The Moral of This Story is Hope

Once upon a time, the human race changed for the better.

The moral of this story is hope.

I’ve always hated apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic stories. Now more than ever. The reason is because they too often envision only one outcome to a disaster. An outcome driven by fear of survival which encourages lawlessness (or self-law) and selfishness. One which encourages violence as the means of getting what is needed (or only wanted). One that says that destruction is always complete and inevitable. One that preaches that survival at any cost is okay.

Come on. Stretch your imagination.

There’s more than one way. There’s more than one way to deal with a crisis. There’s more than one outcome. To any story.

Let me say that one more time. There is more than one way. There is more than one outcome. To any story.

I am not oblivious to what’s going on. I’m not blinded to the fact that the Covid-19 virus is big and scary. We are currently faced with a brand new uncertainty which, like war, is hitting on a global level. Now is a time for which none of us have felt prepared. It’s disturbed normalcy. It’s frightened us with mortality. It’s terrified many of us with loss; of life, of money, of security, of future, of independence, of fun, of safety, of health.  

It’s disrupted the pattern of our day-to-day lives. It’s not been easy and it won’t be easy. Many of us are wondering how to survive while many others of us are upset that our lives are being touched by something because it usually happens to Someone Else. Thoughts and prayers. Bless their hearts. But this is real, people have died and are dying.

This time, whether we like it or not, we are all affected. We are all infected.

The good news is that every single one of us can do our part to help ourselves and each other. The good news is that we are adaptive creatures. The good news is that so many people have already figured out ways to help and to work – for instance, teachers who are using technologies to distance-teach their students. For instance, those donating masks and gloves to medical personnel. For instance, those supporting small businesses in any way possible (buying gift cards, keeping memberships and subscriptions active, etc.). For instance, all who have found ways to do their work from home so as to reduce the risk of getting or giving the virus. For instance, companies whose leadership is acting like human beings once again and looking at their fellow human beings rather than only at some bottom line. For instance, all the medical staff who are working so incredibly hard.

The good news is that we can use the shake up brought on by Covid-19 to become better people. All around better.  

The beautiful thing that can come out of this crisis is a new way of living. One that needs to happen. A way that says all are important. Not the few. Not only the rich. But everyone. A new way to view our time and priorities. A new way to look at how our world operates and to decide whether that mode of operation has expired or not. A new way to go forward from here on out.

One valuable thing we can keep from all of this, one I hope we don’t miss, is the acknowledgment and responsibility of our individual and collective influence in all things.

Practically what can we do?

Those of us who don’t hold essential jobs can stay home to flatten the curve and protect everyone else, especially the immunocompromised. We can take a good hard look at how much pollution has dropped in places like China where the lock-downs have been strict and followed. We can take a good hard look at that and see where we can take strict actions to keep pollution down and limit future build up wherever we are. Because what we do actually impacts our world. We have to take note of that. 

We are not helpless. If the status quo sucks, we can change it.

We can hold our leadership accountable to humanity rather than dollars and political nonsense.

We can hold ourselves accountable to the health of humanity and to the earth. Right now, the easiest way to do that is to stay strict with social distancing. As Dr. Jordan L. Shlain said, “We must weigh the cost of being wrong against the chance of being wrong.” [Emphasis mine.] This is definitely a time when it’s way better to be safe than it is to be sorry. So, stay at home and wash your hands.

While we are doing that, we can also ask questions that address the whole rather than only the self.

How can we heal rather than hurt?

How can we help rather than hoard?

How can we contribute?

How can we reinstall community in a society that got so fast paced we forgot about each other?    

In what ways can we be better?

There’s a Chinese proverb that says: When is the best time to plant a tree? 20 years ago. When is the next best time to plant a tree? Now.

To address the current situation of Covid-19: When is the best time to shelter in place? A month ago. When is the next best time? Now.

