Wow.
This month . . . it's been CRAZY.
This is me and John . . . two weeks ago.
Two weeks ago today, we were driving around Costa Rica on these old dirt roads and crazy steep turns and twists and holes and beaches that stretch on forever with little turtle eggs just hatched and sun and heat forever. It was dreamy in every way. Except . . .
Underneath it all . . . there was a sobering knowledge that things were spreading and fear was mounting. We tried to push it away, but all the news, when we looked at it was bad. Then the text from airlines started scaring us. We never discussed it, but there was a real fear that we wouldn't be able to get home. OR if we would get home, we'd have to stay away from our kids for two weeks.
Flying the Wednesday, March 11 (or before the world as we knew it ended), was a somber and worrisome experience. Everyone was serious. Everyone kept their distance from you. In the bathrooms, people washed their hands with a new fierce determination. Hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes were everywhere. Even though we were trying to move on like business as usual, it was very clear it wasn't.
We had a two hour layover in Houston and I went for a long walk through all the terminals. After 45 minutes of walking, I came back and told John that only about six of the gates were open in the other terminals. There were no flights going anywhere. He shook his head. Then we turned and watched the local news with the governor of Texas cancelling the Houston Rodeo. One of the Color Factories John manages is in Houston.
"That's not good news," he said.
It wasn't.
I can't tell you how happy I was to make it home and hug the kids. Only I didn't hug them, I told them to stay back while I showered and changed my clothes. Then I hugged them tightly to me. I went to sleep that night hoping and praying that the fear and crazy wouldn't spread to us in Utah.
I took Celia to breakfast the next morning in SLC. While we ate, there was a hum and tension in all the conversations around us.
"What do you think is going on?" I asked Celia.
"Fear," she said. "Everyone is afraid."
We still didn't know what was happening and went to City Creek to go shopping. The mall was nearly empty, but still brave souls were out and about like us.
"What's happening?" I asked a woman at Athleta after I came out of the dressing room and literally every other shopper was gone from the store and walkways.
"Corona Virus is in Utah," she said. "The governor is making a speech right now."
We walked out of the store to find the whole mall deserted. Celia wanted to look in Forever 21, but when we tried to the door, it was locked. We looked up and there was a security guard walking from store to store telling them to lock up and asking all the guests to leave.
And that was the beginning of all this . . .
For the first four or five days, Thursday thru Tuesday, I was scared. My mother has a heart condition and bad lungs. She's a prime candidates for isolation during this time, but she wouldn't be kept away from the stores. She came over every night and told us her shopping adventures. We were all worried and baffled as to why she wouldn't take better care of herself. In hopes of keeping every germ away, I would Clorox my whole house three times a day. I'd changed clothes and have the kids change clothes and not hug or play with any of their friends. I was literally sick with the thought I would somehow pass the virus to my mother.
I went to bed Tuesday night exhausted emotionally and physically without any idea of how I was going get through the next day, let alone weeks of this. Italy's plight (and it is a plight) made me feel despondent and so so powerless. John was in the process of shutting down his company and putting all his employees on hold without pay during this time (with as generous a severance as they could afford--actually more than they could afford). Everything seemed to be sad and hopeless. I climbed into bed to the sound of freezing rain. The Universe, it seemed, agreed with me.
On Wednesday morning, we woke up to pouring rain. We run in almost any weather except strong wind and pouring rain. So we dragged ourselves out of bed and decided to do a workout in our basement instead. We went downstairs and turned on the TV. The volume was too hight so John quickly grabbed the volume control and tried to turn it down. Only this loud, low growling sound that vibrated my body was coming through what I thought was the speaker.
"It's not working," I said. "Somethings wrong with the speaker."
Then the TV began to shake and the clock on the wall began to swing.
We looked at each other and held on.
"It's an earthquake," we both said.
I got up and was about to wake the kids when they came running out of their rooms.
"What's going on?" they yelled.
"It's an earthquake."
We all stood there looking at each other as ground shifted under our feet.
We yelled out advice to each other, but none of us agreed on anything except going up to the first level. We ran upstairs and saw the lights above our kitchen table swaying back and forth.
The ground settled as we stood there, each braced and ready for the next wave of the earth.
