Hermit Diary 59. Late Winter, Interior

What do we do -- what do I do -- after a year of this?

The past week has not been easy. Everyone is fatigued. The vaccination program is aggressive here, finally, with large sites in convention centers, shopping malls, and the Olympic stadium; on Friday the age limit was lowered to 65 and above, so I am now eligible, even though there are no appointments to be had at the moment. My husband received his first vaccination on Monday. This is good news, and of course I'm relieved and happy about that, but I was actually feeling pretty down most of the week as Quebec observed the one-year anniversary of the first COVID death and we looked ahead to what is still a very uncertain future. Watching a live video of the solemn official ceremony, I found myself in tears as the Orchestra Symphonique played music on a large outdoor screen outside parliament in Quebec City, and then the players stood, and conductor Kent Nagano slowly laid a white rose on a black bench, mirroring the scene as a huge wreath of white roses was laid in memory of those who have died, and politicians laid their own single roses in front of it. I didn't listen to Premier Legault's speech, and felt sorry for him having to find words; silence, music and flowers seemed inadequate enough in the face of so much loss. But these gestures are what we have, and what we do.

With vaccination proceeding well now, and new cases, hospitalizations and deaths lower than they've been for months, the pressure to lift some of the restrictions is tremendous. Doing so too soon seems very foolish, with all of the variants circulating in the city. And because Quebec is delaying the second shots for four months, in order to vaccinate as many people as possible, it will be July before most people my age are fully vaccinated. Even then, we don't know exactly what it will mean. Will we finally be able to travel to the U.S. to see our family? Will we be able to gather with friends this summer? When will the masks come off, if ever? Incredulous, I read about an entirely different reality playing out in Texas and other parts of the U.S. and the world.

Three more months is nothing, I try to tell myself.

So, I play the piano, I read, I draw, I try to write, I go for walks when there are the least people in the park. I cook what seem like endless meals, after making endless grocery orders: going into a store to pick out what we want feels like an unattainable, distant luxury. I try not to worry or allow anxiety to crowd into my life. This is easier during the daytime than in the middle of the night.

I'm sure you've noticed, as I have, that our moods this year have tended to go up and down in waves. I wish I had the spiritual maturity, or strength, to maintain equanimity at all times, and to put the problems of others at the forefront, but of course I can't. The waves seem to correspond not to any particular outside event, but more to how affected I feel personally; when I'm more anxious, the outer world recedes and I find I'm thinking about myself or my own inner circle, but when I'm feeling more resilient, I have the energy and compassion to consider all of us, and how connected we really are.

Yesterday I received a letter from a friend in China which brought me up short, and made me remember how small my own problems are by comparison. The same is true when I read about Mexico, or Brazil: places where we also have friends or family. I need to pull myself up out of the gloom of the pandemic anniversary, summon some more patience, get busy on projects, and appreciate the brighter, longer days, the blooming plants, and these objects that have kept me company during this long winter.

One of those objects is a pre-hispanic ceramic reproduction by a Mexican artisan that my husband gave me recently. We have admired small sculptures like this in the Archaeological Museum in Mexico City, but the four male figures with linked arms, seated around a fire -- now a votive candle -- seem particularly poignant to me right now. When we have our evening meal, we watch the glow of the flickering light on their individual faces. The drawing above was my first attempt to draw this rather complicated arrangement of figures, forming positive and negative spaces. Afterwards, I did the detailed drawing below to try to familiarize myself with how the shapes fitted together, and the drawing became a meditation on human connection too. 

We aren't finished with the virus, and it is certainly not finished with us, in spite of the fact that many of us in wealthy western countries now have access to vaccines. The disparity in access, as always, has to do with poverty, the color of our skins, our ability to use technology, the strengths and weaknesses of our governments. I am holding in my heart those who desperately wait, and also thinking of the incalculable toll of loss and grief, interrupted lives, and dashed hopes that this year has cost. Those of us who survive will continue and someday fairly soon, we'll start picking up the threads of our former lives. I don't think any of us will be the same, but each of us has a chance to be a better person than we were before.

 

Comments

[Judith McGregor]

You are saying very clearly what so many are thinking and saying across the world. Exhaustion is the common factor, as is sadness, but hopefully also a determination to learn from this awful year. I really don't want to pick up too many threads of my former life. I want to increase my appreciation of small things, to value every possible interaction with others, to be grateful for everything possible and impossible. I didn't expect to be here still - and it would be wonderful to meet a new grandson for the first time now that he's a year old.
Hang on, Beth, and be sure you are not alone in your feelings.

[Duchesse]

The anniversary provided a way to acknowledge the loss of so many, and at the same time emphasized our family's dismay that we have not been able gather to remember two beloved members who have died in the last year (not from Covid). None of us wants to attend an event on Zoom; we are hoping for the summer, outdoors. (Zoom fatigue?) I remind myself not to 'loosen up' too much now that I have had the first shot, but it is a great relief.

[Beth]

Judith, I'm delighted to hear from you. I knew you were all right, but it's good to hear your "voice" directly, and to know that we're thinking along the same lines (not a surprise!) I hope you get to see your new grandson soon. And I agree with you that I don't want to "pick up the threads of my life" in the same way and almost wish I hadn't written those words; like an unexpected diagnosis and illness, or a war, or any other major disruption in our lives, the pandemic has given us an opportunity to assess our lives and ourselves, and make some choices. I'm not terribly optimistic about the whole world doing that, though I hope we will change in some significant ways -- because we must. But it's clear to me that I've changed, and my life going forward will be different. Wishing you all the best, and thank you for this message.

Duchesse, my heart goes out to all who have lost family members and been unable to grieve together or observe the rituals for honoring and celebrating that life. And not just that: the pain of not being able to be with the loved one at the time of their death will also stay forever with so many people. I hope you and your family can get together soon, and yet agree that we still have to be cautious for a while, even while we're relieved at the progress of the vaccinations.

[Jumpringer]

Your words capture so much of how I'm feeling. Thank you for your expressions through words and painting.