It has been 26 days since New Yorkers were told to stay at home and start social distancing. What we thought was ‘normal’ has now changed and we must adapt to our ‘new normal’.
While everyone is going through these changes; our experiences are all different.
WNBA member Sheila Lewis gives us an intimate look into a week of her Social Distancing Life.
Life and Death in the Days of Corona
A month ago before Corona (BC) feels like a year. Time has accelerated and offers deep lessons daily. What I thought I knew then about how life unfolds, is upended. Now, it seems, no one knows anything for sure, not even the experts. Just read last week’s news, it’s been refuted already. There is a relief in living life as an unknown adventure rather than as a set of expectations and achievements. We are both children, weavers of wonder, and adults, first responders, witnesses of global horrors, disease, death, and recovery. It’s all very confusing. But this I do know. I can choose how I want to be with the whole mess of it. I have inner reserves waiting for my call.
April 11: Spring to Action
My simmering indignation boils over to annoyance. Why aren’t they wearing their masks? I go out early to Riverside Park, but the quiet bird watchers give way to casual clusters of clueless people–runners, bikers, dog walkers, and their invisible, selfish spittle. Today I enter at Joan of Arc, 94th St. The impressive, heavy metal lady towers over the promenade. I focus on the cherry blossom pinks topped with halos, bouncing their wisps of light over to the impossibly cheerful yellow daffodils and tulips.
I try to ignore the unleashed dogs running wild. Do their owners care? No, they don’t. Do dogs carry the virus? I turn to the squirrels, who seem fatter, and the robins, their red breasts fuller. I stare a bit longer, work myself past annoyance to a simple contentment. What’s the hurry to work? I head home to the clutter of my dining table/desk/office, clear the tiles and teacups, and start to type. I’m a second responder. Well, that’s worth something, isn’t it?
April 12: Thirty Days
My mother was buried four weeks and a lifetime ago, at the cusp of Corona. The finality of her death pales when considering her well-lived life. She was 95, and the last years brought a steady decline of body and mind, with embers of spirit bursting through. She got to see (on FaceTime) her newborn great-granddaughter, and a week later, Lyla Ruth was sheltering at home and my mother Ruth was gone. Her timing was impeccable. Just hours before she passed, the Tuttle Nursing Home sent home private aides and restricted family visits. Miraculously, my brother was with her.
Hers was a new kind of burial, with 40 or so people gathered, socially distanced, and family from Boston to Israel livestreamed in. Her great-nephew officiated and with words of affection, struck the right tone, as good clergy do. My rabbi and my brother’s rabbi were also present. Holiness points go as well to the gravediggers. In their space alien protective gear and with tractors, they were the only ones allowed near the casket and grave, next to my dad’s. We stood back. I watched what seemed like a scene from a Spielberg movie. I looked up at the chilly blue sky and asked a child’s question: “Were the puffy clouds really heaven’s way of opening its arms to greet her?”
Today, Sunday, we zoomed in, siblings, their spouses, kids, grand-kids, for an informal memorial. The grandkids adored her and cried on Zoom. She was a decent mom for her day, an excellent social worker, and an extraordinary grandma. Love has a funny way of limping through generations and familial differences.
April 13: Weirdness is the New Normal.
Shiva, the seven day mourning period is not the same. No bagels, platters of comfort food, guests milling about, and no sitting low on shiva chairs, as is customary. I sit at home with my husband Sheldon. Another first, a two hour Zoom shiva, has been set up, and I welcome 30 or so people virtually into my living room.
It’s possible to feel sad, heavy, light, muddled, furious, content, feelings in all colors. I’m balancing a new normal, knowing there will never be an old normal, or a living mother, again. What we thought we knew a few months ago counts for nothing and we don’t know what’s going to happen next. It is possible to keep the mind strong, practice emotional fitness, and feel muscular aliveness on morning walks.
I remind myself and students in (Zoom) meditation classes that worry and obsession are useless activities that exhaust the mind and rarely lead to creative solutions. I ponder deeper truths, previously abstract notions, like proud puddles of philosophy. My longtime meditation teacher spoke on Easter Sunday (livestream) of the need for both practicality (based on such things as intuition and listening inside) and a grounded, spiritual philosophy. These two arms anchor me now. On a good day, they get me to the laundromat or market at just the right time. Small triumphs are cause for elation.
The pendulum swings between internal and external forces as each day takes on its own pace and shape. I feel as if I get nothing done and everything done. Conversations focus on life, its eccentric rituals, and not so much on Corona. Last week I explained Passover food rituals to the staff at my son’s group home. I felt exquisite appreciation for their front line work caring for their fragile charges. Gratitude is in sharper focus.
April 14: What I Know and Don’t Know
Five weeks after that cold, clear day at New Montefiore Cemetery, I know some things to be true. People I knew peripherally have died of Corona, a few are wavering. A chaplain friend faces the dying daily at a hospital job she just started two months ago. A doctor friend treats patients and quietly shares her secrets of wellness. Two babies were born in my family. On Facetime, my grandson’s face flits by between basketball shots and my grand-daughter’s smile dazzles. They know it’s not a “real” visit. Like many young working parents, my son and daughter-in-law are going a bit batty.
Friendships sustain my spirit, from Italy to Seattle, from a South African lady running a kick-ass children’s writing class. Friends nearby disappear at a disappointing rate and new ones crop up. Do-gooders offer platitudes and nothing else so I vow not to be like them. I show up for few isolated souls who are thrilled to get a call or some food—and try not to feel too smug, but I do. I wave when I see the UPS guy Barry, Luis, who serves me coffee at Tal Bagel, and drivers of buses without passengers.
At 7pm, we unite in an exhilarating burst of good cheer clapping for the essential workers. Last night, a gong and strong winds. Corona Virus has brought us together at a distance. Every moment is a blessing of new discovery, a choice of hope over fear, delight over despair. What I don’t know is when I will get to hug my grandchildren, and if they will want to hug me back.
The space between Know and Don’t Know is the place to breathe and rest.
For more information about writing and meditation classes (now virtual), contact Sheila at sheilaklewis@gmail.com
Sheila Lewis is a longtime WNBA member. She is a freelance writer, editor, writing coach, and meditation teacher.
Sheila, love the last line of the post. It could very easily be the start of a writing prompt. You went through a lot, but was able to see that there is always something positive around you.