We must fill our own wells and recharge our batteries to take good care of each other.

Morning light streamed through the pale grey limbs of the giant sycamore down into the magenta blooms of our neighbor’s small, redbud tree. Slants of light punched through the trees’ shadows, into the sculpted headstones of the cemetary behind our house, scattering veils of mist over the green fields beyond.

As the sun climbed above the trees, it reflected the bright, alabaster white of the church beside our house. Both buildings date to the 1860s. This fact and the rising light comfort me in this storm. I feel safest here at home.

With a razor-sharp pencil, I’d neatly printed a to-do list for the day, then zipped outside with the dogs, intending to zip right back.

It would be awhile, I soon realized, before I could go back inside.

Our beagle’s nose busily worked over the green grass of our backyard, gathering news of the rabbit and cat night visitors. Our big-brown, curious Blue-dog scanned the landscape and listened with his intense vigilance.

The air was too cool and crisp, the sky too blue, the new fresh green leaves too vibrant — the early morning was just too glorious to spend inside.

We took our brisk walk. Then I returned, alone and intent on restoring order to the long-neglected veggie beds.

Feeling lucky, I succumbed to the morning light and magical mess of the garden.

Forgetting to go Outside

A few weeks earlier, I would have rushed back inside — too glued to screens and digital connections to even remember I could go outside.

I’d simply … well, forgotten. This shocks me, an advocate for the many benefits of outside, nature and gardens, especially for kids.

This coronavirus pandemic, especially the first few weeks of shutdowns, knocked me off my mooring. 

I am not suffering. I am not grieving the loss of a loved one nor the loss of my livelihood.

My family and I are all healthy and taking precautions to stay healthy. I work from a home office, so am used to spending most of my time in on our property or walking around the nearby cemetary and neighborhood. 

I am a quick drive away from long stretches of gorgeous trails through the woods at our state park. That I can easily do these walks with plenty of elbow room is to me a luxurious, rich life. 

Collective Grief

Still — I struggle with what we’ve all lost. 

Hugs. Oh — how I long to visit and hug my mom and stepfather, who have been hunkered down in Ohio.

And …. Sports! That one really hurts here in the Man Cave. 

I miss the big family celebrations that had to be canceled. Our extended family would typically have gathered five times over these 11 weeks.

I know enough about grief and have seen enough in the coverage to affirm my sense that I am experiencing a collective grief: my personal loss of what my family and I had anticipated for this spring, in the midst of an American death count that yesterday topped 100,000.

Each of those who have died is a stranger to me — and someone’s beloved mother, husband, grandfather, grandmother, wife, cousin, a son, a daughter. My heart aches for all of that loss, the loneliness and people who cannot hug each other through it.

And I struggle with anxiety. I fear the virus will take people I love.

Two, True American Heroes

In March, soon after the shutdowns, craving inspiration and eager to be helpful in a crisis, I thought a lot about two famous heroes: Mr. Rogers and Sully. 

We had just watched the Mr. Rogers movie before Christmas — which only feels like a century ago, and I loved remembering his loving TV presence from childhood. A few clicks on Amazon, and we were re-watching the movie Sully.

Remember Sully? 

Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger, III, is the airline pilot who safely landed US Airways Flight 1549 on the Hudson River January 15, 2009, saving the lives of 155 people. The plane had struck a flock of geese, damaging both engines and leaving them unable to thrust. 

Those two real men are true American heroes. In the midst of tragedy, Mr. Rogers would say: Look to the helpers. Be a helper.

Sully followed his instincts, his mental “muscle memory,” training and experience, as someone who has devoted his life’s work to safety.

Find your inner Sully.

And so, I looked to their stories to help me focus and navigate these times. I hope to be a helper, in some small ways, and to follow my instincts to do what I do best and be a good, creative communicator in all of my roles: stepmom, writer, professional communicator, community volunteer, member of our church community.

I got busy with some new projects, re-thinking strategies and activities for my clients, re-working how we teach children in a community garden when we can’t see them in the garden. 

Instead of ignoring social media, I had to pay closer attention and check more frequently. I read a lot more news than usual. I stayed up too late. Checked the news on my phone from bed. I got tired, but kept going. 

