The silence day and night is really only punctuated by the intermittent sound of sirens passing by on Sixth Avenue below. Normally the noise of traffic is so loud it penetrates the re-enforced windows of the apartment. But not the last few weeks.
I also now notice the church bells a few blocks away. They toll on the hour, and on any other day I wouldn't hear them. But now they have become to me a regular reminder to still my soul, silence my mind, and go to that place in my spirit where I find solace.
The streets are eerily quiet, like the photo I took from my balcony mid-afternoon today. When I do go out for groceries, I avoid the few people I see on the street. The only people who do approach me are the homeless or mentally ill who seem more desperate now than in non-pandemic times.
I haven't wanted to put anything in writing about what it's like to live in the heart of Midtown Manhattan in the current epicenter of the pandemic. It feels insensitive and narcissistic to share my experience when I don't know anyone personally who has passed away. Yet.
It's really just a matter of time, I suppose.
So I measure my words, manage my emotion, and stay as focused as possible throughout the day. And I pen these thoughts right now because so many lovely friends and family from across the world have checked in wanting to know how I am doing.
Yesterday I did a mental tally of the people I know personally who have gotten the virus. I stopped counting because it was too overwhelming. There were just too many.
It's likely many more of us--myself included--have been exposed and resolved with little symptoms. At least that's what I hope for.
My social media feed is filled with accounts of friends and acquaintances who are suffering immeasurably. In between those talking about their own illness--or their friend who died-are the reports of healthcare workers, most of whom I know personally. They share their experiences of vulnerability and courage of being on the front line, working to save lives, fighting for us all.
As of Thursday, it's been 21 days stay-at-home for me. And while I would like to say this has gotten easier, it really hasn't. The pathos is great. My heart is heavy.
It feels a little like the movie Groundhog Day. Not working takes away the normal markers so that weekdays flow into weekends. I've forgotten the day of the week more than once.
But, this is not Groundhog Day. This is real life. This is the new normal--at least for a few more weeks to come.
I try to stay consistent with my spiritual practice. That is what grounds me. It's where I find my strength to not give into the dark abyss of fear and uncertainty.
When I silence the chatter of my mind, it's as if I can then feel the pain of those suffering throughout NYC. So I breathe in and out, trusting my sighs are sacred and might somehow carry peace and healing to others in need.
The virus teaches me how very much connected the whole world really is. We are all in this together. No woman or man is an island, even though we practice social distancing and maintain two meters apart.
At this time I'm not overly worried about Ian or myself. He is doing an amazing job in the medical response at Bellevue, fighting this demon on the front line. He is an American hero. An evening doesn't go by that we don't shed some tears when processing our day. We weep for ourselves, for our friends, and for our city. We weep as well for the sick, the suffering, and the dying.
I am mostly concerned about my friends and family across the country, especially in states and regions where the government hasn't responded early enough. I am not convinced that everyone realizes how overwhelming this thing is. And I want them to be prepared for the coming tsunami.
Having said that, I am not sure you can really ever be fully prepared. You say a prayer, take a deep breath, and then go and do your very best.
This is what my Grandpa Benz meant when he would say, "Put legs to your prayers." The Great Depression and World War II taught his generation how to do that. I hope we can learn how to as well.
During this time, I remind myself of my deeply held values, foremost, that all life is sacred and connected. And it is the responsibility of those in positions of authority to enact measures to protect the vulnerable in our society, especially in times of pandemic and national crisis.
It disturbs me when I see this not happening.
I'm angry because some parts of federal and local governments did not do their part early enough to heed the words of scientists, medical doctors, and public health officials who were sounding the alarm.
I'm disgusted that many people were posting online that the mainstream media was sensationalizing the threat.
I'm alarmed that people minimize what is now upon us and compare this to the flu. This is not the flu.
I'm sad that those sick in hospital can't see the compassionate faces of their care givers due to protective masks.
I'm overwhelmed at the thought that people are dying alone without their loved ones by their side.
I'm shocked that some people can't even go to the morgue to touch their deceased loved one and say goodbye.
I'm beside myself that pastors are holding church services in the name of religious freedom when in reality the are placing people in harm's way. These snake oil salesman misrepresent God and profiteer off their congregations. They abdicate the high calling on their lives.
I'm undone because none of this should be this way. It shouldn't be happening here. But it is.
I trust that as a nation we will take a long moral inventory when this is over and make changes. Because after this, everything must change.
I also humbly recognize that my strong emotion will not change things. For now, it only serves to tie me up in knots of angst and anxiety.
So I choose to let it go and refrain from engaging in online arguments. People often speak from a place of fear, ignorance, or invincibility. It is not my job to correct those with whom I do not have ongoing relationship. Thank goodness for that!
My emotional energy is better served in building up those around me, encouraging those who are in fear, and connecting with those who feel so very alone.
It's as Governor Cuomo said a few days ago, we need partnership over partisanship.
Because the new patriots are agents of healing, not agents of war.
So I gather together the distressed parts of my soul and remind myself, this is hard but we are in this together. We are not alone.
I lift my gaze and shore up my optimism that we will get through this.
I count my blessings.
I make my gratitude list.
I check in with friends and family.
I choose to be gentle with myself and show compassion to the weak.
I look for the helpers.
When I hear about someone who has died, I say their name out loud, giving witness to the Universe that this person's life matters and they did not die in vain.
And I as hear the screeching of sirens and the tolling of bells, I allow this experience to work something within me greater and deeper than I have experienced before.
Recent Comments