Stay at home. Practice social distancing. Wash your hands like there’s a skin-eating contagion on them. Disinfect everything. Be kind to others. Be kind to yourself. Use this time to get to know yourself and those who live in the same house as you. Work a puzzle. Meditate. Laugh. Play games. Get outside (responsibly). Check in with friends (by phone and video chat). Write that story. Draw a picture. Do the workout. Listen. Finish those projects. Start those other projects. Try a new recipe. Clean out that closet. Sort those photos. Read. Engage in a conversation. Dance.    

To continue the theme and address our future and our earth, we can ask: When is the best time to change? Of course, the answer is also 20 years ago. But when is the next best time? Now. Absolutely now. 

What do we know? For one, that we have to change some things. What better time to radically change the way we do things than now when we’ve already stepped into the waters of transition? For another thing, we are more than any economy. For another, we are survivors who can help all those around us survive as well. We are not selfishness. We can and we have to learn to live with the long term in mind—for humans, for the earth, for all living things. We are smart enough. We are capable.

This time is a gift. It’s a hard gift, it’s an unwanted gift, but it is a gift. How will we use it? Let us be wise. Let us be responsive. Let us be proactive.

With all this in mind, here’s an alternate ending: the human race, the whole human race works together. In working together, our lives are both saved and enriched and our earth has a chance to heal. We adapt, we learn, we love.

We can do this.

*Quote taken from: https://tincture.io/dispatch-3-dr-shlain-reporting-from-the-front-lines-a86bca27847b

Daffodil Reminders

There are times of dormancy. Winter. Stasis. Treading water. When I have to remind myself that I’m living life and not just waiting around for the Next Thing. I watch the daffodils raise up out of the dirt and put their faces toward the sun. It’s an object lesson, isn’t it?

Just above the daffodils, the birds fly through my parents’ backyard, stopping in at the feeders for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Redwing blackbirds, redheaded woodpeckers, wrens, blue jays, sparrows, pigeons, doves. Those are the ones I recognize.

The female redwing blackbirds travel in flocks. Twenty there. Thirty over there. Another fifty scattered around. On the warm days, they shrug themselves down into the birdbaths and fling water droplets up into the air around them like orbed jewels. Where do they go when they’re not here, in this oasis of a garden? Where do they sleep at night?

The squirrels fuss at the dog who keeps them from eating all of the birdseed. Vigilant dog. Good girl. They watch her out of the corner of their eyes, tails hang tantalizingly over the edge of the feeders, taunting her. Sometimes she lets them stay, eating, until someone comes outside and then she’s off like a shot, doing her job. Returning for a pat on the head. Returning to lay in the arms of the sun. While the squirrels, having been chased away, respect the agreed upon time, glancing at their watches, and then they climb up one feeder and down another. The game begins again.

When the temperature rises above 50 degrees, the bees venture out. Crowded around the lip of a fountain, they drink, they open their wings to the warmth of the sunshine, they stretch their legs, and then flit off to sniff out the pollen in the dandelion flowers. They fly around a bit winterdrunk, not sure exactly what they’re looking for. Perhaps all the flowers they’ve been dreaming of while they kept each other warm within the walls of their hive.

  

There are times of dormancy. Winter. Stasis. When ideas germinate and begin to press through the dirt of my mind. It’s hard to remember sometimes that what goes on under the surface is often more work than what is shown to the light of day. An image. A thought. A word. A string of words put together like a child-made necklace, strung one bead at a time from the tip of a silver needle onto a thread. A character coming slowly to life. A puppet turning into a real boy. A god turning into a swan. A beast turning into a prince. A memory. A heartbreak. A joy nearly inexpressible. The kindness of a friend. The inevitability of death. Birth. Rebirth. A seed burst out of the hard husk of its shell. Sometimes it’s hard to justify (to myself, to the world, to expectation) that reading is work. Staring off into the distance is work. Watching the bird and squirrels and dogs and insects is work. Thinking itself is work. Listening is work. Hatching stories is work. Germinating plots is work. Watering dialogue is work. Important work.

