Creature Comforts in Many Shapes and Sizes

When I was in college, Mac n'Cheese and the Pizza Truck were my sole sources of comfort during late nights spent studying and pounding my head against a wall.  While I could have pursued more noble and inspired forms of comfort like reading the Bible, meditating, or otherwise pondering the meaning of life, I instead tried to solve all of my problems (or simply to escape them) through these simple, inexpensive, and far from healthy means of injecting oft-unneeded calories into my body.

Decades later, those calories have become even more unneeded.  Even though I have escaped from the clutches of my undergraduate program, I am still a big fan of earthly forms of comfort when stress sends my emotional, mental, and spiritual well being skidding down a slippery slope.  Just as I did when I was younger, I make these choices for comfort despite the fact that they may be unhealthy for my body, pocketbook, or both.  I justify consuming a vast array of comfort "foods" as emergency stopgap measures to stave off impending insanity or mental breakdown.   

For example, Thai food has replaced Pizza as the preferred take-out comfort food. There is nothing like multiple stars of heat combined with a flavorful curry to distract me from all things that begin or end with the word deadline.

For cooking at home, throwing a hamburger on the grill has replaced throwing macaroni in a pot of boiling water.   A thick, juicy hamburger fresh off the grill sandwiched between two halves of a bun whose carbohydrates can't be found in any diet book anywhere is just the right solution to temporarily ignoring a to-do list that extends out the door, down the road, and into the next county.

Or for all those things that are annoying (and yes, this includes a fair measure of people), settling into a new fresh cotton t-shirt offers warmth, comfort, and an extra measure of patience necessary for diplomatic, professional, gentle, and other manner of kind responses that might otherwise be overshadowed by a sarcastic retort or rolling of the eyes. 

And for all those things that anger me, I turn to my suite of lawn maintenance equipment.  The weed whacker in particular offers comfort during those times that a seemingly endless list of bureaucratic tasks stands in the way of getting anything meaningful done.  The lawn mower offers a different and simpler type of comfort -- an escape from one meeting after another after another, and after another.

And for all those times that I feel like a task mule rather than a female of the species, I give thanks to toe nail polish and the quiet moments spent doing little more than adding color to my toes, one at a time.  Seahawks blue, then green, then blue, then green again.  Only six more to go!

And for those times that the events of the world are too much to bear, a hot bath with somewhere between a million and a million and a half bubbles residing within will take the edge off, if only for a little while.

And for those times that grief closes in and surrounds me, giving me no easy way out through any of my favorite creature comforts -- crying is my only choice.  Salty rivers that could fill a dozen bottles hold some of the unbearable weight of loss until exhausted and spent, I fall into the deep comfort of sleep.

But crying makes it so hard to grill burgers, paint my toenails, or pick up Thai food.  In fact, crying can make operating lawn maintenance equipment downright dangerous.  And, there's no easy way to blow the nose while in a bubble bath.

So, like any self-respecting American, I put off crying for yet another day.  Instead, I turn back to creature comforts of many shapes and sizes, cultivated from years of practice in managing the unmanageable -- emotions.   

Fog, Molasses, and a Bag of Bricks

Here's a typical work day during the pandemic.   These days amount to just about seven per week, since the apocalypse was declared and certain professions deemed essential assumed that all persons employed in those professions were suddenly superhuman, devoid of any needs related to rest, relaxation, or recuperation.   

I wake up in the morning feeling like a pile of bricks.  My body feels so heavy that getting out of bed using my available muscle strength seems to be violating one or more laws of physics. It has been another busy, busy night supervised by a brain that is scrambling to complete multiple repairs of my psyche before it's time to get up and go again.  Some of that overnight repair job is submarined by stress dreams like the one where I'm late to the airport and run into every obstacle in the world en route, ultimately missing a most important flight to who knows where.  Some of my sleep time is devoted to more ordinary nightmares where fear, anguish, and grief trade hands with one another over a story with no real plot but enough emotion to sort out and organize whatever lay heavy on my heart the evening before.  Since the pandemic began, however, these dramatic dreams are often overshadowed by moments of terror where I am trapped in the middle of a horrifying situation while paralyzed by my brain which is preventing me from running out the door into the yard and down the road while still sleeping.   Exhausted from all these machinations that go on in the night, I fall into deep dreamless sleep shortly before it's time to wake up and get moving again.   Of course, my body is at odds with my schedule and fights to keep me in bed, piling the bricks on one by one in the hopes that I'll take another hour to sleep and recover my strength.

Having managed to push the bricks off of me and climb out of bed, I'll get in a couple hours of being clear and focused, before the mental fog rolls in off the cerebral horizon.   An equation that seemed simple suddenly becomes gibberish.  A scheduling hiccup becomes impossible to resolve.  A question from a student sounds like it's uttered in a foreign language.  A simple question about the grocery list might as well be about the theory of relativity.   And with every question or every problem that I can no longer address with any measure of skill or elegance, I feel more dismayed.  Inspired by my missteps, the mental fog grows even thicker.

By mid-afternoon, my battle with the mental fog has sapped most of the day's energy and by the time I've finished class or finished with the umpteenth meeting of the day, I'll find myself walking through a sea of molasses. While transitioning to the next item on the heavy laden to-do list, a headline I only glanced at about death, sickness, lockdowns, or questionable political decisions now slows me down in equal measure to the mental fog that continues unabated.  And, if I dare to take a break and close my eyes for too long, the bricks come back.   And so it goes. Walking the days of the pandemic.

