Still Alright

"Say, times are hard, you get this far, but 
It ain't the way that you want
I'll be damned if this old man don't 
Start to count on his losses
But it's still alright"
 - It's Still Alright, by Nathaniel Rateliff


The stage has shrunk and expanded, both at once.

It's impossible for this one thing to not enter nearly every conversation and interaction. Coronavirus, or Covid-19, started far away and small, yet a few scant weeks later and it's permeated everyday lives, worldwide. Political, medical, and personal opinions aside, it's impossible to ignore the shutting of restaurants and schools, the telework and layoffs, and the long lines for grocery stores with many oddly bare shelves. On a global stage, here we are, our personal spheres shrinking smaller each day. 

Two weekends in a row I went to the grocery store for a few basics. I picked not the most popular one, which I knew would be overrun, but one known for it's organic selection, aka pricier, though far less crowded. The first time, the scattered bare shelves were strange, but I got what I needed most; ingredients for strawberry pie, for Pi Day (3.14). The next time I went, I had to first stand in line. A security guard stood at the entrance, hands on his hips as he made sure no one cut past. A man in a mask and gloves wiped down each cart with disinfectant before sliding it to the next person in line. It was a quick wait, only a few minutes, yet it felt sobering. At the checkout counters, blue tape marked the spots where everyone was to stand. The sales clerks could be heard politely asking people again and again to please stand behind the tape. Walking through the store, I was aware of the proximately of every person to me, subconsciously afraid that at any moment I could be told I was too close. It wasn't until I was finishing up that I realized I was taking shallow breaths whenever walking past someone. 

Heading to my car with my groceries, I felt melancholy, more blue about all of this since it had started. The day before, I had helped a friend clean her old apartment before turning in the keys, the two of us scrubbing and talking and pulling up our hoodies as we ran the last of her things to her car in the pouring rain. Thunder had rumbled and we'd said a dripping-wet goodbye, and as I got in my car I thought how normal some things still were in the midst of the panic, and how happiness can be running through the rain with a friend because you're there for each other despite the storm. The next day the skies were clearing but the trip to the grocery store brought me low. I hated the new, temporary normal. I hated how I'd been staunching staring down the fear, only to be surprised by sadness. We'll all get through it, we'll all make it to the other side of whatever this is, yet I feel certain that it has indelibly changed things. No one will forget this time. Maybe it will be the one and only ... but maybe not. Maybe it will be the new protocol, as some have predicted that this global virus won't be the last. 

The silver lining is the families who are going outside more, as many friends have noted. Hopefully there will be other nuggets of good strewn amidst the confusion, ones I intend to seek. It's okay to be optimistic, and it's okay to be blue, even from day to day. It's not okay to spread panic and pandemonium, to hoard items which make it more difficult for those on limited incomes to find when needed. It's a time to love, not to fear. A time to show up for your neighbor. So, I acknowledge the confusion and sadness, and look ahead to the light at the end of the tunnel. Melancholy, I feel you, and now I set you down. You will not rule. Only hope. This, I chose.

The stage is set, and whether we like our lines or not, or even know them at all, we bow, thank you, as best we can, together.