Reflections on Sequestering during the Coronavirus

Sandra Waddock (cc) 2020

It’s a new normal. Uncomfortable for many of us. This morning we (my POSSLQ and I) got up at the ungodly hour of 5:45 to go a supermarket that offered ‘senior’ hours to help us maintain social distancing (and presumably find something on the shelves as well). It is a supermarket chain that I never go to because it is cavernous and because most of the products it carries are filled with empty (or sugary) calories that we try to avoid. We prefer the smaller size and real food offerings of a Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods—but there we were. To the store’s credit, there were wipes available at the entrance. We used them.

We have been at home for almost two weeks now. So far, it is ok. We have enough food and other stuff. We have faith that people will soon stop their hoarding instincts and that supplies we all need will become available. Faith that the ingenuity of America’s mayors, governors, and businesses will overcome the ineptness, delays, and lack of concern about people at the federal level.

Wandering the mostly empty store in search of the things on my seemingly endless shopping list, I watched as diligent workers stocked the shelves. I wanted to thank every one of them for their work. You know, like we sometimes remember to thank members of the military for their service. It just seemed that these people, including the checkout clerk who helped us, are now on the front lines of helping people maintain some semblance of normalcy, not to mention get necessary supplies.

It was all so strange, being there almost alone. The roads were deserted as we drove there in the dark. Stars were just fading in the sky—some small miracle of normalcy usually slept through. In the middle of the unfamiliar store, I was suddenly overcome with grief. Over the lack of the products I really wanted. Over ‘social distancing’ for the (presumed) well. Over not seeing friends and family. Over cancelled work for so many. Cancelled weddings and other social events, cancelled concerts and other performances. Over disrupted and already lost lives. Over lost jobs and employment. Or worse. Over the risks we are all facing. Over the uncertainty. Over not knowing what to do.

Still we are lucky. We are, after all, able to go to the grocery store. We are, for the moment, healthy, even if unable to have dinner with my son on the usual once-a-week basis. I am able to work from home, to see colleagues and friends through Zoom. I have work and a paycheck. We can go out for an appropriately socially distant walk daily. Some people are not so lucky.

As the light of morning grew, the sadness diminished. People are resilient. We will find ways to connect, do our best to make sure the ones we love are safe—and help when they are not. Many of us are already doing so. Technology, ironically, which often distances us, can really help. Our smart phones, tablets, and computers have become invaluable aides. These truly amazing devices can help us connect.

Already the spark of creativity is helping us find ways to stay connected in our sequestration. We can use conferencing technologies like Zoom and Skype to share a glass of wine with friends, have an online ‘get together’ that would ordinarily take place in person, teach our students, have meetings, just say hello to someone. We can use technology to have church services, speak with health providers, or ask questions. We can listen to live-streamed concerts that help support some of our musician friends and other artists who now find themselves with no work. One friend is putting an open mike online. Today I hosted a Zoom meeting of my songwriting group—more to see familiar and friendly faces than share a song for most of us, I suspect.

Social isolation means being at home for long hours. Many of us will be forced to learn new things—or re-engage with things we used to know how to do. Learn to sew (sew some masks for healthcare workers if you have the equipment, supplies, and the skill). Learn to cook. Clean out those drawers, closets, shelves, and stacks of papers that have been staring at you for years. Paint a room. Start gardening if you have access to the outdoors. Go for walks (staying six feet apart from everyone else). Meditate. Exercise as possible. Read a book. Get out in nature. Practice your guitar (or whatever). Write that poem, short story, novel, or song you’ve been thinking about for years. Take pictures. Talk to your kids. Sing! Talk to your friends—they need you now. Set up conversations on some friendly technology if necessary. Try something you’ve always wanted to try. Stay at home. Stay safe.

This too shall pass.