Hauling around a bag of bricks in a thick fog through a swamp of molasses ... sums it up

 

By the early hour of ten or eleven in the evening, my day is done and my gaze is drawn to my bed with the greatest of anticipation as would be expected from the exhausted mere human that I am.  In my tiredness, I've already forgotten about the nightmares and the chaotic dreams of the previous night. I can't wait to collapse into bed and do it all over again.   

Zzzzz........ 

Broken Glass

A field of broken glass lies in front of me. 

As I tried to write about it (and failed repeatedly at doing so), I discovered that the more I tried to generalize the broken glass to a broader audience beyond myself, the more I realized that this particular field was designed just for (and in many ways by) me. It was based on my own unique history, my way of viewing the world, my own judgements, my own biases, and my own limitations.  While millions of Americans faced their own similar fields, the one in front of me was mine to consider, and should I choose to walk forward, I would be alone in the crossing.   

While only a month ago, the broken glass merely reflected a global pandemic and economic calamity, the field has now grown and thickened, as the simmering and unresolved racism that underlies American life has come to a boil after the cruel and entirely preventable deaths of George Floyd in Minneapolis and Breona Taylor in Louisville Kentucky.

Now, the field stretches as far as the eye can see... vast, intimidating, and seemingly uncrossable.   It sparkles sharply, thwarting any attempt I might make to ignore it or distract myself.  Whether I read the daily headlines or not, the steady uptick in COVID-19 deaths, many of them preventable, jerks me awake at the very moment I might otherwise fall into much needed sleep.   And, despite the fact that I have left my overwhelmingly white home county only a handful of times in the past two months, the cruelty, the judgement, and the discrimination handed out to people of color in our society intrudes abruptly into my conscious mind even when I am seemingly immersed in tasks and to-do's that are entirely unrelated to issues of race and ethnicity.   

Some of the broken glass also reflects my history, a myriad set of my own experiences where I could have handled the racial divide so much differently.  I look across the field and see many mirrors.   

So many mirrors.  

Times where I heard stories about how students were being treated differently and did nothing. Moments where I said something in front of an entire class that, viewed through the eyes of some students, felt dismissive and unkind. Lost or faded relationships where I didn't take the difference between another person and myself seriously enough.  Too many assumptions that the headlines must be sensationalized -- surely racism couldn't be THAT bad in this day and age.  

Years where I refused flu shots with flimsy excuses about needles.  Many days where I went to work sick, with a clearly inflated view of the value of my contribution and work and a dismissive attitude about infecting someone else.  

And, the list goes on.   Mirrors -- reminders of where I could have and should have done better.   

But, as I stand facing the field of broken glass, I am tired.  I want to change.  I want to grow.  But, that field just looks so much bigger than me.  I don't want to move.

So,

I could easily succumb to the temptation to be still. I could remain in this same spot along the journey of life, pondering the broken glass from my own complacent and safe space.  I could fake being content with such immobility.

And,

I could even rationalize my stillness by burying myself in work and busyness.   If I bought into my employer's message that more work = true loyalty, I could even turn away from that nasty looking field altogether. 

And,

I could throw in a few perks to standing still -- buy a few new toys, indulge in a couple of luxuries, remodel, or redecorate.   I could even ... go on a cruise while the pandemic rages on (oops-- reckless behavior ALERT).   

Or,

I could make a run for it, read a book (or more importantly the Book), watch a few TV programs on the topic of racism and the data behind the pandemic and call it good. I could convince myself that I've done what I can do.  Though, running across all those sharp edges could cause permanent injury to my bare and exposed feet. I might never walk the same again.   

So,

My only real choice is to step forward and walk slowly across the field.   While the glass underneath my feet will cause me pain and be impossible to ignore, it will not cause lasting injury as running will do, nor will it keep me from what lies on the other side, as standing still would do.  

Instead, walking slowly across the field will, in addition to causing a few laws of physics to work in my favor, force time to reflect, engage time to grow, and put the brakes on a life that might otherwise move recklessly forward and whether by poor, impatient choices or by good intentions, cause harm to others.

But

all that glass.  Ouch.  

Maybe, I can just put it off one more day.  

But

that Book I should read far more often than I do is calling me -- to move forward (Job 17:9) and strain forward to what lies ahead (Philippians 3:13).  

Sigh.

Particular Persons

There is a certain type of employee who is ideally suited to the COVID-19 pandemic.  Whether blue-collar or white-collar, retail or wholesale, healthcare or other essential service, this particular person is easily recognizable in the midst of stay-at-home and various other assorted lockdown orders.   I think that like me, you are likely to have seen this Particular Person in your own travels outside the home. 

For starters, the Particular Person has memorized The Rules and is fully committed to encouraging and enforcing those rules, down to every last detail.

For example, one Particular Person caught me red-handed at the self check-out at our local grocery store with more than 15 items.  In no uncertain terms, I was told to collect my 17 purchases and redirect to a more appropriate register supervised by a cashier who would touch my items and breathe on me (and I on her).  I did this because I was expected and required to follow The Rules.   This, despite the fact that there was no one except for me and my 17 purchases in line for self checkout and there was inherently less risk to life, limb, and COVID-19 infection going through self checkout than through "manned" checkout.

