the two. Even in crisis, nobody wants both.

I buy the peas.

I go and buy some beer from two local brewery shops. I don’t drink very much by myself, but I like these businesses and I want to support them.

“How are you guys doing?” I ask them, and I make sure to ask it in a serious way.

I ask because I miss the social interaction, but I also ask because I’m genuinely curious.

I decide to ask this to basically every business I visit, and every person I actually get to engage with.

The answers vary.

We’re okay. Business is good from a wholesale perspective, but it’s tough for the bartenders. A mediocre wave of the hand. We’re getting by.

There’s one answer that is surprisingly consistent, though: “Thank you for your support.”

They say this, also in a serious way, like they really mean it. Perhaps one or two of them is saying this just to get me to come back. Regardless, these are the times in which we live.

At least once, there’s a tip jar, with a sign that explicitly states that all the tips will be given and split among the workers who don’t have a job right now. I leave what cash I do have.

I read an interview with one of my favorite authors who challenges the statement of people who say “I just want things to go back to normal.”

To paraphrase, his rebuke is that the only people who want to return to the status quo are the ones who benefit from the status quo.

I’ll play double-devil’s advocate, and say I agree with that sentiment and that the world should look different when this battle between our society and this coronavirus passes, but I’ll also defend those who say they want the world to “go back to normal.” Because I think what those people really mean, is that they want us to have a vaccine, to be able to go back to work, to be able to move on, and not necessarily to go back to the things they were specifically.

And slowly, the world is beginning to move on.

Some businesses re-open, with different delivery models.

Philz Coffee is one of those. I add it to my routine.

I check my favorite Coffee Shop, and it is still closed.

Costco has stayed open, but operates with a queue to get in, and is filled with this air of anxiety once you do get in. Suddenly, I feel light-headed, fatigued, lung-compressed, and other psychosomatic symptoms and I wonder if I’m dying immediately surrounded by all these people, even though my brain tells me that this is impossible.

I literally run into somebody, and we’re both like ‘oh my god it’s somebody I know how are you let’s be social and talk!’ but also hey let’s keep our distance here.

I wonder how this whole experience will ‘scar’ our various generations, so to speak. I discuss this with a friend (over Zoom, obviously). Will more films go immediately to on-demand and streaming services. Will sports return, without fans in stadiums (and will sports stars turn to social media sites even more so fans feel connected). Will our physical social cues change and will judging people by how the form of their handshake become a thing of the past.

I also wonder if anything will really change. We all seem to have short memory spans these days. The financial crisis 2008 seems so far away. 9/11 feels like a lifetime ago. Even my mom’s death sometimes feels like it was forever ago, and sometimes I feel like I wonder if it really happened.

Time is weird that way.

Because spring is already here. I choose to enjoy what I can, to not over adapt and live life on autopilot. I choose to notice and enjoy and remember the new things about each day, to look for places where I can still help others, to hold that tension of joy for myself and pain for others, the reverse, and all the other various possible combinations, even as the world normalizes, whatever that might mean or look like.

Because if I’m not careful, I will miss spring. And then summer will be here, before any of us knows it.