Remembering How

Dusting off my debit card, I insert it in the slot below the keypad and wait to be told what to do next.

“Enter PIN”.

My brain begins the internal scanning process through the stacks of saved login codes, passwords and other access data stored in what I know is an overloaded hippocampus.

Nothing.

I keep sifting, hovering my left hand over the buttons on the reader’s keypad, hoping that some muscle memory will kick in to get me out of this one. The woman six feet behind me in line shifts her weight impatiently onto her other leg and tightens her grip on the handles of the basket holding her soup cans and salsa. Still nothing. I hit the red “cancel/override” key and the transaction moves forward. Mastercard doesn’t always allow this, so I’m grateful and eager to get out of there and on my way.

It was an emergency that led me into a retail setting for the first time in eight months (the details don’t matter, but I will say that it was sociologically interesting to find the laxatives section nearly cleaned out in a rural dollar store. Must be something in the water we’re drinking ‘round here, or the pandemic’s impact has moved some of our neighbors in this tiny community to a different level…or will eventually “move” them. I’m trying to be delicate here). For the lion’s share of these past thirteen months, Patrick has been our household’s canary in the coalmine, running errands, masking up and stepping across diverse retail thresholds to fetch the item or two we forgot to add to our curbside order. I’ve been tending the home fires with a limited orbit to and from the office one day a week, not taking on the burden of talking through fabric and plexiglass barriers to buy a can of crushed tomatoes or vodka. I’m not accustomed to the new way of doing business from a physical and logistics perspective. “Weird” doesn’t begin to articulate it.

But on that Saturday morning, forced back into the face-to-face consumer dynamic, I was playing out a scene from “Awakenings” with a modified plot twist that sent my mind reeling in the direction of a post-lockdown reality. What else have I forgotten how to do and be in the company of others? We don’t shake hands or lick our thumbs to turn a page in a book or leave the house without our vanilla-scented hand sanitizer for after we’ve touched a door handle. I’m sure I’ll be just awful at re-engaging. You should know that I tend to learn life’s most important lessons in the presence of strangers and have come to keep an apology of some sort rehearsed and ready to go in my pocket. That strategy has kept most of my interactions with others pleasant or at least civil. But in what new ways will I test their patience when I self-release back into the wild of a more communal existence? I can’t be the only one who feels a bit rusty on the basics of social convention. Right? (uh-oh…crickets).

I’ve leaned heavily on those once-weekly office-based contacts with my coworkers, though we rarely see each other, spending the bulk of our workdays behind the closed doors of our respective offices. We venture out to use the restroom, retrieve copies from the printer and maybe get hot water from the common kitchen area. Other than that, we’re compartmentalized bees in a sparsely populated hive. When we do meet, making eye contact is required rather than preferred as we’ve all learned to shift the bulk of our nonverbals to above the mask line. I pour as much expression as I can into that narrow strip of facial space and still feel my lips shaping into familiar expressions of surprise or disgust or concern. Remember when we didn’t have to work that hard to be understood? Will our mouths move the way they always have when we can at last reveal our faces in full to one another? When was the last time you effectively wrinkled your nose to emphasize disapproval or when registering an unpleasant odor without having to put words behind it? The meaning in a raised eyebrow still lands well, thank heaven, and brings the message home with it. So, I won’t have to re-learn everything.

I’ve got one dose of Pfizer’s best making tracks through my immune system and have almost taken to crossing off the days till the second one. Wednesday, April 21 has been marked as my own Pandemic Independence Day (the two week anniversary of that second shot) and comes with a list of “hey, not so fast” recommendations for navigating my way back into a physically gathered society. After all the effort I put into making those cloth masks, I’m still rather invested in wearing them until…until it’s even safer not to. I am willing to embrace more than a bit of awkward engagement as that orbit of mine gradually widens to include my fellow human beings in public settings. Soon, maybe I’ll be the one to pick up the pizza after work, walk right in and up to the counter with that debit card of mine, hoping that override key works. Patrick has more than earned a break.

Of course, some of you have been circulating throughout this strange time far more than I have and I’m grateful for your nonjudgmental acceptance of my experience. Can we continue to be kind and patient with one another during the next iteration of our shared pandemic adjustment period? I sense that collectively we’re sitting on a submerged mountain of unaddressed anxiety, delayed grieving, frustration and who knows what other unfinished business. To be real, we’ve probably been managing that for the better part of our adult lifetimes, but…not like this. Not with this much volume and intensity. I think of the families in our hospice care who visited through glass and didn’t get to hold their loved one’s hands in those final moments of living. Remote graduation ceremonies and weddings, pushing the pause button on so many life events that hinged on being together and laughing in one place. Hugging and touching the people in our lives with unscheduled and unencumbered regularity. For many of us, it will be strange and wonderful and bittersweet to move forward. Remember…kindness.

Yesterday, in the cool bright sun of a most-anticipated day, my sister-in-law Molly and I watched as fully-vaccinated Patrick hugged his fully-vaccinated mom for the first time in thirteen months. Joanne is a nearly a foot shorter than he, and she folded right into his broad chest as if no time had passed at all. No awkward engagement, just blessed reunion and a sneak preview for Molly and me of what awaits when that second dose gives us the green light into a different but familiar world.

