A sweet woman named Lois lived across the street from us for about ten years. She and I used to take our afternoon walk together, going all the way to the end of our road where there was a closed gate. She taught me that you have to touch the gate or you can’t claim that you went all the way. Even her dog touched it with his nose.
After her husband died, Lois deteriorated rapidly, walking less, forgetting things, making mistakes like locking herself out of her house. I understand this now better than I did at the time.
One day she called me on the phone and asked me, “What day is this?” And another day she walked over and knocked on my door to say, “I need a hug.”
At first it worried me a lot that Lois didn’t know what day it was. Then I realized that she had dropped the activities that happened on particular days, such as church on Sunday and women’s meetings on Monday. Such events had been guideposts, markers that guided her through the week. Without them she did not know where she was. She had stopped taking the daily newspaper that, of course, announced the date. And she couldn’t find information for herself because she had not learned to use a computer.
I thought of Lois yesterday when I woke and wondered what day it was. You see, the rules of the pandemic have erased my schedule. I have work to do but on most days no appointments. It doesn’t even matter whether I wake at six or at eight. And, because I am in somebody else’s house, I don’t even have to remember to put the trash out on the curb.
Of course, yesterday I didn’t have to ask anyone what day it was. I just picked up my cell phone and there it was in the middle of the screen: Apr 21 Tues. And up in the corner the precise time of day.
Throughout the day I thought about our human need for structure. We are compelled to know where we are in time and space. And my mind stepped from one thing to another, until I remembered how upset I had been once long ago when I got lost. I was not more than 32 years old. I was in Hemet, California, the very small city where we lived, driving alone to a place I had been several times before. And I got lost. There was a moment of uncertainty and then for sure the street didn’t go where I thought it would go, and logic failed me. Finally I lost all sense of direction and began to panic, suspecting that I had gone crazy. Finally, not knowing how, I arrived back home in tears.
Wayne helped me figure out what had happened. The very name Hemet, we had been told, meant “a boxed-in-place.” It was surrounded by mountains, ordinarily visible in all directions. We always knew which way we were going, because we could see Mt. San Jacinto. But that day there were very low clouds, covering the sun and all the horizons. I had no landmarks. And then there was a major street parallel to the one I was driving. I did not know that eventually that street curved and crossed the one I was on, so when I came to it, I thought I was going south instead of east. And once I made a wrong turn, nothing made sense anymore.
There are times in life that are like that on a deeper level.
A death in the family erases a landmark. One whole direction marker disappears.
A scheduled activity is taken away, and a Wednesday, we discover, is unrecognizable without it.
Especially for those of us who are elderly these are common experiences and especially if we are alone.
And now there is this new and totally disruptive event, the pandemic.
I am saying all of this for two reasons, two things I am sure of:
The first thing is that we are not cracking up, folks. It’s just the cloud cover, the curving road. We will manage this and be smarter in the end, because we will learn something, the way I did that day in Hemet.
There are practical ways to manage, and we will each find what works in our situation.
And there are spiritual ways, like gratitude, like unloading onto God all the stuff we are worried about. The most important thing is to stay connected to our source of strength and stability.
And the second thing I meant to say is that somebody else who is isolated may need our help.
We probably should put some of them on our schedule, and every day make somebody’s phone rings. Ask about their needs. Spread any good news we have.
(I have some good news! Did you hear? The decrease in human activity is benefitting the earth. The air is cleaner. The water is purer. The nights are quieter. For example, in the Middle East migratory birds, discovering fewer airplanes, less shooting, less smoke and noise, are flying lower and dropping down to rest. As a result of all this, people are seeing lovely creatures they have not seen before: golden jackals in the orchards, green frogs in the trees, pelicans and storks on the beaches.)
Now that I have said my two things, that we are o.k. and might think of someone else, I realize there is a third thing.
It is quite alright, if we need it, to call someone on the phone and ask what day it is. But if you are reading this, you surely use technologies that verify such details. And what you really want to say is, I need a hug. That’s O.K. too.
Don’t we all? Let’s collect IOUs and call them in when this is over.