Sepia-Colored Days
Looking north over the Hawthorne Bridge.
The wildfires in Oregon, and all along the West Coast, are devastating. During the last six months of the Covid-19 pandemic, one only knows the date by looking at the calendar. Now, during the fires, one only knows the time of day by looking at the clock. Dates and times are becoming strangers. Sepia-colored days turn into dark, smoky nights, turn into sepia-colored days once again. It smells like Christmas, but we are not celebrating. This is not the 2020 I had hoped for; this is the year of the unthinkable. Lord, do not let this be the new normal.
“MANY THINGS I WORRIED ABOUT NEVER CAME TO PASS, AND THE PROBLEMS THAT SHOWED UP WEREN’T THE ONES I’D WORRIED ABOUT.” - KARL PILLEMER
Driving eastbound on the Burnside Bridge.
Today there is not much to do but stay shut in at home. It seems appropriate to sit and put words to thoughts, but focus is easily interrupted. I wanted to paint the basement walls but did not think it to be wise since I could not open the windows. I yearned to work in the yard, but that was not advisable unless I wanted to inhale 25 cigarettes. Even vacuuming was not recommended as the air quality index is the worst of anywhere in the world. So I stayed inside. I regretted biting my fingernails. I doubt I am alone.
It seems odd giving suggestions on how you can better your health when there are historic wildfires sweeping through the state in the middle of a pandemic and protests, so I will refrain. If you are able to move regularly and nourish yourself in a semi-healthy manner right now, I commend you. It is easier for some and much harder for others, and it is no doubt that our well-practiced habits help us greatly at times like this.
The past week I have longed to connect with people. Although most physical contact has been prevented due to social distancing and our voices are muffled by our masks, I am thankful that our eyes remain visible. The windows to our souls reveal that we are weary. Some are nearing their breaking point. More people these last few days have told me that they have shed tears due to these overwhelming circumstances. I too am one of them. Covid-19 has brought out rawness and vulnerability, as the past six months have felt like trying to hold your breath underwater longer than you should. The once impervious wetsuit is now starting to get holes.
Today, if you are able, hold your people close.
Tell stories of the good times.
Laugh at your stupidity.
Reflect on all that you have.
If you need to dance, dance.
If you need to sing, sing.
Go easy on yourself.
It’s okay to cry.
Eat something that tastes good.
Kiss your pets.
Tell your people how special they truly are.
Tell them this too will someday pass.
I heard the song below a couple of days ago. This new rendition reminded me of my youth, when I loved the musical Annie and wore a replica of her gold locket around my neck. I had belted out this tune so many times that in college I used it to audition for a role in my university’s theatre program, even though I was not a theatre major. Before a panel of directors who would decide my fate, I delivered my monologue under a single spotlight, nervously sang the song’s melody, and then tumbled and flipped in the air until I landed awkwardly and fell. With a painful limp and a forced smile, I hobbled off the stage and headed straight to the emergency room where I went home on crutches with a sprained ankle and a bruised ego.
Too embarrassed to show my face in the theatre building, I never checked the audition results posted, until one day my phone rang and it was the director inquiring as to why I had not shown up to theatre practice. Despite my faux pas, surprisingly I had made the cast.
This particular week I needed to be reminded of the simple lyrics of “Tomorrow.” Both literally and figuratively, I believe the sun will come out. Maybe it will not return tomorrow, but it will shine eventually. And when it does, it might not resemble the movie or stage version where Annie is perfectly on pitch with a full orchestra accompanying her. Instead, it may be more like my version where the tune is slightly off delivered on a dimly-lit stage, ending in a sprained ankle.
At this point I could care less either way. However, you can bet your bottom dollar that as long as the sun comes out, we can figure this out together, even if we are hobbling along on crutches.
Traveling westward on the Hawthorne Bridge.