During one of the Quarantine Weeks, I joined a group of writers online for an afternoon workshop. With a handful of others, I was asked to describe the color I was feeling at the moment. One by one, we shared our colors and as expected, most of the descriptions were of blue, dark, grey. I gazed out the window as my turn came and I said "yellow, I'm feeling the brightness of a beautiful day here at my home". Next, we all wrote to photo prompts. By the end of the session, most of the other writers had read, out loud, their soul-filled creations, most of which were in reaction not only to the prompt, but to the current and primal state of affairs. Instead of reading mine, I sat and I listened to each of the wonderfully written pieces, marveling at the talents and wondering why I felt differently about so much of what was being exposed. Most were younger and most were residents of cities. Time and place have so much to do with the writing process. Time and place.
So, I decided to not use time and place as a journal form. I have written so little about the Covid Crisis, in fact, I have written so little in general during the past few months. A lot of my creative energy has been used otherwise. I write daily, in the form of an email, connecting my neighbors. It takes time and thought but the feedback tells me that it is appreciated and therefore, I continue to do it. But, it is a factual rather than emotional outpouring. It's not about me. It's not Facebook or Instagram either. It's more of a connection. Time and place, vital and not-so-vital news of within and outside the condo community. All the while, however, I have been sorting this in my brain, trying to find my own voice, to summarize rather than give a blow-by-blow description of what this all feels like and how this affects my life and my future, never mind the rest of the modern world. I think it's best to leave individual reactions to individuals.
My father is now almost 99 years old. He lives in a nursing home and that, for the past almost two years, had been a source of some of the greatest relief I have felt since my mother's death eight years ago. Alone in his home, without her coaching, without her instigating daily life activities, he sat in his gigantic leather recliner chair for hours, looking out the window, rarely doing much more. His day was defined by his meal times, his foray out to collect his newspaper from the driveway, and his routines of simplicity. Prepping the house for the night, opening it for the new day. All very rote, all exceptionally un-inspiring, but all set in stone. He deflected anything that was not within the set parameters of what he considered "normal" and "safe". Each time I would try to encourage him to do something different, to perhaps visit the Senior Center for lunch or to take a small walk with his dog, he put me off. Same clothes every day for weeks. No signs of attendance to hygiene. Same bar of soap, virtually untouched, on the bathroom vanity. Never asked me to restock toothpaste. Just a once a week trip to the barber shop. Wouldn't even shave himself. A boring and virtually useless existence as observed. Safe harbor for him. His answer to my question of "what do you do all day" was consistent. "I do what I want, and I don't do what I don't want to do". End of story.
Ah, reflection. Lots of time now to think about life. Not a lot of places to go. No more demands. Lower expectations. Good excuses. Early morning risings. Early to bed at night. It could be so easy. Oh brother, it could be so very easy.
Reflection has brought insight. I have to make sense of all of this. I'm not sure that others have framed their thoughts this same way but I have made a foundation of belief that for me, is not going to crack. I know what this is all about for me. A sneak peak. A greater understanding. I forgive you, Dad, and I do understand. I sense an opportunity here. Enlightenment?
So, this is what it feels like?
Projection. I'm only seventy two. I have years ahead. I see that boulder rolling towards me and it
could move with fury. If I allow it. Life has become so complex. This is the life, the daily routine, of a ninety-something. The new challenges presented by the Pandemic, they are reminders of what real, true, old-age must feel like. It must be so damned hard to navigate in a feeble body, with a failing mind. It must be so damned confusing, the least change in the routine. So difficult to grasp and then to do something necessary but unfamiliar, just to get through a transaction, never mind a whole day, week, month, year. Showering, shaving, changing clothes, choosing outfits, the right shoes for the time. What to eat. When. Where. How? Shopping, driving. Making phone calls. Answering the phone. Making small talk. Trying to fall asleep after a useless day of nothing but what you wanted to do. Nothing.
So, I'm thinking that this is all just one, huge dress rehearsal. That this time is good and valuable. That I have been given a great gift as it turns out. Not just me. Everyone. A forward glance, that opportunity that I sensed. I have had a a taste of what, in not so distant a future, my life could actually resemble. I've had a chance to see, touch and feel emotions that one day I could own and I don't like them. I need and want to re-write the script. At the end of the drama, I want the star to be remembered as a vital and contributing member of the cast. I want to push back that rock, send it to the other side of the hill from where it originated. I want to declare now that I want to be as the top of that hill, slowly and assuredly making my way down, still taking in the view as I go along, still loving every moment of the journey.
