Dear Friends,

I first wrote the words shared below in early April 2020, and then revisited and reworked them over several months. They capture some part of my experience and impressions of the first weeks of this multi-year pandemic. I’m glad that I wrote it, that I have this document of that time to return to, to reflect on. I wonder what it will mean to me in a year, in 5 years, in 20? What will the AI archivists and historians of the future make of it when they try to piece together the tapestry of experiences from the “Global Pandemic of 2020-202X”? I wonder how you’ve documented this time too, even if only accidentally. The selfies with facemasks dangling around necks and off ears. The text message threads with friends and family working through the complicated calculus of vaccination status and quarantines and COVID tests just to be together. The muscle memory reaction of withholding a hand or hug when you greet someone.

I’m surprised by the generally optimistic sentiment at the end of the piece. Clearly written by a former version of myself who believed that a global pandemic couldn’t possibly last more than a few months. Ugh, I wish I could feel some of that optimism now. All I have in my reserve this week is exhaustion and the cold comfort of a low-level protective numbness that comes from a steady state of diminishing expectations. The pandemic has taught me a lot about languishing.

And gratitude. Which is a practice that can be cultivated daily. For me, it’s a practice of paying attention to the better things in my life. I don’t know if being grateful lives up to the transformative claims of pop psychology touted in Fast Company or TED Talks, but it does help me pause to reflect on the things that matter to me. Anyway, here are some things I am grateful for today: the chromatic richness of the late summer landscape; how the goldfinches know just when the backyard sunflower seeds are ready for harvest; after 20-some years, Meredith still laughs out loud at my ridiculousness; learning and re-learning that I can change my reactions to difficult circumstances; slowly savoring a cup of coffee this morning as the dawn broke through the morning fog; having the time and patience to think and to not think, to write and to not write, and then, finally, write again...

Islands

The order came down.
In an instant we organized ourselves
into thousands of tiny islands,
an archipelago of domestic units
borderless, but bounded by
fear, anxiety, resentment, resilience and
walls, fences, driveways, sidewalks.
Standing on promontory porches
or peering through window panes,
we cautiously smile to connect
with an emissary from another land.

On every island, a world unfolding,
a deluge of needs unmet, words said that cannot be unsaid
and hands washed, surfaces disinfected, militantly performed.
Our last stand against the sickness’ spread.

On every island, a drama of competing stories,
internal monologues racing ahead of us,
spoken diatribes wafting by in the quiet confusion.
Dull imperatives and sharp questions
hurled across the room in the direction of no one in particular,
although they hit the mark.

Our exhaustion descends like a heavy snow too late in springtime.
Our sadness hangs low and massive, boughs bending to the earth.
Every breath we take could be an invitation to crack open joy’s chest,
to split the heavens wide with the light of daybreak.

Over every island, a sunrise
a shared sunrise
a bridge stringing our islands together
bead by bead, the gentle clack of coming together in delicate new ways.

Between every island, a thread
to pinch with finger and thumb
to tie off with hope and gratitude and patience
lashing our lives to the rocks.

Thanks for reading.

Jeremy