I may not remember my debit card’s PIN number anytime soon, but I will certainly know how to throw my arms open for that first-in-a-long-time hug. The rest will take care of itself in time.

Getting Ready

Strong southwestern winds from Arizona and Utah made their way across the Kansas plains and rearranged the lawn furniture in the sitting area behind the house yesterday before pushing east to sway the dangling birdfeeders in the suburban yards of Pittsburgh and Vermont. Our cushion-less chairs tipped over, coming to rest in the leavings of last summer’s mulch, waiting for me to right them again. I thanked the sky for a reason to move my limbs and the ground below for holding me fast.

Just yesterday, in a pass around the west side of the house, I saw the tightly-packed leaves of this year’s daffodils standing hopeful and eager to please in their gravel-topped bed below the kitchen window. I swear to you, they hadn’t been up a few hours earlier. Now I’ll keep an eye out for the singular red-streaked yellow parrot tulip that grows on the steep hill above the meadow—she’s in there somewhere, I know. And who turned loose the flocks of wrens and redwing blackbirds and one magnificent pileated woodpecker knocking on the bark of a fallen black walnut down by the bridge? Two days ago, cardinals and tiny black-capped chickadees and laughing crows were the main event, as they have been for the past three months. When the shadow of a blue heron’s wingspan fully stretched out in flight slides across the still-brown grass and the hypnotic cheerful droning of hidden chorus frogs in the creek pulls you forward in a walking trance, you know that winter is getting ready to close the door behind itself (please, don’t slam it…) and leave you to revel wildly in this next season’s affairs. In an unexpected “not to be left out” moment, two of the three indoor Christmas cacti have each produced three blooms. I’m surrounded by the miracles of life.

Spring does this every time, and I chuckle inwardly at my fresh amazement. The crocuses and first bright green tips of wild garlic chives, the sun’s glowing generosity at both ends of the day, the trees along the ridge looking forward to getting dressed soon—all of it surprises me even though I’ve collected nearly sixty of these seasons in my bones (it’s so inspiring that in the middle of writing this reflection, I got up off the couch to make a batch of strawberry coconut almond birthday cake granola, assembled and in the oven in less than 20 minutes. Want some? Message me and we’ll work it out).

After the year we’ve had, individually and in common, this spring feels deeply and forever different from the others. I am wide awake in a technicolor dream (anyone else out there dream in color?) cherishing each view, my eyes stinging with grateful tears that I’m still here and survivor guilt tears that I’m, well, still here while others’ eyes uncomfortably register the empty chair at the table. Late last week, I’d just hung up after scheduling my two vaccine appointments (I don’t need to specify which vaccine now, do I?) and cued up on YouTube The Lion King’s opening “Circle of Life”, a hymn to all things sacred. I didn’t make it past the first refrain before I was sobbing at my home office desk in a face-drenched storm of release and mourning. This too is spring in all it’s glory—cleansing rains to wash away winter’s untended sorrows and repurpose them as life-giving tonic for every new leaf and sprout that calls this place home (It’s probably best that I ration my viewing of the fully vaccinated hug reunions that will flood social media in the weeks to come, if I’m ever to get the garden planted). With the last fragments of winter’s browns and grays as evidence to the contrary, spring, the Great Game-Changer, is about to unfurl its best on us again, and it will catch us happily off-guard. We’ll notice things we hadn’t seen the day before and convince ourselves that magic is real (yes, Hogwarts exists) and find all manner of reasons to be outside more than inside.

My daily walks will bear the weight of a new attentive spirit as I gather for the first time this year fresh images of a sleeping earth waking up to herself. In a sweet mix of new and familiar, she will once again lay at my feet her tender offspring in all forms—the spotted fawns and garlic mustard and morels and blue fragments of a robin’s egg at the base of the mulberry sapling off the front deck. I’ll do what I always do each spring. Drop to my knees, rise to my feet in a standing ovation of one and dance like everyone’s watching.

Listening

Tell me your story.

Who are you?

Where were you born?

Where have you been?

I’m here.

Wide awake and listening on the edge of my seat.

I want to know what you had for breakfast and who gave you the recipe.

Are you an only child?

Who held you when you had your bad dreams? Fell down? Threw up?

When you were seven, did you put cards on the spokes of your bicycle wheels like I did, with clothespins?

What’s some good advice you got? What happened when you followed it?

You have my undivided attention. Here, take it (she says, her cupped hands empty and open and waiting, with infinite room for the details of you).

There’s a tuxedo kitten nestled in the space between my neck and my right shoulder, listening too, patient audience of one and I tell him my secrets and he doesn’t mock me. Nods in all the right places. He’ll take care of whatever you tell him, held safely in his little velvet-padded paws.

Who hears your secrets? Besides you?

What do you tell yourself when you’re unsure? I hope you talk kindly, like you would to someone who means the world to you, your dearest and most trusted reliable friend.

Tell me another story. Your history is safe in my ears. I’ll even watch for what you don’t say, the glances left and right, the gestures and nodding and fidgety fingers and that slow beginning of a smile creeping up on your lips. I’m here for it all, until the house lights come on and folks head for the exit doors. I’ll stay for the credits.

