Becca Rowan is a writer and the author of Life in General, a collection of essays about mid-life as experienced by an American woman in the 21st century. Becca loves creating connections by sharing stories on her popular blog.
We had a bitterly cold weekend here in Michigan. Despite the beautiful greenery bursting out on the trees in our community and the deep green carpet of spring grass, there were snowflakes in the air even as the sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky.
Sometimes this week it has felt like the entire world was turned upside down and gone just plain crazy.
Today begins our eighth week of personal self-isolation. The Michigan state mandated Stay Home orders came about a week later. Anyhow, it’s been two months or so of this “new reality,” a term I’ve begun to prefer over “new normal” because I don’t believe this is “normal” in any sustainable way.
We are seeing a decrease of COVID cases here in Michigan – it’s nowhere near contained, but the daily explosion of new cases and corresponding deaths is slowing down. It’s apparent that closing so many businesses, schools, and other public places has contributed the desired effect. The Governor has begun to ease some of the most stringent of restrictions – landscaping companies are now back to work, as evidenced by the barrage of mowers, saws, blowers, and weed whackers that descended on our back yard at 7:45 this morning. (In the rain, I might add.)
I’m grateful they’re out doing this work, keeping our community looking neat and nice. But. Oh. My. The noise – especially after eight weeks of almost preternatural quiet – sets my teeth on edge. I have retreated to the creative cave in the basement where I plan to stay until they’re gone.
I was talking with my friend the other day, a 78-year old retired music teacher and theater director. “Silly me,” she said, “I thought I knew everything there was to know about people, including myself, but during all this I keep learning something new everyday!”
So do I. This week I learned how much I need to be in charge of my pantry.
Four weeks ago today we began our personal “shelter in place,” with the state mandates following suit within a few days.
This is the week I’m calling the “A” week. Acquiescence. Acceptance. Assimilation.
I realize just how deeply physical distancing has become ingrained in my psyche when I mentally scold actors in TV programs for gathering in groups. Or when the characters in the novels I’m reading take trips, go shopping, or meet for dinner, I pause, puzzled.