Then, there was the Particular Person at the local hardware store, disguised as a cashier but remarkably adept at enforcing several sets of The Rules at once.  She could simultaneously disinfect the credit card machine, ring up a set of purchases, keep all customers standing precisely on the blue tape lines spaced six feet apart, and monitor anyone who was not properly exiting the store. This was where I got myself in trouble again.   Like most homeowners, I was using home improvement activity to reflect and meditate on the pandemic during stay-at-home orders.  And, as illogical as it sounds, I was at the hardware store, choosing colors for my next project and buying paint.   Choosing colors is harder than it sounds and after several minutes of consternation under the harsh fluorescent lighting inherent to most hardware stores, I stepped toward the front of the store to view my colors in natural sunlight.  That was when I caught the eye of the Particular Person at the cash register.  In a single bound, she leapt from behind the cash register to within six feet of my side to inform me that I was breaking one of the Rules by stepping up to the window (apparently the window was in the Do Not Shop -- Enter and Exit only zone).  Confused and startled, I tried to explain myself, but such an explanation was of no Particular interest, and I was herded quickly back into the store so that the Particular Person could, in another single leap, land behind the plexiglass protected register once again.

Of course, there are plenty of Particular People who supervise the entrances to Costco.  These Particular People manage somehow with the greatest of cheer to communicate The Rules to every incoming customer, repeating themselves umpteen hundred times a day.  These Particular People somehow find a way to turn the mask-less away without offending them or triggering an incident.   Once inside, more Particular People restrict meat purchases to no more than three in a most friendly manner.  Other Particular People instruct the customers to smash their receipts agains the plexiglass shield at the exit, so shopping carts can be checked against receipts, and the number of items that walk out of Costco unpaid stays limited.

In a Pandemic, it takes herds and flocks of Particular People to keep things running smoothly. The Particular Person is the one who despite being unusually enamored with The Rules, advocates for plexiglass barriers at checkouts, masks for employees and for customers, little changes here and there that overall make the COVID-19 world a safer place to be.

And so, as I grumble at running into another Particular Person who has a few rules that don't quite make sense to me, I can't help but be grateful for that individual who is willing to stand by The Rules and may inconvenience a plethora of non Particular Persons and aggravate a few more -- but also protects many other persons, whether Particular or not.

To borrow from Dr. Seuss, an ode to the Particular Person:

You have rules in your head
And feet in your shoes
You can deftly steer us
In any direction you choose

While COVID hands us the blues
You can still charm us on sight
so we will follow The Rules
and be rid of this viral blight

Zoombies

The dictionary tells me that I can describe someone as a zombie if their face or behavior indicates "no feeling, no understanding, or no interest in what is going on around them".  Well, I've certainly seen a few zombies in the classroom over a few decades of teaching.

But thanks to COVID-19, I now feel qualified to add to the zombie section of the dictionary.   After collecting many hours of data, I can confidently identify someone as a Zoombie if all cues traveling across Zoom -- the once just a video platform but now emergency on-line teaching rink -- fail to indicate interest, understanding, enthusiasm, or engagement of any kind.  While it is challenging enough to accurately judge student engagement when students are sitting in the classroom in front of me, it's next to impossible to make those kinds of judgements when students are scattered in the wind, hiding behind blank thumbnails or head shots taken at a time when education was much more ordinary and smiles were far more commonplace.

On the one hand, the Zoombies are a terrible threat to my teaching prowess (ha).   While normally I would feel comfortable taking a few cracks at how profoundly exciting the engineering topics I teach are (not), it's nearly impossible to be funny while teaching engineering via Zoom.  Most attempts at humor zoom in one ear and out the other.   And, for me, the unfortunate consequence of having humor fall flat time and time again is that I have become the professor that I swore to never be.  With the greatest of ease, I too have become someone who can put students to sleep as quickly and effectively as many of my professors did during my undergraduate education.  This newfound talent makes me cringe and cringe again.   But, the cringing I do... I do with my video turned off, so that if a student just happens to be paying attention, he or she can't see me fold under the weight of my own self-acknowledged boring delivery. 

All is not lost with the emergence of the Zoombies however.  The lack of any human activity emerging from a gallery of thumbnails on my computer screen is at its best -- devoid of distraction.  And, undistracted, I can take a deep dive into Nerdville and stay there.  Focused and immersed in one equation, derivation, or another, I make far fewer mistakes than I would in an ordinary classroom.  Without facial cues, emotional expressions, and other indicators of what's going on with my audience as my lectures, examples, activities, and other stabs at engagement ebb and flow, my head is almost entirely occupied with delivering content at a steady, accurate, and clear pace. 

Woo Hoo!
I may put 'em to sleep, but I sure don't fill their dreams with technical errors.

On a sincere and serious note, though, I would like to apologize to all my Zoombies for putting you to sleep (well -- to those of you who actually woke up to attend class in the first place).   I appreciate that your thumbnails feign interest and that you log into Zoom at the appropriate time to simulate attending class.

But, most of all, I'd like to thank the Zoombies that come to office hours.  In office hours, I am blessed with web cams that are much more frequently turned on than left off.  And, as the questions and interaction ebb and flow during office hours, I see that you are not Zoombies at all.  Instead, you are as I suspected -- human beings striving to learn and committed to doing well even during this odd Zoom-centric life we find ourselves navigating together. 

Not so Unusual

When on-line church services first began hitting the "airwaves" in early March, watching the Pastor preach on Sunday morning to an empty sanctuary while I absorbed the wisdom of the message in my pajamas was nothing less than really weird. 

That's not to say that I was one to spring out of bed on Sunday morning, burst out the door, jump in the car, and bound into church.  Mornings just weren't my thing and weekends made them even less my thing.  But, more often than not, I managed to roll out of bed on Sunday morning and make it to church kind of on time and rarely for the early 9 a.m. service.  I always sat in the back, preferably partially hidden by a post, so that if I succumbed to my body's desire to continue sleeping the morning away, the Pastor was less likely to notice.   And my propensity for napping in the morning had little to do with Pastor's message.  Mornings just weren't my thing. 

