I remember when the Pandemic began in March of 2020. London Breed, the then mayor of San Francisco, announced that we all had to “shelter in place” for two weeks. I had no idea what “shelter in place” meant, I had never heard that expression before. When I learned that it meant stay home, and she was saying we had to stay home for two weeks, I thought “You gotta be kidding! I am not doin’ it! And certainly not for two weeks!” I figured I was an essential worker, and there was no way. Little did I know that we would be locked down for more like two years. It seems like a distant dream now. Occasionally I see a faded set of footprints once painted on the side walk, that says “six feet.” It seems unreal even though it was only a few short years ago. I learned so much from it all.
It baffled me, then, that nature somehow continued as usual. Here in the Bay Area, USA, the flowering plum and cherry trees begin their pink spectacle about now, and city streets are awash with gentle color and scent. I have always loved it. I love the sweet rosy pink, and as if a massive impressionist paint brush has splashed through town, it is everywhere. Never fond of cold weather, (and “cold” San Francisco weather is what many of you would call downright balmy!) right about the time when I am getting truly tired of it, I am reminded of the promise of spring. Some of the neighboring yards even sprout bright yellow daffodils. And the wealth of city parks large and small which are generously scattered throughout the city, are beginning to light up with bright California poppies. It all admittedly resembles emerging from a particularly miserable trauma-triggering episode, into the longed-for calm. Although a few more straggler rain storms are on the horizon, spring at last is near. Perhaps these cycles, these trees and birds, piercing and emerging from the bleakness, are messengers of hope.
During the Pandemic years, it always rather amazed me that in spite of all the havoc going on around us humans, the flowers and birds did not seem disturbed. They seemed to go on oblivious to the whirlwind of havoc and confused terror, not to mention loss and death that permeated the wind around the world. I do remember feeling simultaneously a sort of strange gratification. The whole world was forced to be aware and mindful of the body. We were aware of things like proximity and breath, touch and its absence, energetic physical contact, as opposed to a “remote” version. The word remote itself took on a whole new meaning. We had to make do with a whole new way of attempting to stay connected, which we have not yet really emerged from (here in San Francisco, I continue to be startled by the frequent whizzing past of what I call the “ghost cars.” They are the driverless taxis that are beginning to dominate the rideshare economy here. Last night when we were out for dinner near the ball park we saw what seemed like a procession: five of them one after another, powering past. That has become fairly common here).
There was also something oddly connecting during the Pandemic years: knowing that all over the world, we were all, at least to some extent, going through, finding ways to cope with the same thing. It was a great unifier of sorts, although I was certainly daily aware of my own privilege, of being able to work remotely at home, with enough space and privacy to coexist with my husband and his doing the same, and our two dogs as well. And the moon continued to wax and wane as ever, the seasons went through their usual progression, the daylight lengthened and shortened. Pink trees bloomed; the birds returned. I don’t mean to minimize the climate disaster that we are embroiled in, but somehow in spite of it all, nature was doing its best to stay with the program. As it is continuing to make its best effort to do even in the throes of noisy violence of all kinds that we find ourselves in today, including the internal wars, storms, earthquakes and wild fires of trauma and neglect freshly experienced and processing from the past.
Freedom
In the western, Judeo-Christian world, there are major holidays celebrating spring. Symbols of birth and re-birth like eggs, baby animals and flowers accompany the more explicitly religious and spiritual stories. Similarly, Passover is a spring holiday that celebrates rebirth and renewal. And Passover is a celebration of freedom, freedom from slavery.
As with pretty much all the holidays, I annually approached Passover with dread. For an anorexic kid, being trapped at the table for a hefty four-hour meal, brought a whole new meaning to the “inescapable shock situation.” Until I got a little older and found my role as cook, waiter and bottle washer, it was excruciating. The one saving grace I came to discover, was the “Manischevitz:” the four cups of syrupy sweet wine that ritual dictated became a way to make it bearable. I guess that became my attempt at “freedom.”
As soon as I became old enough to make my own choices, I abandoned the whole endeavor. My sisters and their families have the grace and empathy to include me in the guest list, and to understand with compassion when I regularly decline. However, I do love the spring, the return of the flowers, new life: bunnies and baby chicks, and the reminder of the preciousness and privilege of freedom. This of course includes breaking the chains of bondage from a lonely, alienated and traumatic past, micro and macro. As well as interrupting its intergenerational transmission. I know I can never be truly free until everyone is free. Too many are still far from it.
Conditioning
This morning I found myself actually mindful in the way that the mindfulness teachers people remind us to be, basking in the immense pleasure of a hot shower, of washing my hair. I have always enjoyed the whole process, start to finish – the smells, the bubbles, painstakingly keeping the shampoo from getting in my eyes, the pleasure of clean hair. As a curly haired child in the 1960’s, briefly when it was wet, my hair could pretend to be straight and perhaps even a little bit longer – at least momentarily. Today, however, I had a new awareness I had never had before. Washing the shampoo out, my hair was matty, disheveled, riled up and tangled all into itself from being lathered and softly hammered by warm water. I rubbed in the little blob of conditioner, and suddenly as if by magic, it was un-knotted, smooth and tangle free. And I thought “wow… I wish I could do that.” I wish I could apply a small creamy dab, a gentle massage and erase the ratty chaos that is so endemic, ubiquitous, sadly universal. Is it worse now? I don’t know.
In the depths of the Pandemic of 2019, when people were dying by the thousands every day, I feared “this one is different, this will never end.” Now the faded footprints on once again peopled sidewalks are like washed out old family photos of unremembered childhood. The depths of trauma and neglect healing can seem similarly dark, cold and unending. In my better moments I do know, even that will pass. The trees are pink again. The breeze is warming. Birds are coming back. May I be as conditioner! Lather, rinse, repeat.
Today’s song:
