My world is pretty small these days. As I write this sitting on my front porch swing, I watch people walk by on my sidewalk. The old couple next door, holding hands, hunched over and committed to the moment. The family of three with a grey and black spotted dog. The dad finally looks up and sees me. They are talking, talking and then he acknowledges my presence. We wave across a distance.
Nobody is wearing a mask when they are outside. I know there’s a global virus still in effect and yet, I don’t see evidence of it as I sit and swing. I don’t have a mask on. Two teenagers ride by on their bikes, oblivious to anything outside their bubble.
In past years, sitting on my porch, I would hear local bands singing their hearts out at the neighborhood brewery. Sometimes they would sing so clearly that I could understand each word. That’s not the case this year. The brewery has reopened but with fewer tables. With more outdoor seating. With fewer customers. With less music.
Also in past years I would sit and be surrounded by the sound of crickets. Gone. No crickets. Have you noticed? In the middle of the night, I stand in my backyard and listen to silence. Where have they gone?
Getting on a plane isn’t going to happen to me for a long time. I’d rather drive. I’ve visited Bryce Canyon National Park in the past month and fell in love all over again. All that inviting open sky. All those intoxicating reds… coral-red, orange-red, eon-red, infinity-red, ancestor-red that changed hues as the earth’s movements inched along. Watching the sun go down in this colorful region, counting the stars as they came out against a black sky and falling into another day was one of my most special memories of that trip.0
It felt good to do something again. To be on the road. Going somewhere. I’m eager to add some ‘normal’ events back into my world and let my senses come alive again.
Finding my way to the water has been healing for me this summer. Standing on the water, swimming in a pool or coasting in a kayak have been highlights, saving graces, and meditative times for me. Meeting a friend for an early morning kayak ride in Estes Park, paddle-boarding and kayaking on the 6-mile long Horsetooth Reservoir or swimming in a neighborhood pool helps to waken my senses and fills me with gratitude for these wonderful opportunities.
I know others have turned to biking, quilting or painting. Many have started gardens, learned a language and finished a college degree. Closets, attics and basements have been emptied, cleaned and repurposed. Cookbooks have been dusted off and family recipes have resurfaced.
I’m aware that there’s no end in sight for this virus until we have leadership that mandates change. Mandates masks. Leadership that allows science to discover, medicine to heal, and politics to govern, not to enrage, cause dissent and create chaos. How have you decided to mingle with humanity again?
So, while I wait this out, I am letting water soothe me. As we suffer through an intense heat wave, I seek out my water sanctuary. My companion. My friend.
And you? Have you turned to something new to help you during these coronavirus times? Reached out and found something that helps you feel grounded? Tell me.
Stay well, stay safe and stay strong!
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Why the summer sound of crickets is growing fainter
I watched time pass by watching where the shadows from the movement of the sun landed on my fence.
I am cautiously emerging. Baby steps with lots of baby wipes.
In my dream last night, I was in a room bursting with people and my neighbor (from 1973) walked across the room to greet me. His arms went up to hug me and I stopped him in shock, admonishing him about our social distance rules and regulations. I looked around the full room and realized it was too late now, the way everyone was all tight together like salmon wiggling and giggling upstream.
Happily ... after retirement 