I'm struck by the number of people who wave at me. It used to be you waved at people you knew, or strangers with whom you had some kind of spontaneous bond: another Jeep driver, or a fellow bicyclist heading the opposite way. Now, perhaps because our human interaction is so limited, we seem to crave whatever interaction we can have. And just being out and encountering another person is unique enough that we have that alone as a serendipitous connection. Hence a small gesture of familiarity speaking to our common condition.
I'm struck by how I see things I never saw before. For years and years we have walked our neighborhood on a quiet weekend. On those walks my wife and I talk about what happened in our week, what's coming up for the next and the goings-on around us. We more or less did the route by rote, using the journey as a chance to catch up with each other more than as a sightseeing expedition. But now that we're together 24/7, our discussions are continuous, hardly saved up for days at a time. And our walks have become a more or less a daily occurrence. And so our focus on them turns outward. It's not that there is a lot changing continuously. But the blooming of a plant, a toy left on a lawn, the sound of an animal or a bird that seems to have made a home in a tree are all worthy of attention.
I'm struck by how quickly our new normal has become the old normal. Barely two months ago the sight of a person wearing a mask and gloves would have been cause for curiosity. We would have thought the person was an alarmist, eccentric at best, crazy at worst. Now I think exactly the opposite. I expect to see others masked up, and am more thrown by those not doing it.
I'm struck by how blue the sky is. Especially as the weather is beginning to change, and after an especially bleak week or two when rain and gray skies were the norm, the woods have turned from brown to green and the sky to blue. I know that you can't see the virus, and nothing in the physical world shows it presence. And we've been told that it will not magically disappear or burn itself out as we move into warmer weather. But the appearance of the harbingers of a new season, one which offers new life, gives one hope that we will indeed emerge on the other side of this at some point.
I'm struck by how quickly we've have adapted to a new way of interacting both personally and professionally. Formerly we picked and choose what worked for us based on a variety of factors and their availability. In person, on the phone, electronically, online: we floated among the options presented, choosing the best for the circumstance. But virtually overnight the first in the list was rendered untenable. And within weeks even those who described themselves as technologically illiterate figured out how to do a Zoom call. While most miss the physical component, we have embraced the other formats to fill the gap with lightning speed. In fact, we've gone one better, creating gatherings where none existed before. Virtual meetups, on-line trivia contests, discussion groups, long distance happy hours (what my wife has dubbed "ZoomTails") are the norm. An imperfect substitute for a real world existence, but embraced by many with gusto.
I'm struck by how nothing has changed and everything has changed. Unless you or someone close to you have had the misfortune to be stricken by the virus, in the small moments it can feel as if all is the same. The sun still shines, your home is still standing, the people you know are all still there. In those first moments when you wake up in the morning you can almost forget the current state of affairs. Then you remember. And that's when you realize that everything is different, that even when it returns to whatever is the new normal, it won't be like it was, at least not for a long time.
I'm struck by the realization that we are at an inflection point. Much of our existence can be described as a time between history; that is, a period when nothing of major significance happens. While It might seem important at the time, when the textbooks are written, most events will be just a blip, rating a mention or paragraph at best. This looks to be different, one of those instances when a sea change happened while we were watching, made all the more rare by the speed with which it took place.
I'm struck by the fact that I am one of the lucky ones. Our family is fine. Knock wood, at this point our livelihoods and lives are under pressure but still intact. Planning plays a part, but only to a point: luck is as much a determinate as anything else. I read stories of those who lost jobs and family members. I volunteer at a local food bank and see people who, through no fault of their own, need help they never thought they would need. And while thankful for our current fate, I see how quickly and profoundly it can change through forces and fates we don't control.
I'm struck by that.
-END-
Marc Wollin of Bedford is trying to take it a day at a time. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.
I'm struck by how I see things I never saw before. For years and years we have walked our neighborhood on a quiet weekend. On those walks my wife and I talk about what happened in our week, what's coming up for the next and the goings-on around us. We more or less did the route by rote, using the journey as a chance to catch up with each other more than as a sightseeing expedition. But now that we're together 24/7, our discussions are continuous, hardly saved up for days at a time. And our walks have become a more or less a daily occurrence. And so our focus on them turns outward. It's not that there is a lot changing continuously. But the blooming of a plant, a toy left on a lawn, the sound of an animal or a bird that seems to have made a home in a tree are all worthy of attention.
I'm struck by how quickly our new normal has become the old normal. Barely two months ago the sight of a person wearing a mask and gloves would have been cause for curiosity. We would have thought the person was an alarmist, eccentric at best, crazy at worst. Now I think exactly the opposite. I expect to see others masked up, and am more thrown by those not doing it.
I'm struck by how blue the sky is. Especially as the weather is beginning to change, and after an especially bleak week or two when rain and gray skies were the norm, the woods have turned from brown to green and the sky to blue. I know that you can't see the virus, and nothing in the physical world shows it presence. And we've been told that it will not magically disappear or burn itself out as we move into warmer weather. But the appearance of the harbingers of a new season, one which offers new life, gives one hope that we will indeed emerge on the other side of this at some point.
I'm struck by how quickly we've have adapted to a new way of interacting both personally and professionally. Formerly we picked and choose what worked for us based on a variety of factors and their availability. In person, on the phone, electronically, online: we floated among the options presented, choosing the best for the circumstance. But virtually overnight the first in the list was rendered untenable. And within weeks even those who described themselves as technologically illiterate figured out how to do a Zoom call. While most miss the physical component, we have embraced the other formats to fill the gap with lightning speed. In fact, we've gone one better, creating gatherings where none existed before. Virtual meetups, on-line trivia contests, discussion groups, long distance happy hours (what my wife has dubbed "ZoomTails") are the norm. An imperfect substitute for a real world existence, but embraced by many with gusto.
I'm struck by how nothing has changed and everything has changed. Unless you or someone close to you have had the misfortune to be stricken by the virus, in the small moments it can feel as if all is the same. The sun still shines, your home is still standing, the people you know are all still there. In those first moments when you wake up in the morning you can almost forget the current state of affairs. Then you remember. And that's when you realize that everything is different, that even when it returns to whatever is the new normal, it won't be like it was, at least not for a long time.
I'm struck by the realization that we are at an inflection point. Much of our existence can be described as a time between history; that is, a period when nothing of major significance happens. While It might seem important at the time, when the textbooks are written, most events will be just a blip, rating a mention or paragraph at best. This looks to be different, one of those instances when a sea change happened while we were watching, made all the more rare by the speed with which it took place.
I'm struck by the fact that I am one of the lucky ones. Our family is fine. Knock wood, at this point our livelihoods and lives are under pressure but still intact. Planning plays a part, but only to a point: luck is as much a determinate as anything else. I read stories of those who lost jobs and family members. I volunteer at a local food bank and see people who, through no fault of their own, need help they never thought they would need. And while thankful for our current fate, I see how quickly and profoundly it can change through forces and fates we don't control.
I'm struck by that.
-END-
Marc Wollin of Bedford is trying to take it a day at a time. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.
2 comments:
You captured the feelings I have felt walking the same neighborhood. Luck, the dissonance between normalness and natural beauty around me and the knowledge of so much suffering going on only a few miles away. And the odd, tentative community of neighbors I am getting to know, if only a little.
Thx for the kind words!
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