9/11 - Twenty-five Years Later

It would be hard to write something that hasn’t already been said or written about the tragedies on September 11^th.  Having lived in Manhattan for eighteen years, I’ve always considered myself a New Yorker, but my affinity with the city goes back to a time before the World Trade Center was built.  I was four, living in an apartment on Boulevard East in Weehawken, New Jersey.  Our living room windows overlooked the Hudson River and I thought the Empire State Building was our next-door neighbor.

Artwork by Philippe Lejeune

Later, during high school, when we moved  deeper into NJ, I traveled into the city by bus (on my own) two nights a week for Armenian dance rehearsals.  Now it is inconceivable to me that at 15, my parents allowed me to go in and out of Port Authority on 42^nd Street by myself and travel to Park Avenue midtown — returning home well after ten o’clock at night. 

But times were different then. 

I loved going into the city — I felt so grown up    in Manhattan.  So when I was away in Boston my first year in college (and miserably unhappy), I jumped at the opportunity to attend Finch,  a small women’s college smack in the midst of the Upper East Side.

Though this next college experience had its drawbacks and disappointments, the best part was being in Manhattan.  I lived in the city from 1971 until 1989 and for the most part, adored every minute of it.  New York City was the only place I knew where at four in the morning you could go dancing, get a haircut, buy flowers, or eat anything your heart desired.  Not only was there every kind of food from all over the world — but it was being made by natives of that country and available in every price range!  For someone young and single, life there was a whirlwind experience of non-stop sensations.  But many years later, as new parents of young babies, those same exhilarating sensations became a constant bombardment of noise, smells, and an ever-present crush of humanity that flooded one’s life and made everyday-living-with-infants a real struggle.  The long-lasting honeymoon was over — it was time to move away.

So move we did but it was hard to be so far away from everyone we knew, especially with two-year-old twins.  My husband started working for an airline so frequent trips back were possible. We wanted our kids to know New York the way we did.  With free airfare and so many of our family and friends still in New York (offering places to stay), each visit we explored more of our favorite haunts:

Papaya King uptown and Zookie’s downtown for the greatest hot dogs [Unlike our first “Dog House” experience in the South where the hot dogs were actually red on the inside all-the-way-through!]; down to Two World Trade Center to wait on that enormous line snaking its way atop the mezzanine to get our half-price tickets to a Broadway show; across Canal Street over to Chinatown to duck in and out of shops and eat dim sum and dumplings.  Of course, there were the usual visits to the Metropolitan, Natural History, and Modern Art museums, trips to Ellis Island and the top of the Statue of Liberty and Rockefeller Center, the Thanksgiving Day parade and 57^th Street and Fifth Avenue at Christmas.  Though we no longer lived there (my son said apartment living was just too crowded for his taste) we felt connected still and our children had a sense of the place where they were born.

For my entire adult life, the Twin Towers anchored the skyline in Manhattan.  Larger than any structure one could imagine, incredulously they rose upward almost farther than one’s neck could crane.  Whether flying in, driving over from New Jersey, or staring out from Broad Channel, Queens across Jamaica Bay, there they were — planted firmly for all to see.

It was unthinkable that they could be toppled.  But on September 11^th, with many, many watching, they sank before our eyes and with them our sense of forever.  The brother-in-law late to work, stuck in the subway; the cousin in a hotel across the street; the friend ten blocks away — thank God, all safe and sound.  All in our circle accounted for and alive but so, so, many others lost forever. Reactions of disbelief, shock, sorrow, fear, and depression eked their way into the mainstream of American life. 

After the attacks, our neighborhood Association down south decided to have a luminary tribute to the 250 victims on planes. A white paper bag for each victim.  Each small bag had the name of someone’s son, mother, daughter, father or friend.  

Four of "my" names at the 9/11 Memorial

 

 As we lit each votive candle in their fragile paper holder edging our neighborhood park, I tried to say every name aloud:  Albert Dominguez, Patrick Quigley, Sonia Puopolo, Alfred Marchand, Garnet “Ace” Bailey, Betty Ong, Jesus Sanchez, Wolfgang Menzel.  My neighbor Katherine and I were conscious that we were moving bags and not body parts — it was                little to do, but our candles and tears honored each of them.