As we headed into on-line delivery of sermons, messages, inspiration, communion, worship, and a myriad other aspects of church life that for my entire adult life had taken place in person, I found a few reasons (mostly superficial ones) to enjoy the transition.  I really enjoyed the part about sipping hot coffee in my pajamas while taking in the sermon and worship, but the rest took some adjustment. Sometimes during on-line services (shame on introverted me), I enjoyed not having to greet the person next to me.   But more often than not, I missed the interaction and the connection that could only come with physically being present in the sanctuary and coffee hour after church. I missed in-person lessons, Sunday school, and the irreplaceable feel of live music and singing that seemed to make it oh so much easier for the holy spirit to fill my often wandering and distracted heart. 

By Easter Sunday, on-line church was part of our weekly routine, although it didn't always get delivered on Sunday morning. Pre-recorded video was more likely to finally make it onto our daily schedule in the evening, and sometimes even waited until Monday to be viewed (shame on undisciplined us).   We weren't avoiding Christian living.  But, I imagine we were not the only ones struggling to keep up a structured daily routine during stay-at-home days that increasingly blurred into one another.

Easter deserved to emerge from the blur, so we awoke on Easter Sunday, dressed in some semblance of Sunday best, and took a seat before the computer.  It was not so unusual anymore to walk into cyberspace to see Pastor.  And to his credit, Pastor had become funnier over the past weeks, learning to preach to an empty sanctuary and bring humor into the whole process and procedure.

Today, Pastor spoke of the hope that Easter brought to the world in the miracle of the resurrection.  He spoke to how unusual it was that on this day, we would not be with our families, celebrating Easter together.  He reassured us that isolation would not go on forever, and soon, we would be back to what was normal and usual, celebrating holiday with our families. And, the loneliness of this Easter would become just a sad memory in the landscape of our lives.

As he spoke, a wave of melancholy rolled into my heart, filling every corner and giving me a lot of pause.  Because -- this Easter was not so unusual for my husband and I.  On Easter and most other holidays, we would eat dinner in our house alone -- my husband's family would as usual be busy with other things and my only surviving relative, my sister, was thousands of miles away.   Families would come together and celebrate, deferring friends to other more ordinary days.  As best as we could, we had adapted to the loneliness and the sadness that came with Easter and the other annual holidays that arrived while we were in the Pacific Northwest.

Of the many changes in lifestyle and daily activities that came along with the COVID-19 pandemic, loneliness on Easter was not a change at all.

It was simply routine. 

Torture by Pizza

I have spent several weeks collecting data.   Now, I am certain.  It is not just my imagination.  It is true.... The number of pizza commercials on TV has skyrocketed during April 2020.   

It might be my pizza-starved imagination that sees the cheese as creamier, the toppings as more plentiful, the veggies as more vibrant, the dough as tantalizingly fresh and fluffy.   Even the pepperoni and hamburger are starting to look appetizing.  And to add to my COVID-19 lockdown-induced delusions, pizza is now starting to look like, on top of all its other appealing attributes.... healthy.  

As I stare mesmerized at the television and as the multitude of toppings float languidly down the screen onto the waiting abundance of cheese below, the mere 30 second commercial seems to transform into a minutes-long event.   Toppings of every shape, size, color, and caloric content appear, appealing to every last taste bud.  Fresh, hot pizzas are attached to smiling faces offering to deliver pizza in a flash... contact-free and safe from COVID exposure.     

Jolting myself out of my semi-hypnotic state, tearing my gaze away from the screen with all of my willpower, I gaze sadly at some point in the distance that is nowhere near the TV screen.   With each passing day, I have come to realize the gruesome reality of this stay-at-home situation.

It is Torture by Pizza. 

While Dominos, Papa Johns, and cousin companies reach out to America to provide pizza-induced solace in this public health emergency to those who have a phone and credit card in hand, their well-intentioned, profit-driven marketing has forgotten one thing:   their delivery area is limited.

While generally content and extraordinarily grateful to be living in the woods on an island while under stay-at-home orders from our governor, I have come to realize that someone should had the sense to block these commercials from our island.    A pizza block on all satellite, cable, and other TV transmissions onto the island would have been most helpful to preserving my mental health.

Indeed. 

Back to staring at all that cheese....

NOTE:
Frozen Pizza does not count.

My New Smoothie

Usually my morning smoothie, with a little bit of fruit, a lot of yogurt, a little bit of homemade jam, and a good shot of soy milk, gives me a boost and starts my day out right.   But, this morning, I awoke realizing that my smoothie was missing a key ingredient.

Upon this realization, I pulled out the food processor determined to make things right. I put slightly less yogurt in the mix and a little bit of Lysol.  I pressed the magic button on the base of the food processor and the ingredients almost immediately became one.   I pulled off the lid and smelled.  The Lysol definitely masked the smell of fresh fruit but that was the price I was willing to pay to find a way to kill any virus that may have crept into my mouth and GI tract overnight. 

Tomorrow, I will put a little bleach into the mix.

Oh, I forgot.  After I drink today's smoothie, I am unlikely to live until tomorrow. 
A not so minor detail.

Sarcasm aside, the fact that the President of the United States just yesterday suggested that some form of ingested, injected, or otherwise absorbed form of disinfectant into the human body might be helpful in combatting COVID-19 is upsetting.  Whether Mr. Trump's suggestion was a result of sarcasm, a slip of the tongue, an impulsive response, uninformed rhetoric, or a well-intentioned  inquiry is largely irrelevant.  Coming from anyone else, his comment would likely have been quickly disregarded and forgotten.  Coming from someone in his position, though, it set off a flurry of urgent warnings from agencies, doctors, toxicologists concerned that some Americans might take the comment as license to experiment with Lysol, bleach, or otherwise while sheltering in place. 