There are times of dormancy. Winter. When I have to remind myself that the power and the beauty of consciousness is our stories. That there is always room for one more tale. One more book. One more new imagining of an oft-told legend. That stories matter. If only to me. If only for me.

There are times of dormancy. When it feels like nothing is moving forward. And it might not be, for while all direction is not equal, perhaps I can’t move forward because, in fact, I and everything are actually moving upward toward the light.

For the Wild Things

January 2020

One afternoon, I take a walk to an old neighborhood. I want to see if the alley is still grassy and magical the way it was in my childhood. The sun shines down but there’s a chill wind so I pull my jacket in tight and zip it up. A flock of birds signs a jagged signature across the pale blue of the sky. Chicken scratch. Even though it’s too early for honeysuckle or bluebonnets the dandelions are blooming and the winter grass is still green in places.

There’s a line in the introduction to Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac that says, “There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot.” Followed shortly by this, “For us of the minority, the opportunity to see geese is more important than television, and the chance to find a pasque-flower is a right as inalienable as free speech.” (page xvii)

Having done much of my recent work inside, I’ve become itchy for the wild. At the least for some fresh air. For the mysterious patterns that swirl in the thin water of the creek. For the fluff and texture of clouds. For the sound of birds prepping for their spring concerts. For the nearly extinct croak of amphibians. For the woodwind sonatas of the cicadas. For the lullaby of the trees and the wind that puts me, if not directly to sleep, to rest.  

It feels good to stretch my legs. Occasionally, I look up for any geese. Not really expecting them. Just on the lookout. For Leopold has called them to my mind. Instead of geese, a songbird calls out some notes. I stand in the middle of the sidewalk and locate it high up on a barren branch, singing its song into possibility. A wild thing creating musical magic in the crisp Texas air. A promise that spring will come. A promise that new life will begin. A promise of hope. What would we be without hope?

As I leave the songbird behind me, I keep my eyes open for a pasque-flower. I’ve never seen one. Not that I know of or not that I remember. But it’d be a marvelous find, I imagine. Still, although the birds are singing of spring, it might be too early for pasque-flowers. It might not even be the right growing zone for that particular bloom. I don’t really know those kinds of things. My grandmother once taught me to identify Indian Paintbrushes, Black Eyed Susans, and Poison Ivy. She sat next to me on the deck of their house in the country and taught me to hear the distinctive songs of the Whipoorwhil and the Bobwhite. After I’d dusted my socks with sulfur to ward off chiggers, on a trek through the woods she showed me the tracks of deer in the mud.

Later, in another place, I learned to track coyote, wolf, moose, bear, rabbit, squirrel, cat, deer, elk, and birds. To follow those tracks at any rate. To recognize them on the pristine canvas of snow, to understand them in the dark mold of mud. That place where I learned to live around wild things and to feel a bit wild myself.

The childhood alley does still have grass. I walk it trying to appear natural, casual, neighborly, as if looking for geese or childhood magic is a normal thing to do. Preparing my story if someone questions me, “I grew up here.” or “My sister and I used to run barefoot in this alley.” or “Have you ever seen a pasque-flower?” 

I walk the length of the alley, feeling for the residuals of magic, of childhood, of memory. They’re there, faintly, but there. There’s the neighbor’s fence which used to have the best honeysuckle blossoms. There’s the house I lived in. The backyard I played in. The fence I climbed to get out of the yard and into the alley is gone. The garage roof I used to climb up and jump off of is gone, the roof and the garage itself gone. Gone away with all the children perhaps. For where are all the children now? Why aren’t they running down this alley? Who is teaching them about birds, flowers, and tracks? Who is encouraging them to join the minority who cannot live without wild things? Who is teaching them to keep the grass long and the dandelion blossoms uncut and unpicked for the bees?

Who is teaching them to love the wild things?

The songbirds don’t know the answers to my questions. Nor do the trees. Nor do I. Even so, I’m more at peace now having touched the past and having trod through the comfort of grass. I walk myself back to the present still under the winter sun, still with a promise of spring in the air, still with a promise of hope for both the future of the children and the wild things.