The close-up view, on the other hand, offers an opportunity for clarity of a sort.
I’ve found myself, even in what seems likely to be the early days of distancing, finding a far deeper appreciation for some simple things. With our commutes now measured in steps rather than hours, we’ve had time this week for long afternoon walks in the neighborhood. Back when we were courting – and, yes, damn it, we’re old enough to think of it with that term – we were broke college students and most of our “dates” were just hand-in-hand walks that sometimes stretched to hours. Afternoons this week have felt like that, in a middle-aged kind of way.
In a way that I did not expect, those leisurely walks have reminded me of the fierce urgency of now.
While we are both healthy and are practicing strict social distancing, we are also in a couple of at-risk categories for corona virus. When you read the news and locate yourself within it, it’s perfectly normal to pause for a second and think, well, this could kill me.
Two and half years ago, while I was trying to figure out some weird symptoms and the allergist said, “I want to do some blood work to rule out more serious conditions,” a similar thought crossed my mind. At the time I did what anyone would do and threw the Googles at it to find out just what those “more serious conditions” might be. While awaiting what eventually was identified as a mildly inconvenient allergy to mammalian meat (good-bye bacon, we had a lovely relationship for a while), I was aware that “more serious conditions” included various cancers.
I recall feeling a distinct focus for a few weeks on the things that bring me great joy. It wasn’t that I rearranged life to do only those things. That’s not actually a choice. Even the most incredibly privileged among us spends a good deal of time on incredibly banal activities that are not on anyone’s list of “what brings joy.”
It wasn’t about rearranging life, but, rather, about attending more fully to those things that do bring joy. It was, and is, about being fully present to this moment because you are more fully aware that this might be the last time you do that thing that brings great joy.
We’ll probably have decades of time to fill with both beauty and banality, but right now I’m playing my guitar as if it might be the last time. I’m writing as if these might be the last words. I’m running as if the finish line is right there. I’m taking long walks, holding hands with my beloved, as if these might be the last times.
None of that is fatalism or pessimism or fear. It’s living a Mary Oliver poem and knowing, with deep certainty, just what it is that I choose to do with this one wild and precious life. What are you doing with your viral life?