Yesterday's error reminds me of what happens when I make a mistake in teaching.  Even the most minor of mistakes can snowball into poor exam scores, unnecessary hours lost in debugging labs, and misconceptions that follow students into future courses and cause ongoing frustration and pain.  As college teachers, we all bear the responsibility of correcting our mistakes (and apologizing for them) as quickly as possible in order to prevent harm to students' education (and interviewing success!). 

So, if I have to apologize and fix that semicolon I left out in a hundred lines of code I was explaining to students the other day, why is Mr. Trump not apologizing (in a compelling and humble) way to the American people today?

As I drank my (lysol and bleach free) smoothie, I pondered the answer to this question.  As I transitioned into a deeper reverie, I experienced a deeper longing ... I longed for a true statesman in the President's chair.  I questioned prayers that remained unanswered ... for someone who puts the health and well-being of the American people front and center and is able to deliver stable, compassionate, and credible messaging to a population that desperately needs it in the middle of a horrifying time in American history.

Our need for strong and caring leadership "at the top" is not an issue of political party, nor is it about underlying theology or about race/ethnicity, gender, or other demographic. 

It's simply an issue of being human. 

Leadership please. 

Blue Tape Living

During the COVID-19 pandemic, stores that remain open have chosen multiple options for keeping customers and employees safe in their stores.   Prior to the pandemic, blue tape was only a "thing" while painting, protecting many a surface from the unintended (but colorful) consequences of messy painting technique.

Now though, blue tape has made a widespread debut on the tile floors of grocery, hardware, and other essential stores which continue to operate, albeit under restricted hours.  One of the more common uses of such blue tape is to mark where one may stand while waiting to check out.   Blue tape, at six foot distance, keeps us apart in the store and reduces the temptation to stroll up to the cashier to make our purchases or to do anything else that could be construed as "formerly normal". 

In addition to the blue tape corral, I observed another twist in the checkout process while at Ace Hardware today.  Once I had filled my shopping cart with what was on my list, I advanced to the blue tape.  As expected, I was instructed to wait and to proceed only to the next blue tape mark when the customer in front of me advanced.   I waited patiently as I moved forward in six foot increments, marveling at how I could feel safe in the middle of all this craziness. 

Finally some many minutes later,  I approached the somewhat broader blue tape that marked my final approach to the cashier.  A large sign warned me (under threat of something, I am not sure what), that I needed to refrain from crossing the broad blue tape line.  I waited.   A pleasant enough store assistant approached me and took my shopping cart (and my leaning post) from me and rolled it up to the cashier.   The cashier began to scan and bag my selections. 

I was quite far away from the register and the cashier-- many times more so than I was distanced from my fellow customers now waiting patiently behind me.  Indeed, I was far enough away that I couldn't really see what actually ended up in my shopping bags.  I took it on faith that some of what landed in those bags coincided with what had formerly resided in my shopping cart.

When the scanning was complete, I was ushered forth to insert my plastic into a machine -- contactless of course.  I tried to smile at the cashier behind the plexiglass in front of me, but it was a masked smile and failed to do the good I intended.  While waiting for my credit card to do its magic so I could return home with my mystery bags, I reflected on how similar this experience seemed to be to my prayer life.

Just like the helpful hardware folks at Ace, everyone in the Holy Trinity was friendly, efficient, and welcoming about my prayers.  And, of course, they never criticized the irregularity with which I offered them.  Prayers were ushered in and encouraged in any shape or form that reflected what dwelled on my heart or mind.  Once uttered, they were taken away, guided through a process, and considered.   Snippets of scripture promised that any prayer, large or small, well articulated or mumbled, would be received, scanned, processed, and returned with some form of answer. 

But, just like at the hardware store, I had to submit my prayers at the blue tape line.  And once I turned them over to the Master Cashier, I could only see at a distance how my requests, my pleas, and my yearnings were being handled.  More often than not, I had not a single clue what was going to end up in my take-out bag at the end of the line.  Would it be answered prayers?  Post-it notes with "Are you kidding" scrawled on them?  Stunned Silence (at such requests as "please save the world right now")?  Disappointment?    

On my way home, I stood on the spiritual version of the blue tape line, wondering what would happen to this barrage of pandemic prayers that kept streaming out of my bleeding heart.   

Sigh.

I hear that God is among other things, remarkable in His role as my prayer cashier.    So in the end, what ends up in the bag will be the best and most essential items... no more and no less.   

And -- no credit card required ... the price had already been paid.   

Of all things.... Toothpaste

Like most everyone around me, I am trying to take sheltering in place, spending day after day at home, working with few boundaries between work, rest, and leisure .... in stride.  

Right before stay-at-home measures during COVID-19 2020 took hold, my husband and I decided to of all things ... to stay at home.  

In accordance with our pact to avoid becoming COVIDiots, I, with some sadness, cancelled my hair appointment.  Even though the appointment was long overdue and I was starting to look like something I brought home from the dog pound, I thought that we would be back to business as normal in no time.  And at that time, the lovely young woman who does my hair could whip, cut, and highlight my hair into shape in no time.   And, I could once again project the "proper" image when I went to work.   

