Spinning from news too intense, too constant, to absorb, I reach for the keyboard, the notebook, to ground myself. But instead of writing, I look out at the cottonwoods, the patches of snow on the sagebrush, the distant mountains. How I will miss this place, where I’ve felt found again—pieces of myself at last gathered into a bouquet of balance.
I’ve spent my days living simply. I inhabit just two rooms, one with a bed and a sink, a small assortment of clothes and toiletries, another with the stack of books I’ve brought from home, my computer, piles of pads and notebooks filled with recent writing practice from which I draw image and inspiration. It’s a cozy studio with a couch, a leather chair and two desks, a door leading out to a deck. Nearby is another building called The Schoolhouse in which our brilliant chef is now busy making the exquisite dinner she serves us each night where the small and congenial group of us (three visual artists, a composer, a sculptor, two playwrights and Chris and I, the two writers), come together to discuss our day’s experience. It also contains a large and comfortable gathering space, in which we can convene for readings and connection.
But sadly, there will be no reading by me, as all of us have to leave on Wednesday. Just Chris, whose other residencies have been canceled, will remain, as he has no home to go. Renting an apartment in a nearby town has been his interim solution. I worry he’ll end up there for months.
So on Wednesday morning we’ll get into the Suburban with our luggage and Tracey will drive us to the small one-gate Sheridan airport. United will fly us to Denver, and then a few hours later, I’ll board a plane to Hartford. At midnight, my husband will be there to meet me, but we won’t be able to kiss and hug after nearly three weeks of separation (social distancing), and will both wear masks for the trip home.
Of course, I’m worried. We’ve been calling each day as the crisis has escalated, and writing back and forth frequently, as my flight home has had to be changed twice. Though the Denver airport isn’t one of the hubs that’s been so crowded, it will still be full of people. I’ve been planning to wear the surgical gloves he’s sending me (I bought gloves and masks months ago) but they may not reach here until after I’ve left.
I write of my concern. He responds:
You will be ok; you are really good and innovative in crises; worst case scenario of no glove arrival - wear the winter gloves you brought
I hope I will be okay. I hope I will be innovative in this crisis. I hope I get the gloves in time. I am glad he thinks that I will be able to rise to the occasion. I hope I can manage to carry back some of the peace I’ve felt in this protected space. I hope I can keep my heart open and feel compassion for my fellow travelers, all of whom will be anxious too.
But patience has never been my strong suit. And I remember that hope is expectation, and not living in the moment, so I will have to reread all my Buddhist books, especially Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart and do lots of sitting meditation, to help me accept that this is the way it is right now and hoping it will be different is just causing double suffering.
He tells me this morning that we may be staying home in isolation for two months. Two months! But we must join the national effort to “flatten the curve,” that is to mitigate social interactions as much as possible, even in our own household, especially at our ages. It will be hard, as changing one’s ingrained habits of behavior always is.
But my first reaction was “You mean I can’t get my hair cut?” Really!
I am fastidious about my hair, getting it styled every 6 weeks at least, and it will have been six weeks when I get home. Of course I had an appointment scheduled for two days after my arrival.
“I’ve always loved you in long hair,” he says, laughing. But I don’t think it’s funny, imagining my unruly, inelegant locks two months from now. Until I catch myself and begin to take in how the crisis in the outside world will affect us, what a tiny challenge this is. The things we take for granted—food shopping, dinners with friends, movies out, yoga and tai chi classes, trips to see our son and his family, our grandsons at college, doctor and dentist appointments, shopping, travel abroad, and yes, haircuts—will end.
Will the assets we are living on hold out in this terrifying economic environment? I haven’t thought this far, although the Dow has had its worst day in history and as retirees, we depend on our investments. I decide to put this thinking out of my mind.
Will one or both of us get sick with COVID-19? We are in that age group, though both healthy, older people have compromised immune systems. And where would we go to get tested, hospitalized? We have only a very small hospital in our nearby rural town.
I decide to put that thought out of my mind as well.
But maybe the enforced isolation could be a positive experience? It’s possible. I can read the accumulated pile of New Yorkers curling their pages in the basket by the couch, make some curried lentil soup and veggie burgers, take long walks with Stella our dog, in the woods near our house, and better yet, create a residency in my own home. I have a beautiful study with a door that closes, and when the books I’ve had here for inspiration arrive by UPS, I’ll just spread then out as I have here, get out my pads and notebooks and dig in, furious with inspiration and drive, instead of frustration and deprivation.
That’s actually sounding pretty good to me.
Now if only I can get home safely.