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.