When it came time to remove the bags, we couldn’t throw them away.  I kept my eight. Then we went to the Farmer’s Market and handed them out to people who offered to light them on their porches and in their homes. 

As Americans, until that day we had a false sense that we were untouchable. We never expected that those committed to using violence to convey their message would visit terror on our doorstep, anymore than we could imagine those towers would fall. 

During the National prayer service just after 9/11, I heard this phrase from Corinthians,

“What cannot be seen is eternal.”

It’s been thirty-seven years since I’ve lived in Manhattan.   

For me, the silhouette of those buildings will always be present. 

 ----------------------------

Here in DC,  I visited the National Museum of American History to see an exhibit entitled September 11:  25 Years Later   Artifacts from the Collection and an accompanying film, 9/11 Stories in Fragments, with survivors weaving their tales about those artifacts.  Much like their artifacts,  they had survived but were deeply scarred.

From the National Museum of American History flyer

Twenty-five years later it stuns me that the world is a more dangerous place; that we've not learned the lesson that violence begets violence, hatred begets hatred. That only through connection and compassion and openness and acceptance can we survive and thrive in peace and beauty.  

We haven't learned that we are all "the other" to someone.        

What will it take for us to learn?

                                                                        ----------------------------

This piece first appeared in a local independent newspaper in 2002 and then in this blog in 2011 titled "Indelible."  

Reflection

Recently I had the chance to spend time with two high-school (50 years ago) classmates. It was great to reminisce, question, uncover, reveal, different bits and pieces of our shared history.  With one friend, our association then was completely in passing---a hello-goodbye relationship (as I recall). The other was someone who was in my life, a sister cheerleader.  Hers was an absolute Father Knows Best family, unlike anything I knew (save for TV).  And I was lucky enough, also, to work for her father.  A real job, cleaning his office and once a week, in addition to a paycheck, I had access to a real father and that was a gift to me.

It struck me that they shared/remembered/had many more memories than I did. 

Had we not participated in the same sphere of events? OR had I not felt those experiences because I was working so hard to appear "normal." 

For me, life was far from normal.

The Power of This Pandemic-Part One

Recently when the alarm went off, instead of hitting Snooze I must've hit Off. I didn't get up until 10:00 am. No water fitness for me today.  Another day of telling myself to do something.  The sun was shining and I thought about getting outside, maybe get on my bike and ride around the American Legion parking lot and see how my knees managed it. That would get me some exercise.

I got my coffee and started to think about the day and all the things I hoped to accomplish. I had cereal for breakfast with blueberries. I hadn't had cereal in forever because I stopped keeping milk in the house — it just went bad. 

I tried to be productive on email: deleted all of the new junk, answered what I needed to, took a survey or two, and then focused on some “work” emails.  Let me define work ... I am the co-trustee of my friend’s trust and as such, I'm charged with finding nonprofits that are in keeping with my dear friend Ann's love of all things early childhood.  It's a wonderful gift to be able to give, but it does take effort, research, due diligence, and lots of inquisitory calls and Zooms to find the right mix and right match that will maximize her gift to help others. There's no shortage of good causes but my challenge is to build a bridge between good causes that enabled the sum to be greater than the parts.

I've been telling myself that I would write a post about this pandemic by the end of the original toilet paper stash —  that frenzied race to find/buy/stock up on toilet paper and believe me I did.  But that last roll came and went weeks ago  (and it wasn't the good stuff from Costco...it was an 8-pack from Dollar Tree) and still I didn't write.  

Then I set a new deadline and told myself I'd post by the anniversary, well, my anniversary of when life changed in ways I could scarcely imagine.  March 13, 2020 was the last time I went out, with a friend, in a car, exploring a new-to-us small town with a little historical site or two.  No masks, no distance, no hesitation to eat in a crowded restaurant — but we did wonder.  We did voice out loud, "Should we even be doing this?"  How little we knew what was ahead.

Today is the 13th and still, I'm struggling to write anything.  