As the days past and we adapted to the crazy "new normal", I found out that if I brushed my hair just right, Zoom wasn't going to give away the fact that I was long overdue for a haircut. And, after all, there were far more important things to worry about than long hair in the midst of a global pandemic.  As I managed more tangles and more hair drying time, I looked for the positives and... 

• I found out that keeping my hair in a ponytail was much easier as my hair grew longer and I could complete hours of yard work without one time having to re-tie my hair into submission. 
• I found out that my husband really didn't notice that I was starting to look like a serious mutt.  This is as convincing an indication that he truly loves me as any I have seen in our marriage.

Sadly though, I reached a day when the negatives overtook the positives.  On that day, immersed in my usual morning routine, I brushed my teeth. I leaned over the sink to rinse all manner of toothpaste out of my mouth and marched out of the bathroom, heading toward my first Zoom meeting and ready to take on the day's challenges.   

It was then that I noticed it.  

Could it be true?  

Indeed

I had toothpaste in my hair.  

My hair has now grown so long that when I finish the brushing of teeth procedure, my hair lands in the sink and picks up the remnants of toothpaste there.  

Ugh.  

Toothpaste in the hair -- It is noticeable -- even on Zoom.   

Delightful Oblivion

No rain in Western Washington during the month of April is unheard of.  After all, the old saying has been modified for the Pacific Northwest to read:

April showers bring May showers

Of course, there are flowers that abound during both months of showers, but the point is that spring does not by any stretch of the imagination mark an end to the rainy season. 

After no rain during the first few weeks of April this year, a drought was declared, and the slightest mutation of color on the weather radar made news.   And predictably, late last night, the rains returned.  The pitter patter of rain on the skylights and the drip accelerating through the downspouts woke me up.   When I first opened my eyes, it seemed a strange noise but after only a moment, I realized how normal it all was.

As the sun rose unseen behind the clouds, the pitter patter continued.  The dogs took one look out the front door and decided to delay their potty needs, retreating to their beds and resting as the world grew smaller in the steady rainfall.   After feeding the crew, I crawled back into bed, not yet willing to dig up energy to face the day.  As I looked out the window, a half dozen chickadees, unperturbed by the rain, waited their turn at the feeder outside the bedroom windows.  The gray overcast sky stretched as far as the eye could see into the distance.   The geese in the wetland below were quiet; something about the steady falling rain quelled their incessant honking.   Almost instantaneously, the alder trees had responded to the return of the rain by leafing out in a brilliant shade of green that only spring can bring.

As I took a sip of my morning coffee and gazed peacefully out the window, I took the scene in with a fascination that would match my interest in the best of Hollywood movies.  I felt grateful for the taste of good coffee, the quiet that settled into the woods around me, the warmth creeping into every corner of the house fed by the fire burning in the wood stove, and the contentment of the cats and dogs around me.  All these things settled my heart.

For in these few moments, I existed in delightful oblivion, briefly unaware of COVID-19.  In those few moments, my heart and spirit recovered and relaxed.   And hope, dampened by the suffering and the seemingly endless days of horrific headlines, peeked its head out.... and said Good Morning. 

A new video game called Grocery Shopping

In my lifetime, I have only played video games intermittently.   My longest stint was a few quarters before graduation where I thought that if I procrastinated long enough, my BS degree would just appear in front of me without having to tackle the intimidating workload that seemed to stretch infinitely long and wide before me.   After that wildly stressful time in my life had passed, I never quite bought into binging on video games again, but I never forgot how such binges could steal all of my attention and time, to the exclusion of all else.

Crossing the threshold into my local and beloved grocery store (Fred Meyer -- still beloved, even after Kroger took over) in Lynnwood, Washington this past Friday during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, I had a major moment of deja vu.  Although I had no mouse in my right hand, nor keyboard under the fingers of my left, nor joystick anywhere to be seen, I nevertheless felt I had just entered into a video game that was to take all of my energy and attention.   It was the new Grocery Shopping Challenge, coming soon to an app near you. 

By necessity, I took only a few minutes to recognize the limited number of characters in the game and the most logical strategy for triumphing over each, but the sheer number of strategic moves involved in navigating this challenge felt like the two hundred and seventh level of any video game on the modern market.  Not that I could name even a single one (of those video games) but I digress.

As the characters milled about, I fought the urge to adjust my mask or to move my sunglasses or worse yet -- to touch my face.  Never having been a germaphobe and always striving to be more laid back today than yesterday, it was difficult to remain in high alert. I had developed a distinct distaste for being on high alert. I'd seen enough cortisol released into my body during my adult life to last me a lifetime.  I didn't want anymore.

And aside from my own personal objection to cortisol releases, I had to fight the urge to remove the mask and just hug everyone who would allow me to -- that is without triggering anyone to call 911 or pull out a concealed weapon. No hugging. No connecting. Just move on. 

Back to the game.   The most challenging characters in this game by far were the Phoners, those characters who were in possession of a smartphone seemingly affixed to their right ear as was their attention -- affixed to whatever dialogue or monologue the phone was transmitting.  Phoners were remarkably unaware of their environs and amazingly, tended to migrate to the very center of the store aisles, making it impossible to pass by within three feet, much less six feet.  They were the very tricky ones and required an inordinate number of 180's.

And then there were the Maskless Young 'Uns. These were those characters under 30 years of age who likely thought that COVID would not hurt them -- apparently, they remained unaware of the latests statistics regarding the illness among the young. Basking in their outdated knowledge, they strolled amongst the groceries, unconcerned about who or what they passed or at what distance they did so.   They moved ever so quickly too.  Forced to bend, twist, and turn to remain out of the whoosh of air they left behind was not something I was particularly deft at.  And, I wasn't getting much better as time wore on either. 