I started to clean more. I bleached the doorknobs and handle of the refrigerator. For weeks, I wiped down every item that came into our house from the grocery store. From anywhere.

I started skipping too many of the little things I do to stay balanced.

My roles started to blur and blend. My somewhat compartmentalized life became more of a sloppy stew. 

Hitting the Wall

One Friday morning, when I was especially anxious to connect with my friend in New York City, the big brown dog laid on the yoga mat in my office and whimpered. 

When I sat on the mat and opened my arms, he leaned in, slumped and curled against me. His whole body sighed in big, grumbly groans as I pet him. For awhile, my own breathing slowed. Then I popped up to check the latest news.

I recognized the familiar sense of grief — but had not yet adjusted for it. 

A few days later, I heard myself get testy with our church pastor.

I apologized. 

This, of course, was not at all in line with my intention to be helpful, kind and loving. 

Nor is my snippy tone of frustration I noticed — with some help — in exchanges with my husband. 

“Aren’t you worried?” I’d ask him.

“Not about things I can’t control,” he’d respond. “And hon, you worry enough for all of us.”

My husband is a smooth, glassy lake. The calm in any storm. For the record, he is both perfect for me and a near-perfect man — who, by then was suddenly, virtually helping to keep track of more than 400 elementary students.

I needed a course-correction.

 

Put Your Own Oxygen Mask on First

And so — I made an effort to return to all the fixtures in my routine that are there for good reason: morning yoga, sound sleep, walks in the woods. Puttering in the garden.

If I don’t take care of myself, I’m no good to my family or any of the organizations or missions I serve. In fact, my run-away anxiety only adds to my family’s stress.

(Except for the beagle. She seems impervious.)

I leaned into our unfolding Appalachian Spring. Before I drive everyone else in our house crazy, I force myself out the door and to the woods. Just 30 minutes later, I feel so much better.

For me, this time demands focused work in the midst of distractions, feeling, empathizing, creativity, reflection, praying. 

This is a marathon with an uncertain finish line, not a sprint. We’re in an endurance event of the spirit. 

I’m going to need to pace myself.

Digging In and Digging Out

That glorious late April morning in the garden, I soaked in exceptionally sweet light and new greens. I let it all nourish my soul and fill my well.

Straw and old dried rabbit manure covered the beds. Blooming dandelions and random clumps of grass cluttered the area. 

My garden gloves were cold and stiff. I pulled away all the straw, mixed the dried rabbit poop into the soil, and dug deep into the hemlock chips to yank away those weeds by their roots.

One breath at a time, the scent of rich soil, fresh air and new growth shook the tension out of my neck and shoulders. I drank in the spring. I reflected on the latest news and the challenges ahead. So many people and families under terrible stress. So much pain in our country, in our world.

I’ll confess — I checked Facebook on my phone a couple of times. 

Perhaps it would be wise to shut out social media and all the news. But I can’t and won’t. 

I belong to a group, “Light the Night 8 p.m. each evening,” where people tell their stories and post requests for support and prayers after they or a loved one receives a positive test result for COVID-19 or succumbs to the disease. Or, perhaps the person is a nurse or first responder on the front lines.

When I see these stories of people suffering, I hold them in my heart and say a few silent prayers for them. I will not look away from their stories. I will not tune this horror out and pretend it’s not real. The least I can do is bear witness to their stories and pray. It’s a small way to help.

So I must cope with it. My morning ritual begins with reflection — a walk, a write, a yoga practice, some puttering in the garden.

And some mornings, when the light is especially beautiful, a little extra. I take comfort in the light, and in doing what I can to spread light.

I puttered about, arranging my quirky little tea kettle collection in the corners of our fenced-in veggie patch. Refreshed and energized, I headed inside to work.

Amid so much uncertainty, this is clear to me: We must take care of each other to cope through this pandemic. That only happens if we take care of ourselves. Only you can re-fill your well. Only I can re-fill mine. 

Eleven weeks since shutdowns began, Mr. Rogers and Sully remain some of my favorite heroes. Sully is famous for quickly making that dramatic decision in the sky to land a plane on a river.

My decisions are different. They are small, day-to-day, quiet ones. More like Fred’s, I hope. May they add up to be useful and helpful.