Actually that's not true. I've been writing all the time about pandemic life — but only in my head.   So many thoughts about the changes crowded in daily that I was now subdividing the thoughts:  How Covid affected me cognitively, physically, socially, emotionally.   I even added categories on the impact creatively, operationally.  And then there were just the odds and ends that either didn't fit a category or spanned over all of them.

Here's one of those odds and ends umbrella-impacts on my life since pandemic:  NO motivation.  Motivation is gone. 

I see what needs to be done, think about what needs to be done, write down what needs to be done — but I don't do it.   Since early December my kitchen has been cluttered with the bins containing my winter clothes.  Open plastic bins with the clothes spilling out onto the floor, the remnants of my picking through to find something I wanted to wear.  That wardrobe chaos stayed for months until just a week or two ago.   Is that normal?  I may not be a housekeeper but when I moved into this house I had every thing in place, hung on the walls, and organized within two weeks of move-in.  This year I could not get those winter clothes put away.  

In my bedroom I look up and see some spider webs on the ceiling and attached to some framed art hanging high.  I think about getting the broom and swatting them down.  But I never seem to do it.

I have these tiny, little things suspended from the drapery rod in my living room .  When I look at this display, I see the two spaces where the metal birdcages with fake birds should be hanging amidst all the others.  But I just look at that display and tell myself I'll do it the next day.  But I don't.

I don't want you to think I'm wallowing here.  Many days are peppered with Zooms for enjoyment, connection, and edification. The lectures and museum visits are the times I can actually get something done, like folding the three loads of laundry that have piled up over two weeks; emptying and reloading the dishwasher, and actually washing those pots and pans piled high in both sinks.  I manage to keep up with the foundational things but it sure takes me longer. 

When I'm really dragging around, I opt out of the fundamental basic stuff — taking a shower, brushing my teeth, getting dressed.  Just going outside can be more than I can manage some days.  I'm still food shopping, thrift-store shopping, and going to the Y to exercise in the pool.  Yes, but normal seems out of reach. 

I have been twice vaccinated and still haven't changed my living habits much...I know I'm not alone in this but l hope I haven't allowed my shrunken-down life to become my only way to live. 

The clock is ticking on March 13, 2021.  The year has left its mark.  I'm going to write more about the impact of this pandemic but for now I'm going to make that self-imposed deadline.

And, I did swat those cobwebs away and I did hang one of those birdcages...lower left...I managed to motivate.

Things are looking up.

The Mosaic Headboard

Ever since I don't know when, I've saved every piece of broken pottery, every chipped dish, every earring missing its mate, every bracelet no longer wearable due to its stretched out elastic. 

Packed away in paper bags and boxed up, stored in the basement, garage or attic, I always thought I would do something with those broken pieces.  Though no artist, and certainly not the artistic type, I had visions of creating a backsplash for my kitchen of all those beautiful fragments of things I loved but no longer had.

This thought stayed with me for years.  I wondered how I could do it, what mortar or grout would I use?  I imagined I should make this backsplash on plywood so if ever I moved, the backsplash could come with me. But I never got the project off the ground and two decades later I did move and I moved all that broken stuff with me.  

In my new home there was barely a backsplash and I was renting, so that option wouldn't work.  I considered making a table but soon realized that was impractical...I had no room for another table and it would be very heavy.  I tucked the mosaic project way in the back of my mind and there it stayed.

A set of plastic placemats
were doing headboard duty.

Then, I was scheduled to have knee replacement surgery and knew that recovery would be a long haul and wasn't that a good time to tackle this project?  So in earnest, I revisited the mosaic project.

Suddenly, it came to me — a headboard.  Why not make a mosaic headboard?  I had a platform bed and no headboard.   I had the room for it and how hard could that be?  It seemed pretty straightforward and so, measurements in hand, I began to look for a headboard. Easily found online, at about $100 (plus shipping) I knew that was not what I was willing to pay.  Perhaps $20-30, but not more.  Regularly I searched in all my favorite thrift stores.  The headboards with legs — which I thought would be easiest — proved problematic due to the fit and the difficulty in attaching it to either the wall or the platform.