What do you remember? What are you trying to just…forget, but it won’t leave you alone?

I know. I know.

Do you like raisins? Are you more of a banana person?

I’m an apple gal myself. That crunch and those juices I lick off my fingers are good anytime. Sometimes I have two in one day.

When was the last time you laughed out loud? What made you do that? Dad had a great laugh. Mom too. She’d smile wide and show all her teeth and throw her head back. Seeing your parents laugh is a great gift.

I saw a fox’s den today in the patch of woods down by the creek. The entrance looked freshly pawed. It’s too close to the chicken coops so we’re going to watch extra carefully these next few weeks as winter hands over the keys to spring. I’ll keep you posted.

But getting back to you…

How are you? Really?

No harm.

No judgement.

No foul.

No fire.

Acceptance. Attention. Regard. The most respectful curiosity. And all the time in the world.

You know, you don’t have to tell me anything. But if you change your mind, I’ll be here.

The Season of "Almost There"

Olive oil and cat litter kick off this week’s grocery list, followed by onions, lens wipes, broccoli, organic milk and shoe laces. We also think we need tortilla chips, tuna and a good Argentinian Malbec, so better make room in the back seat for a three-bag curbside pick up order. Patrick will ask if I added coffee ice cream and I’ll say no, not this time, have a clementine instead, and he’ll grunt something unintelligible but clearly from a place of displeasure, and I’ll probably relent. People need coffee ice cream. I looked it up.

On the breakfast plate this morning (a green one with the word “blessed” on it, one of a three-piece set with other encouraging words—”thankful”, “grateful”—pressed in the pre-glazed clay, a long-ago birthday gift from my dear late friend Jeannie) is the dinner I missed last night because a tension headache wouldn’t let me go. While I slept it off in the upstairs guestroom, Patrick aroma-fied the house with his spiced and slow-cooked pork belly specialty, pot of brown rice on the side. Waking up to the lingering scents of fennel and cardamom, I took the leftovers in a different direction as morning fare, skipping the rice and adding a couple of scrambled eggs, then sliding a generous handful of those thin cantina-style tortilla chips under the whole enterprise. Topped with the fresh shreds of that illegally sharp white cheddar cheese I love too much for my own good, I was face down in it as the fog shifted through the trees on the ridge. It’s a view I recommend highly, no matter what meal you’re eating in our home.

The plate is already washed and propped up on its edge in the drainer.

I had fully intended to walk this morning, for the first time in just over a month, but the chilly rain and my own hunger kept me tethered more comfortably to home. I may reverse that decision sooner than later because that fog is just beckoning, begging to surround me in its tiny water droplet mystery. I’m not adverse to getting wet or muddy (and there’s plenty of that waiting in the fields, I can assure you), but for now, writing and editing a manuscript and eyeing the stack of five-inch square fabric samples stacked neatly on the sewing table in the studio will hold my attention through and past the lunch hour. Sundays here are great—filled with promise and spontaneity and random bursts of energy to complete half-finished projects (mostly of the artistic kind) before responsibility pulls us reluctantly off the warm mattress tomorrow morning and shoves us into the steady paycheck life. I hope you hear the gratitude for employment in there somewhere. It’s those daily paid work schedules that keep the lights on, the space heaters humming and our respective studios filled with the tools and supplies we obey in the pursuit of creativity. We see our tiny artists’ colony of two as our true vocation, with office and transportation-based work on the side, subsidizing it all.

There’s a restless and edgy feeling lately that I can’t shake, and I know it’s because spring is whispering on the horizon. The creek has once again rearranged its banks and the front deck is an island surrounded by a mud bog; the no-shoes-inside rule is about to go into full effect, with glaring looks from the Lady of the House flung at anyone who says they forgot. It’s the end of winter, the season of a teasing “not yet” in the face of our longed-for itch to put in the spring potatoes, rebuild the enclosed chicken run and pull down the last of the sinewy grapevine ropes while we can still see them hanging slack and thawed out in the arms of the black walnuts along the path to the woods. Winter’s main chore is shoveling snow, and I love doing that while it’s still dark outside, but I think I’ve come to the end of my starry-eyed wonder for it. As much as I silently criticize anyone who doesn’t Love All Seasons All the Time, I find myself in near-full collusion with their sentiments and eventually join them. Kindness and empathy demand a more understanding inner posture, and I think the Creator is tolerant of our weary outlook at this point in the calendar year. I’ll try to be more like that.

From the front deck, I can hear the turbulent creek waters pushing their way past the Old Man Sycamore with his dangling tire swing and over the fallen blue beech trunks connecting the swollen banks. Squirrels and kittens alike traverse these smooth bark-stripped natural bridges in playful pursuit of one another, managing just fine in the drizzly rain. I think I’m that much closer to putting on my taller wellies and venturing at least as far as the corner where the woods meet the field. I thought I heard a red-winged blackbird near the bridge. If she can be out there, so can I.

The writing and fabric scraps can wait. What’s going on out there comes from a sacred place of numbered days.

Another choice I won’t regret.