The Spaces In Between

First Drafted March 15th 2020, Edited and Posted March 19th 2020

I am writing this from a cabin in the Catoctin Mountains, in front of a gently crackling fire. Outside, the temperatures are dropping, and despite the bright yellow faces of the daffodils outside the cabin marking that Spring is on it’s way, the forecast calls for a smattering of snow overnight.

Tonight should mark the second to last night of my Spring Break, but Dickinson, like many other colleges has decided to extend Spring Break for a second week in an effort to slow down the spread of the coronavirus. While there is no definitive news about what will happen next, we have been recommended to plan for remote-teaching for at least some of the rest of the semester.

[As of 5/17 they made the decision that students will not return to campus, except to pick up belongings in April, and classes will continue online. I am really sad that I won’t see my student in person again, as I will be leaving Dickinson in June].

I have spent the day, in between helping my parents clean and paint the deck, answering student emails, revising my class schedules for the rest of the semester, and considering what it will mean if campus closes. (I have found this post about switching to online teaching (aka: keep it simple) to be very helpful).

I have also been spending a lot of time on Facebook, trying to keep up with the latest news about Covid-19, paying particular attention to the social distancing simulations, info about flattening the curve and data from other countries, and connecting with others as we all prepare ourselves mentally for what social distancing will bring in the next two weeks. I am also paying close attention to what is happening in the UK, and trying to keep my anxiety at bay in regards to how this all may affect my grandparents and older loved ones who are there.

Yesterday, we went for a hike into the mountains with the dogs. It was a beautiful, warm day, and the sun felt wonderful against my skin. Green moss brightened the edges of the path, and grew along tree trunks and grey granite rocks. As we walked in this forest cathedral, trees branches waving above us in the strong wind, I kept thinking of Mary Oliver’s poem “The Wild Geese.”

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles
through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

Meanwhile, the world moves on. Even in the midst of panic and pandemic, as doctors across the globe scramble to respond to this crisis. As people die. As the United States holds its collective breath and we wonder what will happen next, who will get sick, how we can slow this virus down. The anxiety can be overwhelming, and yet, the sun still shines. The trees are budding, and flowers blooming. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.

As I think about what it means to be a part of this world in this moment, I have also been repeating the lines, Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. And over, and over announcing/your place in the family of things. This is the moment when we have to consider community, and what it means to belong to a community. How do we hold each other in this moment of despair?

Earlier this week on Facebook, I posted this status:

I am getting really tired of seeing posts or comment threads on Facebook about how we don’t have to worry about this virus, it’s just like the flu and only kills old people, smokers, and disabled people. Thankfully most of my friends are posting nuanced, detailed, helpful articles about the situation. But I am starting to get really pissed off by the “it’s fine, healthy people won’t die!” messages. Elderly people matter. Disabled people matter. To all of my older friends, my disabled friends, my immuno-compromised friends: I love you and I am sorry that in the midst of all of this uncertainty and anxiety that you keep hearing messages to the contrary. Also F*#^ all the racism and xenophobia that the media is stirring up. We have to love on each other, folks, we have to think about community and not just ourselves. We need to flatten the curve and wash our hands and take care of the most vulnerable.

Today, as I think about love and community, I have been reminded of my 2020 words, tender belonging. We are all going to need more tenderness in our lives over the next few weeks, months, years. We are going to need to be tender with ourselves, as we navigate our new realities, and tender towards others who may be struggling financially, physically, mentally. This crisis is making us all think about belonging and community, and our responsibility to others. We are shifting our lives in order to protect not only ourselves, but those around us.

As I wrote in December, I was nervous about my choice of these words for the year, feeling that I was perhaps making myself vulnerable or opening myself up to the possibility of being hurt. And this is a year that is going to hurt, for sure. But right now it feels like tender belonging is the perfect phrase for this moment, and I am going to be holding tight to these words to help me through what is to come.