I looked and I looked and I looked without finding.  Thrift store after thrift store.  All my favorite places I thought would provide what I was looking for, but no.  When I'd almost given up, I found something that seemed pretty perfect.  

A simple panel that was brown — a good match with most of the furniture in the room — with some small inset detailing that would help me frame or contain the mosaic.  Though it was only pressboard and had a few bashes around the edges, it seemed perfect and it was only $3! SOLD!

And then the pandemic hit.

What I imagined would last a week or two became a month and then more.  Not only was I sequestered but slowly became completely panicked about the knee surgery.  Surely this was not going to be a time to go in to a hospital and then what?  Who would come tto help me?  Not friends.  Did I want a stream of healthcare workers in my home who might also be serving those with Covid?  I rapidly shelved the idea of the knee and thought more about the headboard.  I decided to dig in.

It required opening the dining room table to its capacity.  I was primed to get prepped and started.  With excited anticipation I opened the box containing all the treasures for this project...and they were utterly FILTHY!  Years of being stowed in basements and attics had covered the ceramics in dust and dirt and dead bugs.  UGH!  I would actually have to wash it all before doing anything else. And so I did.  Immersed in one sink of hot soapy water and then rinsed in another and laid out to dry.  PHEW! Now I was ready to move on!

It wasn't going to be that easy.

I quickly realized that the broken pieces were going to have to be broken more.  They weren't the size I wanted or they were curved and jagged and well, not functional for this project.  So I went online and looked at YouTube and realized I was going to have to cut those pieces which would require a tile cutter and special gloves and goggles and a hammer.  Good grief.  

A neighbor actually had tile cutters I could borrow.  I bought the special gloves, found my hammer and a deep box I could smash things in.  I felt I'd met the challenge and could move on.  I separated all that pottery into like colored groupings. I began to see that this was really going to happen and now I needed the glue.

This is but a fraction of what I had. Unfortunately, I didn't take a photo of the three-tiered rolling cart 
that was loaded with the 25 lbs of sorted pieces in multiple color ranges for my project.

The glue...simple enough, right?  I knew I needed clear because I wasn't sure about grouting the entire thing. In my mind's eye I didn't picture it as a fitted-together mosaic, to me the pieces were sort of floating.  I knew I could decide later but I definitely needed a clear adhesive.  I steeled myself, mask and gloves (it was still early in the pandemic) and I went to Home Depot.  Overwhelmed by the many choices and not really able to distinguish between them, I asked for help.   The sales assistant seemed less sure than I was but eventually handed me a tube of an adhesive that said it was a clear sealant.  Seemed good to me.

I was ready. Everything was in place.  Except for one really crucial element.  How was this going to be attached to the wall?  If it was going to be covered in pottery that might not work to screw it in.  It was going to be heavy and I certainly didn't want it to come out of the wall and crush my skull while sleeping.  And since this home was a rental, I needed to minimize damage to the wall...back to the internet to search where I found my solution: the elegant French cleat.

and what one-half of it looks like.[Those are NOT my nails.]

The premise of this mechanism... 

A what? you ask? A French cleat. Used to hang heavy mirrors.  A French cleat that could handle 200 lbs and could easily be attached to the wall...or so I thought.  

Clearly, the cleat would have to be attached to the back of the headboard BEFORE any mosaic work could begin. To attach that cleat I'd need to measure the correct alignment, find the studs in the wall, drill it both into the wall and the back of the headboard, requiring a stud finder and a drill and ultimately, a 40-minute FaceTime consultation with my daughter's friend Brantley in Brooklyn (THANK YOU Brantley) who patiently, patiently, patiently helped me understand the French cleat (I was not realizing how to connect the two pieces) and how to get it where I needed it to be...SIGH.

Finally.  With my daughter's help, the cleat was attached to the wall and headboard.  I could begin the painstaking work of arranging the pieces, breaking them, cutting them, chipping them into the shapes I wanted.  Over 200 pieces painstakingly selected and placed in a pleasing way.  It began to resemble what I imagined it to be.  I realized the edges would need some finishing so I found the scrap of someone's unused kitchen backsplash (87 cents)that would provide varying rectangles in subtle tans and browns that would perfectly complement the headboard and fit exactly. [I later found another backsplash remnant that had bigger pieces and would make it all go much faster (see below)  but these were a mathematical conundrum that my friend Susan's husband, Howard had to calculate how many of which sizes would most closely match the lengths of the sides as I couldn't cut these thick blocks to fit.  Another mini-nightmare. THANK YOU Howard.]

