It is a strange and crazy time right now, a frightening time, as our world is becoming smaller and smaller. Broadway, Major League sports, Disney... all cancelled until further notice. On a local level, concerts and book clubs and get-togethers are being postponed left and right, and hugging (our life sustenance) is discouraged. I appreciate the safety of elbow- and fist-bumps and air kisses these days, but I fear I will shrivel away without live music and human touch.
I will revisit those other topics at some point. For now, as a woman who thrives on social activities, my calendar has cleared itself. I have chosen to go inward, to self-quarantine, at least for the next week (or two), taking the "better safe than sorry" approach.
I read this blog post by Amy Speace yesterday, which beautifully encapsulates my state of mind (gratitude!), and attempting to walk that fine line between taking precautions and living in fear.
My friend Joshua wrote this exquisite piece about Social Distancing.
And my daughter Sarah shared this link about Coronavirus and the Sun (and now I'm planning to spend all day tomorrow at our condo pool... :-)
In the meantime, washyourhands, washyourhands, washyourhands. I believe this too shall pass (but it will get worse before it gets better).
SONG: Safety Dance by Men Without Hats
BOOK: The Stand by Stephen King (sorry, SK!)
POEM: Try to Praise the Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
QUOTE: "We travel together, passengers on a little spaceship, dependent on its vulnerable reserves of air and soil, all committed, for our safety, to its security and peace. Preserved from annihilation only by the care, the work and the love we give our fragile craft." ~ Adlai Stevenson I
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