Our rural community is fraught with divides- some as wide as a canyon, others more like hairline fractures- the kind that you barely know are there until you put weight on it.
COVID was the Grand Canyon. What a strange time to look back on- I think we’re still processing the shock and awe of it. One particularly strange habit I noticed the other day in a meeting is whenever anyone references anything that has happened over the last three years, we constantly mix up the years- so much so that we’ve ended up saying 2020-something.
Chapter 1. Isolation- We rarely leave the house. The kids come back home from the city and eventually give up their apartment. It passes through and over us unseen. Do we wipe down the cardboard Amazon box? Do we need to leave the groceries out in the driveway? There are whispers of disbelief, but generally everyone is terrified enough that it's taken seriously. We start a vegetable garden. A relief fund is formed and I throw myself into the work because I have the skills, and because I have no work now that the world has stopped.
Chapter 2. Masks- N95, KN95, all of the cute cloth ones! Colorful options, masks with slogans. I buy one that says VOTE and wear it out to the grocery store, where the clerks tell me about the harassment and threats (???!!!) they are getting when they ask people to put them on. The local mayor (she was always a little out there)begins to tell everyone they are being duped into wearing masks to hide their faces. Political conspiracy is rampant and de rigueur. The fissure starts to widen.
Chapter 3. Standoff: The Vaccine- My husband is an acupuncturist who works with sick people. He qualifies for the first round and I am a little more relieved. At that point, our oldest son is living in Portland and his heart has begun to decline. We are terrified he will get the virus, but he gets his first vaccine in February. He returns home in April, and is told by his team at Stanford he will need a transplant in July. What year is it again? There is a public meeting about mask mandates. Even local restaurants are claiming sides- blatantly flaunting public health guidelines. So much fighting. Why would we not do what is best for each other? Help protect our most vulnerable? My son? Your son? Each other?
Chapter 4. Aftermath- I think as a community we are still processing the trauma. My response has been to start a community foundation. We will not survive all of what we have created unless we learn how to do it together. I'm trying to figure out how. As Mary Oliver said:
And nobody, of course, is kind,
or mean,
for a simple reason.
— Cristine
COVID was the Grand Canyon. What a strange time to look back on- I think we’re still processing the shock and awe of it. One particularly strange habit I noticed the other day in a meeting is whenever anyone references anything that has happened over the last three years, we constantly mix up the years- so much so that we’ve ended up saying 2020-something.
Chapter 1. Isolation- We rarely leave the house. The kids come back home from the city and eventually give up their apartment. It passes through and over us unseen. Do we wipe down the cardboard Amazon box? Do we need to leave the groceries out in the driveway? There are whispers of disbelief, but generally everyone is terrified enough that it's taken seriously. We start a vegetable garden. A relief fund is formed and I throw myself into the work because I have the skills, and because I have no work now that the world has stopped.
Chapter 2. Masks- N95, KN95, all of the cute cloth ones! Colorful options, masks with slogans. I buy one that says VOTE and wear it out to the grocery store, where the clerks tell me about the harassment and threats (???!!!) they are getting when they ask people to put them on. The local mayor (she was always a little out there)begins to tell everyone they are being duped into wearing masks to hide their faces. Political conspiracy is rampant and de rigueur. The fissure starts to widen.
Chapter 3. Standoff: The Vaccine- My husband is an acupuncturist who works with sick people. He qualifies for the first round and I am a little more relieved. At that point, our oldest son is living in Portland and his heart has begun to decline. We are terrified he will get the virus, but he gets his first vaccine in February. He returns home in April, and is told by his team at Stanford he will need a transplant in July. What year is it again? There is a public meeting about mask mandates. Even local restaurants are claiming sides- blatantly flaunting public health guidelines. So much fighting. Why would we not do what is best for each other? Help protect our most vulnerable? My son? Your son? Each other?
Chapter 4. Aftermath- I think as a community we are still processing the trauma. My response has been to start a community foundation. We will not survive all of what we have created unless we learn how to do it together. I'm trying to figure out how. As Mary Oliver said:
And nobody, of course, is kind,
or mean,
for a simple reason.
— Cristine
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