Skip to main content

Covid19 Journal Entry 17


April 7, 2020

Today’s observation – For moments yesterday, it felt that maybe we were touching pieces of a new normal with classes proceeding rather smoothly and students being upbeat during the live sessions. So much still to learn and to get better at.  Talking with students in a video meeting was cool.  One of our Chinese students tried to make a dash for home and had to lay over for a week in Los Angeles.  Luckily his family has a home there, so that is where he will furlough.  I snatched the chance to meet with him to make up his missed class from yesterday’s travel day.  With this new school model, he shouldn’t miss any classes, while in this travel limbo back to Beijing. We make do.  In the gorgeous afternoon before dinner, a group of us played outside – social cohorting at its best – soccer, cornhole, just sitting together in the April sunshine and chatting.  A much-needed respite from all the cares of the world. Our little global village strives to stay cleanly uninfected so we can gather as family. Iowa hit one thousand cases today, our county is at sixty-six.  Most of the state’s deaths have been in long term care facilities.  Dear, dear John Prine died from Covid19 complications today.  Boris Johnson is in Intensive Care in London. Touchstone figures bubble up out of the numbers.  After dinner, as the big pink moon was rising, a tornado siren blared, went quiet and then commenced again.  It took a few minutes to suss out if it was a monthly test or a real warning.  The skies were mostly clear, save for a distant burst of flashes. With a look at the National Weather Service site, I saw the alert for severe thunderstorms.  A storm cell was closing in fast from the northwest.  As it approached throwing lightning and hail, several more sirens went off.  The hail was enormous, many the size of golf balls.  We unplugged electronics, closed windows and shades, hunkering down as we listened to the fleet tempest blow over.  Within fifteen minutes, it was done.  So much hoopla for such a quickly passing danger.  I think somebody was operating on an emotional hair trigger. The night returned to a serene quiet, lush with the warm moisture of the rain.  The round moon was shrouded in lightning bling and cloud veils. I suppose a pink moon can dress up too.  Somewhere out there, prom season would be commencing if not for this ornery virus.  Maybe my entry today reads dull with unremarkable reports and banalities.  And I am grateful to give space and voice to such mundane journaling once in a while.

Today’s idea – I do not like pseudo scientists! Is that even a thing?  Well, in particular, to those that preach pseudoscience while calling journalism – fake news.  What set me off is a new age evangelist – David Wilcock.  A dear friend shared his latest videos with me.  “He very comprehensive about explaining what the Corona Virus outbreak is really all about.” She said.  His videos are long: two to five hours each!  I started watching the first one of this series – “What’s really going on” and within the first five minutes he sets me off, saying that he believes this virus is the creation of the DEEP STATE, a consortium of evil men on the planet who are really ruling the world.  They made this virus and turned it loose on the world.  Like the 9/11 strike on New York.  That was no simple terrorist team with box cutters who would not be capable of pulling off such precise strikes.  The more I listened, the louder my bullshit alarms sounded off.  I wish I could hear him out, give this narrative a fair listen, a benefit of the doubt.  Perhaps it could serve me like a Hanged Man surrender – bring a new point of view.  So far, the lack of more substantiation, some kind of collaborative contributions from the scientific community, some empirical evidence stands between my ability to consume another minute of his video monologue, his preposterous claims and my current rants.  I’ll own that this could be a short-sighted personal failing, this inability to hear him out.  I love good science fiction and have always been a fan.  But Science is best when it keeps its nose out of politics and religion.  Let it keep us clear eyed, in wonder and in reverence of the miracles it reveals.  Let it not push personal or political agendas and no fear mongering either.  And for now, Mr. Wilcock, I am not interested in joining your church, but I will try to hear you out.

Today’s image – The storm really activated my Westie puppy.  He raged around our living room frantically barking, fraught by the unseen and loud forces outside.  For him the sky was falling, and the air was electric.  And when it was done, he collapsed in sleep. How truly "in the moment" he is.  I heard a plane fly over and thought what an exotic sound that has become.  We all try to imagine what’s next in store with the unfolding of this frontier human epoch, revealing itself in unknowable ways.  Even to hold the death of a friend in my mind, begs questions about how his family will cope when they cannot gather and grieve and make plans for his funeral or memorial service in the foreseeable future, with unforeseeable consequences. It allows no closure to such important life rends. Fits and starts are the pulse that we must dance with. Are we standing at the precipice of something new? Birth has never been easy, the inevitable struggle to deliver new life.  What are we birthing now? I hear the term fighting the virus, used a lot. But what if the virus is really a midwife?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

2020 Pandemic Journey Day 44

May 4, 2020 Today’s idea – What has the fog of our modern conveniences begat? I read an article last night published in 1950 by Berton Roueche’ titled The Fog . In October 1948, a toxic smog settled on the borough of Donora, PA. This town is tucked away on a meander of the Monongahela River in the Allegheny Mountains.   During that time, it was home to three huge mills, a steel plant, and a zinc and sulfuric acid plant. The towering factory stacks of these industries pushed out thick plumes of coal smoke all day and all week. Also, given the town’s proximity to the river, boats and trains added their emission to the cocktail. To seal the deal, Donora sits in the topography of secluded bluffs and hills that allow for little or no wind to carry the smoke and fumes out of town.   So the place was known to be a smutty, smokey mess, tolerated by residents who referred to the sulfurous stench as the smell of money. On this weekend in October, a thermal inversion put a tighter li...

Covid19 Journey Day 20

April 10, 2020 Today’s idea – Maybe we’ve needed this for a long time.   To be stopped so we could take a long moment and assess what is alive in us and what is mere rote living, what is unnecessary and what really matters; what we carry by empty habit. To know that busier doesn’t make us more worthy- a good work ethic is not to be confused with constant motion.   We’ve needed this to   learn how to be together as family again, to sit together in conversation, to listen to one another, to play and read together, help solve problems even do homework together, cook together, sit around a table again. And to say to each other, here are boundaries, this is okay and that is not okay because we do that for the ones we love. We needed this to understand that isolation can be hard on some people sheltering in place, the abuser with the abused,   those that must shelter alone, those who need consistent home care for a chronic illness or condition, the family receiving h...

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.