I seem to have an underlying edge, as though my blood is moving too fast through my veins. I am in a perpetually-heightened state. I recall Dr. Hillary McBride advising to “discharge our mobilization tendency” by making fists and releasing; tightening body parts and relaxing; exhaling, and doing it again until my body believes it has escaped from the perceived threat and that I am safe. Even that feels like too much work when I am feeling paralyzed.
Not every moment feels like this. Yesterday, Joe and I took Ivy to the Cauffiel House & Estate at Bellevue State Park. I took Roger there last year where we sat on the front lawn facing I-495 South, the Delaware River, and on the other side, New Jersey. I had hoped to see the Phillies truck pass by on its way to Clearwater for spring training. We didn’t see it, but I have the memory of that time with my Roger.
Yesterday, with no one else around, we released Ivy from her leash and let her run on the expansive lawn. We ran with her and she followed. She explored, she found sticks, she sniffed. In the far distance I caught the movement of an orange-red fox. We saw mourning doves rise in dramatic fashion, and rushing trains head south along the tracks across the highway. We came home and spent much of the day outdoors. Joe cut the grass and spray-painted a garden cart (a lovely blue that makes me smile). I weeded, trimmed the vines along the back fence, and filled the bird feeders. Ivy walked with us, enjoying the smells, sights, and sounds of our yard. We spoke with our neighbors, José and Ellen; Judy and her dog, Henry. We kept our social distance, previously measured by the length of Ivy’s six-foot leash, but now instinctively estimated.
For that time, life felt normal.
And, then I came inside.
Numbers. Numbers of worldwide cases; numbers of worldwide deaths; numbers of U.S. cases; numbers of U.S. deaths; numbers related to the stock market; numbers of masks, ventilators, and PPEs. As a teenager, I remember the news including numbers of troops killed in Vietnam. It was like a math problem, unattached to human beings. Unattached to snuffed-out life.
My peace in this time comes from walks with Angela and Rockland; Ivy at my feet; Graycie at the window; tutoring students via FaceTime and Zoom. It’s blooming cherry trees, buds on the blueberry bushes, and proud-standing tulips. It’s birds building nests and visiting at my feeders. It’s the three stars lined up in the north-eastern sky at 5:00 a.m. when it’s still dark and Ivy needs to go out. It’s the first sip of coffee when the steam rises to meet me.
It’s remembering that this will end, but not quite believing it.