The phone rang and it was Henry asking if we were all ok. Their building was still shaking and the electric wires across from their 5th floor apartments had snapped in a blue blaze of sparks. I hadn't even thought about them. Or their 5th floor apartment building.
"Grab your stuff and come down here," I pleaded. My greatest fear is collapsing buildings.
"We've got everything packed. If we get another big one, we will come down."
My mind was trying to figure out how they'd go down the parkade with the world shaking and get out of their apartment. I couldn't believe it was possible . . . then I had to take five deep breaths.
"Ok, but honestly, just come down."
He laughed at me.
"Remember," he said, "the aftershocks are sometimes worse than the big one. We will come down if it's bad."
Not comforting.
We stood around, waiting for the next shake. The kids asked, what do we do. I said, "Make sure you have shoes."
Finn ran out of the room and came back with shoes for himself . . . and these shoes for Piper (who had poo-pooed the idea of shoes. "Ill just run outside in socks!" '
It was 35 degrees and pouring rain.
Later that day, as we were singing Happy Birthday to our neighbor and friend (all of us lined up outside her house in the freezing rain, holding the letters, HAPPY BIRTHDAY), wondering if the earth would open up and swallow us, I felt the ridiculous urge to laugh.
I tried to keep it in, but as I walked back from chatting (social distance apart of course) with our friends, I began to laugh. Not loud or crazy, just a laugh that let off all worry and fear and anxiety. I realized that I had as much control over the virus as I do over wether or not the earth will shake. IE non.
I can control how often I wash my hands, cut off unnecessary travel and shopping, but still even then, I might just get it and pass it on . . .
It reminded me of this hike I took with the kids last Sunday. Part of it involves walking through a long water pipe. You have to climb in and straddle the water and make your way down it in pretty much pitch black with only a little light at the end of the tunnel.
You can't see your feet and the walls echo every sound you make. You don't know how high the top is or if you'll hit your head. It's disconcerting and confusing, but what keeps you going is literally that light at the end of the tunnel. You know it means the end. You'll get out.
I feel like most of us US citizens are stepping into the void of the tunnel this past week. We are straddling working from home, no school, limited access to entertainment and shopping and just going about our life as usual. It's uncomfortable and awkward and we all don't like it.
We feel alone and in the dark and we don't know how long this is going to last.
But up ahead, there is a little light. China made it through. We will too. We just need to go forward, sure, there's lots of noise and fear and most of it doesn't make total sense, but we just need to trust that what we are doing is ENOUGH. And there is HOPE.
And as we keep going forward, the light gets bigger, the straddle and movement gets easier and we all eventually make it out.
And it's going to be gorgeous.
So for those of you in that dark scary tunnel. I'm with you.
It's so so awkward and worrisome and uncomfortable and dark and alone.
We have a ways yet to travel I think . . .
But you are NOT alone.
I'm here praying for each of you. And I know that I am one of the billion people praying for you because that's the most gorgeous part of this . . . maybe the only good part . . . is that we are all in this together. Our hearts are literally knit together in hope and prayer and meditation that this dark thing leaves us as soon as possible.
And until then . . . don't give up hope. When you are feeling so alone, reach out to someone you know. Chances are, they are feeling even more alone.
Share your stories of generosity and love and joy. Here is a few of mine:
My elderly neighbor saw that I posted that I needed toilet paper. She called first thing the next morning offering me 6 rolls of her Charmin. When she heard that Celia was feeling so worried she had an ocular migraine, this same neighbor texted me mediations and mantra advice and all these wonderful phrases to help her through.
Another neighbor hearing that I was looking for oats, sent her daughter over with about five pounds in a gallon sized bag.
When Phoebe picked up our Pizza order, with it came a roll of toilet paper.
These are just a few and I have so many more. So reach out, send out love and maybe TP to those around you. We are not alone. We are together and together we are unbreakable.
Love to you all!
I finally got the kids to do my favorite hike with me . . . 6 miles and 1300 elevation gain (it was probably a once in a life time thing . . . might have told me NEVER EVER EVER AGAIN . . . )
Art imitates life or life imitates art? What an afternoon with chalk and no where to go . . .
And best of all . . . Hero. When I get feeling glum, I look at these photos of Hero. Life is strong and beautiful and innocent and worth fighting for. There literally is beauty all around.
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