Six Things I Like Best About Quarantine

All this shelter-in-place, quarantine, socially-isolated, keep-your-distance stuff sucks! I don't need to tell you.

The whole thing's a mess. Furthermore, who knows what's really going on, why it's really happening, or when it will actually end? This new shut-in lifestyle is pretty scary. The fear can creep in if you let it. It's hard to keep a positive outlook when we're all wondering if we're in the middle of it all or if this is only the beginning.

It sort of feels like we've been catapulted past the in medias res catalyzing moment of a zombie movie. We missed the part where our heroes band together in a series of meet-cute mishaps and randomly intersecting plotlines in the midst of a global calamity. We skipped the part where everything's chaotic. We missed the scenes where zombies are swarming and quickly vanquished in creative ways, but the chase is on. We join the program currently in progress where, remarkably, just as Act Two begins, the heroes find their way into an abandoned science lab, complete with extra thick security doors and high-set windows, an impenetrable fortress where they can wait for the cavalry or the end of the world. One nervous scientist ushers our little motley group of survivors inside and beep-boop-bops the 24 hour timelock security code.

Here we are, in that moment just after the doors clicked shut. Locked in, warily eyeing each other, wondering if, somehow, during the melee, some, or all, of us were infected. We fight the suspicious urge to watch for signs of illness. We tamp down the fear that every odd feeling or strange tickle means that we ourselves are doomed. And what's with that sweaty, shaky scientist anyway?

The dawn will come. We just have to remember what Douglas Adams said, "Don't Panic!"

Staying positive. That's all we can do. Like all of us, this strange, strange moment has given me time to consider what I like best about quarantine. Since there's nothing else to do while we're all hunkering down in the bunker, allow me to enumerate some things I am grateful for right now.

One:

I realize that those butterflies I felt the first time I met her, way back in 1997, were not just a physiological spark surging through my body due to a super-charged libido. Those buzzing vibes were the universe ringing my soul's doorbell. I've always known, but now I really see that there is no one I would rather face the apocalypse with than her. She is my love, my partner, my friend to the end, (hopefully this isn't it.) I see how our unbreakable bond and partnership is fortified in this chaotic emergency. As in pre-lockdown life, we circle the wagons wordlessly, no-look-passing our way through the myriad obstacles that come our way. If anything gives me hope it's her.

Two:

My children, our eternal sunshine, our immortal future. Despite the racket outside our gates, nothing matters more than them. Their well-being, their safety and sanity. Being together is wonderful, nevermind the reason. They find ways to occupy their time in beautiful ways. Our ceilings and halls echo equally with their giggles, as well as their occasional pitched squabbling. What's better than being stuck inside indefinitely with people you love more than yourself?

Three:

Dinner every night. Sitting down at the table. Just us. Not that we didn't do that before, but now, as we pretend that everything is normal, it seems more important. I realize it always was.

Four:

The thrill in finding ways to meet the challenges that face us personally and professionally. I love watching as my colleagues yearn to connect and support their students. I relish the time spent on video chats just so my students can say hi to me and each other. I value the time all the teachers who teach my own children spend creating content for them to continue their education remotely. We're going to get through it, but we can't let things fall to disrepair in the meantime. The British wartime admonition to Keep Calm and Carry On comes to mind.

Five:

The creativity blossoming in so many disparate places and disciplines. The spirit of sharing, (despite the toilet paper hoarding), becoming a tenet of this moment, even if it's just a smile and a friendly wave. Authors issuing blanket statements of permission to use their works. Tech companies opening up the paywall to let the masses in. There will be time for more money, but for now it seems that our altruistic nature is running the show.

Six:

Artists doing what artists do, giving us hope, sharing their souls, gifting a worried world with small wonders of genius and joy. A generosity of spirit rolling out from all across the globe. All technologically connected and unafraid. Open hearts freely flowing with whimsy and love.

So, batten the hatches, but block out the noise. Most stuff in this life is out of our hands. This is no different. Our outlook, though, that is entirely under our control, so make lemonade or cookies or something cool!

3-25-2020

After a Year

This morning, it smelled of smoke outside. Another wildfire? I wondered.

It made me shudder on a day like today. Maybe it's just some olfactory manifestation of memory one year on. Maybe just coincidence. Regardless, the memories came back.

A clear blue sky, cloudless. That's how these stories always begin, right? But it's important, because the immaculate, clean, pure sky is such a contrast for what's to come. It's never good. We look back on those pristine moments longingly, wishing with all we are that it could somehow erase the horror that came later.

It was windy. Bright and sunny. There's that blue sky again, swept clean of lingering fog and agricultural particulate. As I made my way to the office on some errand during my prep time I noticed a strange cloud. It seemed to originate from the very horizon, like a volcanic plume. It was due north and visible right between the main office building and our gymnasium. That's not right, I thought.

The southern California valley where I grew up, surrounded on all sides by rugged hills covered in waving grasses, dense shrubs, and a scattering of oak trees, as it was, created something of a regular tinderbox. These hills became a Hellscape every fall as the fierce Santa Ana winds whipped the flames into the sky, creating panic and apocalyptic scenes. (And still do today.) Now, I was looking at something familiar, but it took me a moment to recognize the frightening sight. My stomach dropped. I asked a colleague nearby what they thought.

"Just a cloud."

"With the wind, though?" I said. "That's no cloud."

All summer fires had been igniting and threatening all around the northern California valley I now called home. Here was another. Easy to dismiss as just a typical part of California life. I asked around, but no one had heard anything. I finished my task and went out to check again. Indeed, the plume was growing, filling the sky with darkness. I tried a quick search on my phone before returning to class and found a mention of something called the Camp Fire, out near Paradise.

"I've been to Paradise" was once something I liked to say in conversation. Back when I was young and adventurous, (read: dumb), I'd gone with friends for a chance to jump off cliffs and, maybe, drink beer in the sun. We meandered our way to a place called Buzzard's Roost. On the way we'd stopped in town for, um, supplies. It dawned on me that it was pretty cool to actually get to visit a place called paradise. I was certain that it was an amazing thing. I was struck by the notion that others should know it actually existed and that you could, like, go there!

Now, years later, it was on fire. There at school, I knew it was bad, but not the full extent. Only later would we all learn that Paradise pretty much burned to the ground. Harrowing tales of survivors fleeing the inferno have been widely reported. Eighty-five people perished and one can only hope their suffering was short in duration. By that afternoon, the smell of smoke was obvious everywhere around my campus more than eighty miles away. The north wind pushed the smoke right down into the valley, draping a suffocating blanket over our part of the world for weeks.

In the end, Paradise burned down and it's not some Joni Mitchell song. It happened. It's hard not to hear that, to see the devastation, to mourn the loss of life, to wonder just how it happened. To wonder, What in the Hell is going on? It is easy to jump to conclusions and think that the sky is falling, especially when last year, it really seemed to do just that. Everything seemed to be burning. Everywhere.

A year later and the town of Paradise is rising up, remembering. Paradise is not lost. It is resilient. But how far toward the brink can we go and still recover? Every tragedy takes a little bit from us all, the cost to replenish our souls a little heavier every time.

It's hard to imagine the amount of strength and determination those who survived must have. They are miracles. It is unfathomable to think of the sorrow and pain the families of those who weren't so lucky must feel. These things are never easy and have long term repercussions. It's also not hard to see the whole thing as a lesson on something a whole lot deeper.

11-8-19