And then there were the Masked Old 'Uns like me.  These were the characters that were treading cautiously along the surreal scene while deliberately, strategically selecting groups of items from a pre-prepared list designed to limit the overall duration of their stay in the game.  Because all other facial cues lay hidden behind their masks, I could only read eyes.  The sheer volume of emotions held in blue, brown, green, gray eyes ... would leave me something to think about for a very long time.  Anger, sadness, determination, fear, frustration... not a single pair held a pearl of happiness.

No joy. 

And then there were the EEs (not to be confused with the electrical engineers which might have been just as bad, but not today, thank you).  EEs --  Exhausted Employees.  Most were trying hard to keep their distance from customers while keeping strained smiles on their faces that were largely betrayed by tired eyes.  Too tired from the daily grind, from the panic buys, from the nightly cleanings, from the myriad of tasks disproportionate to their hourly pay -- they clearly did not realize that they were among the heroes of this pandemic.

I stopped by the seafood counter, ordered my fresh fish, felt grateful, and caught the eye of the lady wrapping my precious cod and salmon.  For a moment, we connected.  For a moment, we knew each other's emotions, each other's drama, each other's fears. The moment disappeared as quickly as it had come.  She moved on to the next customer.  I moved on to the next group of items on my carefully mapped list.

Having navigated a multitude of different characters and random configurations of those characters throughout, I hustled my character to the gateway to the next level -- the one colorfully labelled Self Checkout.   Quickly filling my bag, swiping my plastic in the correct motion -- I headed to the hand washing station to prepare for the next level of the game. 

Treating it as something other than a fast-moving video game.  Acknowledging it as the reality of the moment. No Thank You.  That would simply lower my agility and overall score. 

And, I was determined to score under par (the golf term not its opposite).  To look back at this moment and know that I did nothing to spread this virus to another.

Well, that would certainly be a delight to my heart.

Mowing, Unperturbed

There is no doubt that it is Spring, as the grass grows like wildfire, challenging our trio of lawn mowers to keep it at bay.  On over eight acres in the woods, in the cool temperatures and brief spat of Pacific Northwest sunshine that blesses this week in April, I mow, unperturbed. 



For moments at a time, everything is normal. The grass grows. The grass gets mowed.  I push the mower along any number of inclines, having some success at stemming the chaos of green that flourishes around me.   As the mowing marathon continues, I suffer shortness of breath, but am convinced that it is only MowVID-20 rather than COVID-19 which ails my lungs.

In the peace that is found in doing what little is still normal, images flash before me.  Plain wooden coffins lowered into mass graves at Potter's field near New York City.   An overworked friend isolated in an apartment in Seattle. A friend in Texas, losing business as the lockdown marches on.   A class session held on Zoom with all the awkwardness that goes with the new normal.  A dear friend in Florida who was designed to be out and about serving in any number of ways, rather than sitting at home.  Hospital beds.  Ventilators. Health care workers.   Empty buses and ferries. 

And, then, the mower groans over a particularly dense and long patch of grass.  My attention is jolted away from the images of this pandemic.

And, I return to mowing, unperturbed. 

Sadness like Water

I love to watch the tide come in.

As the ocean water flows in at the behest of the moon, it fills every nook and cranny across the sand in its way.  The salty river fills holes blown by a vast invisible network of clams and transforms formerly stranded rocks into connected underwater cities frequented by a myriad of marine life.  When the tide reaches high, it is hard to believe that the vast, tranquil sandy beach that existed only hours before will ever return again.

This is also the nature of a certain type of sadness.   The very sadness that I feel today. And yesterday.  And tomorrow.  The sadness that I breathe, walk, and live in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic.  Like water, it flows everywhere across my emotional and mental landscape.  While it has not yet consumed me, it is everywhere, breaking in waves of grief over the collective pain that humanity is now bearing.   It is not the flu... which annually stutters across the landscape of a partially vaccinated population, unable to gain a strong or persistent foothold amongst a people who are wise to its ways. 

Instead, it is a vicious predator among a naive population... able to infect anyone, but particularly interested in robbing life from those who are already weak, whether from age or underlying disease.  It is the epitome of sociopathic, bearing no responsibility or concern for those that it attacks, interested only in endlessly multiplying, hoping to win the inevitable battle it will encounter with the soldiers of the immune system.  Either way, whether the immune system wins or the virus wins, the virus will ultimately die.   To the virus, the battle is pointless.  But to the person whom it infects, the battle is critical. 

So, in my isolation -- sheltered in a place formerly known as my home -- I watch the upticks on the news.  I try to pass the time doing more productive things.  I try to love my neighbors from six feet away. I try to be uplifting to those who are thousands of miles away. I try to pretend to others in my household, two and four pawed alike, that everything is normal (they are not fooled). 

Most of all, I try not to think about how long the pandemic will rage on.  I try not to think about the death, the loneliness, the pain, the suffering, the confusion, the agonizing choices, the overburdened healthcare system, the insanity of it all.   But, as I feel the tide rolling in, having not yet reached the high water mark, the sadness flows on, filling every nook and cranny of my former life. 

When it rolls back out again, the landscape will be entirely different.   Life will be profoundly altered. 

Valentines Day 2020

Dear (very dear) Husband,

You are not the husband I would have chosen for me.

I would have chosen someone who votes like me, thinks like me, never gets mad at me, and thinks meltdowns are the cat's meow.   I would have chosen someone who thinks dishes are the most exciting things in the world to wash and dry and can't wait to do them every day.

