Saturday, March 28, 2020

The Other Side

March 28, 2020

As I reached for a coffee cup this morning, I was drawn to the other side of my cabinet.  Typical mornings have me going to the easiest to reach, right above my coffee pot; but today, I headed around the island and opened the door looking for a different cup.  My cupboard is filled with meaningful coffee cups. In these retirement years, I choose to live as if this were my last cup of coffee; so, if a vessel doesn't hold meaning...it doesn't make the cupboard.  There are cups from friends, some dating back to 1989,  and cups from nieces and sons and travels, and jobs and events.  I was surprised today when I choose a plain white mug from a set our son bought us when Matt and I were having some tough economical times.

Why go to the other side this morning?  Why a plain, white cup?  Is this simple, comfortable mug representing my longing for a simple, comfortable life I once knew?


The silence inside and outside of my house overlooking the Tillamook Valley is deafening.  No trucks hauling lumber and dairy products- just one of the sounds I'm used to waking to.  There are no humming tractors, no children's laughter echoing from the near-far neighbors' yards.  The birds are not even singing.   I am feeling more alone than I've felt in the last 15 days of the Corona Virus quarantine. I originally "chose" to quarantine knowing my health risks check too many boxes on the vulnerable list; then, a week into isolation, Oregon locked down. Many families are at home together with the dark cloud of unemployment.  I am alone as Matt is working six-day weeks and 8-10 hour days. Everyone is experiencing unprecedented changes and sacrifices.

Two weeks ago, the scenic Oregon coast had a beautiful spring weekend.  The sunshine invited residents from Washington, Idaho, and what seemed all of Portland, to flood here for some peace and beauty in a world that is anything but tranquil right now.  This sudden surge of humanity caused panic for those coming and those of us who live here. With the famous Tillamook Creamery closed and schools shuttered, we had a false sense that the coast was not open for business; but simply our home.   Restaurants were closed except for take- out; therefore, no restrooms were open.  We have two grocery stores and they had been out of many necessities before this onslaught of visitors.  People were everywhere.  They parked along both sides of Highway 101 as parking lots were inadequate for the number of vehicles jockeying their way to find a bit of space.  Retail workers were overwhelmed; many closed early.  No one was following the six-foot physical distancing guidelines we were told would "flatten the curve" meaning give our medical staff and facilities a fighting chance against this formidable enemy.  Our usual welcoming attitude became ugly, we showed the other side of us.

Having self-quarantined for over a week, I used our grocery app to order and had waited five days for it to be ready.  I ventured out with a mask I found in our first aid kit and an unexplainable sense of freedom. I knew I wouldn't leave my car but the experience felt equitable to being 16 again and that first solo trip with a driver's license. It was downright exciting!

As I approached Highway six, our gateway to and fro the Cascade Pass and on to Portland,  I was shocked to see the steady stream of cars pouring into our valley. I was shocked to know that others had not closed their rentals, that people were ignoring Governor Brown's guidelines, that all these people were not on the other side yet.  They simply had no understanding of what was at hand and what they should be doing.  They might have known it but comprehension was lacking.   As locals, we are well-aware of our meager 25 hospital beds and limited access to food and other necessities and yet locals were out too...like the world was not changed.... like there was no invisible enemy lurking in the air.   By Monday, the state had given visitors a 24-hour notice to exit the coast.  Most of the visitors left-unknowingly, leaving our shelves empty, and I fear, way too many droplets of Corona Virus in their wake.

Here we are two weeks later.  We are on the other side.  The other side of understanding how contagious and cruel this virus is, how it feels to quarantine in solidarity with a closed-down economy.  We struggle to work from home for the few that still have jobs, and learn to "home-school" our own children.  The empty highways, the boarded stores, the lack of sound is louder than sound itself.

I don't want to be on the other side.  I long to go back to the way life was in a free-wheeling America in a world where I sipped limoncello with my brother and sister in Italy among the great works of art and the gracious people...people now dying by the thousands. A world where going to the grocery store was a daily outing, playing MahJonng with friends was a luxury for non-busy days, and a trip to the beach held the sound of waves crashing, children laughing, and gulls calling to the wind.  A time when I could open my home to family and friends without fear of risking life.   Like the rest of us, I am forever changed on this unknown side of reality.

My America, the one I call home, the country I love, no longer feels safe and secure.  It is vulnerable, more vulnerable than I felt during the Viet Nam War, the assassinations of the 60s, the OKC bombing, 911, or the economy of 2008.  I feel the loss of leadership and continuity. But more deeply the loss of caring, caring about all Americans, caring about our environment, caring for our health care and caring for the greater good.

 Hope lies not in our government but in our people. We have unlimited capabilities to care.  The gifts of love I've witnessed these past few months are nothing short of miraculous.  Dyson, from vacuums to ventilators.  Niki, from shoes to protective gear. The children and their thank-you gestures for those still out there in the virus-filled environment.  The musicians donating their talent to make us all feel a little better.  Friends sewing masks.  Foodbanks feeding the hungry. Young people volunteering to shop for the elders.  Therapists, faith leaders, universities, museums, and small businesses putting resources online to feed minds and comfort souls.

People are getting off their electronic devices and finding inventive ways to connect.  The image of Italians singing together from their balconies or Spainards exercising from rooftops will never leave me.  Choirs have found a way to harmonize together-separately.  How?  I know not but what comfort those beautiful voices bring.  Ping pong between apartments, happy hours over Zoom, trivia night with other couples, scavenger hunts in seclusion, virtual field trips-together.  The evidence that humans live for belonging and connection is penetrating the sound of silence.

On this other side, the outer silence is deafening; inside, I struggle to silence the screams. I am left to meditate on the gratitude I have come to cherish and the faith I've come to know.  I pray this other side, this horrible but heartwarming side, teaches us what we never knew we needed to know.  I hope as the death tolls decrease, the lungs of the world inhale fully once again and the heart of America, and everywhere, enlarges beyond our dreams, we learn.  I pray for cohesiveness, harmony, and a return to humanity.  In this, I have hope for this other side. 







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