And if I had made that choice, it wouldn't have been the best choice, by any stretch of the imagination.  As I look back over ten years of marriage this Valentines day, I know that I am a better person because I have known you. I know that I am a more loving person because you've loved me. And, I know I am a more patient person because I've been married to you.  If that sounds like a disclaimer that lands itself in 8 point font at the bottom of a marriage contract ... then I've written these words poorly.

I so often hear of couples whose marriage has survived decades of time that the marriage has had its ups and downs.   As I get in my imaginary reflective airplane and fly over our marriage -- the good, the bad, the funny, the frustrating, the sweet, and the routine - I see a landscape that has changed and grown, brought us closer together, nourished us into better people, and is painted in colors that for the rest of both of our lives will be entirely stored in memories that are both warm and good.   I guess I have God to blame for that.... all the downs get woven into a landscape of fabric that heads ever up. 

This Valentines Day, I bought you a card containing words crafted by some clever chap at Hallmark about the "stuff that only boring old married people like us understand."  While our boring moments appear to be few and far between and we have trouble acting our age... that may change in the next phase of our marriage.

Or not. 

Happy Valentines Day with
Hugs and Love from your favorite firecracker

Just like cooking in a clean kitchen

Kitchens don't have to be big (although at the rate I mass produce food, it helps), but they have to be clean.   And, given the amount of time I spend in the kitchen, a clean kitchen comes as a clean analogy to a pure heart.  This analogy sprang forth in Bible study last week when the following question was posed by our fearless group leader:    What helps us to practice loving one another with pure hearts? 

Since my mind is usually on food of some sort, I spontaneously replied to the question with:  "It's like cooking in a clean kitchen." 

A clean kitchen can get dirty in many ways.  Having accomplished most of those ways in one form or another over my days of cooking, baking, and experimenting, I feel qualified to comment:

Chicken -- every time, I slap a piece of raw chicken on the cutting board, I immediately visualize all of the bacteria getting ready to grow, thrive, multiple and invade whatever dish awaits nearby.  Keeping the kitchen clean means keeping the bacteria at bay, taking care not to spread remnants of raw chicken over spaces, places, and sponges that are breeding grounds for more bacteria.   The wrong bacteria in the stomach and intestinal tract creates havoc almost immediately, as anyone who has had food poisoning well knows.   Keeping the heart free from the emotional equivalent and consequences of bacteria means being committed to counting to ten (well... sometimes a hundred and in some situations, a thousand) before opening my mouth after someone says something.  It means waiting out the swell of emotion that erupts immediately after a hurtful word, an offensive phrase, a careless action, or an inevitable frustration of daily life.   Preventing the bacteria from running rampant means slowing down to let the heart do its housecleaning before opening my mouth.  But to my dismay, I do a far better job of slowing down to corral the bacteria in the kitchen than keeping my many spontaneous thoughts from popping out of my mouth and causing immediate harm.

Sneezy the Cook -- with my allergies, this should be my nickname.  Despite my efforts to turn away, cover my mouth and nose, and otherwise control any potentially virus-containing droplets from hitting the air running, I still envision them doing their nefarious deed and landing on food... destined to be ingested, incubated, and turned into some dastardly illness days later (yes, I realize allergies aren't contagious, but considering almost everyone in my household has them, I have to wonder about that).   The less literal, more metaphorical virus that often interferes with a pure heart is a word or action that on its first imprint, feels like nothing at all.  Then a few days later, my heart officially takes offense and before I know it, I'm snapping at someone who had nothing to do with the original words or action that hurt me in the first place (hint: the spouse makes an awesome target for the emotional virus).   It's my fault here. I don't take the time to sort through all the emotions and negative feelings that accumulate in daily life, figure out where they came from and why I'm holding on to them, and take the appropriate medicine (whether talking it out, confronting the person who hurt me, or something else) to prevent the virus from taking hold in my heart and causing an influenza of symptoms directed at those around me.  

Toxics -- these are the sneaky little guys (ok... molecules) that lurk in the kitchen with big fancy names like phthalates perchlorethylene, triclosan and quarternary ammonium compounds that are largely invisible, easy to ignore, and only cause problems years later when they result in such minor diseases like cancer and its other horribly painful and chronic cousins.   Toxics are amazingly easy to ignore in the kitchen -- after all, if the kitchen looks clean and there are no bits of snot or chicken guts in plain view, then it must be clean!   But, those little toxic pieces add up over time, and in spiritual speak that means a heart calcified with walls of bitterness that gradually becomes unable to love because it has so long been exposed to little doses of toxicity here and there and everywhere.   And, the funny thing about toxics in the kitchen is that the very cleaning products we use to clean the kitchen can be full of those little multisyllabic poisons.  That's not unlike trying to clean the heart with the wrong products and tools -- a little bit of alcohol, a drop of denial, a dose of mindspeak absent of Godspeak... all can lead to a chronically compromised heart.   

The good news is that while God is not going to drop into my kitchen and clean it every night (sigh -- wouldn't that be the cat's meow?), He is awfully gracious when I ask Him to clean and purify my heart.  The essential, 100% natural, non-toxic cleaner is (drum roll please)... prayer, meditation, petition, and sometimes a little bit of contention for good measure.   

But rather unfortunately, I excel more at keeping a clean kitchen than paying attention to the daily care involved in cleaning out the heart.  So, while good and healthy food (ok.. sometimes not quite so healthy but nevertheless tasty) can stream out of my kitchen in high volumes, loving others out of a pure heart doesn't come so easily.   

Amen.  

Now, back to cooking.   

And, cleaning my kitchen.