So all was in place.  I had the way to hang, the glue, the pieces in place (including lots of jewelry from my friend that would adorn the pottery — thank you Laura !] the finishing touches for the edges.  I was happy with how it all had come together. And for some reason, each time I approached that headboard to start gluing things in place, I stopped.  I did not even open the adhesive to begin. I walked by it multiple times a day staring at the design and still not able to move forward.  It sat there for months.  It went on so long that more than one friend pressed me to figure out why I couldn't finish this thing and get it done.

Why couldn't I? I asked my therapist over Zoom.

"Well how about you try to glue something down right now, while we're in session?" she suggested helpfully.

Wow, I thought as I moved my laptop and arranged it on the table and opened the glue and actually lifted a piece, squeezed a tab of glue and placed it on top.  I was shocked at how easy it was and moved on to the next and the next and then suddenly, with absolutely no warning, I started to cry.  Sob in fact, and slumped down on a dining room chair and could not stop crying.

Soothingly, my therapist (a real gem) said "What's going on?  What are you feeling?" and though it took a bit it came to me with an overwhelming sadness.

"All of these pieces, the everyday dishes, the favorite vase that broke in the move, my sister and sister-in-law's shattered things, are the broken pieces of my past, and if I glue them down, it's admitting that there's no fixing them.  There's no going back. They'll never be whole again," I jerkingly sobbed.

"Oh, but look what you're doing with those pieces of your past; you're making something beautiful of them."  she wisely shared.

Deep breath.

That revelation broke the dam and after a day or two I thought, "I'm ready now."  There was just one problem:  those three pieces were not stuck!  You could move them and wiggle them — what the hell???

Turns out that the "adhesive sealant" was actually more of a clear grout and not a glue.  Back to the drawing board and to the local, been-here-in-town-for-decades, hardware store where I was steered to a much smaller, way more expensive tube of a multi-grip glue.  Yes, yes, yes.  This one worked and piece by piece I attached over 200 pieces to that board.  I did it while listening to lectures or touring art museums on Zoom.  I got it done and then moved on to the edges. I knew I'd have to wait to add the crowning touches on the top after the board was hung.  I called my son to come help me move this monstrousity and get the damn thing up on the wall, which he did.  HOORAY!!!

It was too low.

It was level but it just didn't look its best.  It needed to come up about eight inches but my son needed to go and I was drained from all this cumulative effort.  We decided to revisit this another time.  SIGH.  Still, I could enjoy the fruits of this tortuous labor.  I could admire the breadth of it and all the beautiful shards that were there.  And I could try it out to see if in the night, a flung arm would get scraped or bleed from contact with all those ungrouted sharp edges EVERYWHERE.  But it didn't hurt me, thank goodness.  It was unconventional and you wouldn't exactly easily sit up in bed against it without proper padding but I'm not one to read in bed.  I began to glue on tiny fragments from the earrings, bracelet charms, necklace beads, tie tacks and pins I had in abundance.  The figurine head (another entire story of its own) fit perfectly, though I had to sit holding her for 40 minutes until I was certain she was fully in place.  I still had the little ceramic Chinese astrological zodiac figures to glue on top but those could wait until we removed and replaced the board at the correct height.

I'd forgotten to share that the "Lead From The Heart" and the little black heart  had to be taken to a friend of my ex
to cut with a tile cutter that spun in water — quite an undertaking.  Thank you Gene!

It was done.  Rehung at the proper height, eventually with the tiny Chinese zodiac animals adorning the top, I could finally, finally admire the fruits of my less than $20, many, many hours, and lifetime of emotions labor and investment.  It was a thing of beauty and a smile emerged each time I walked into my bedroom and gazed upon all that I had done.

This pandemic pushed me into this work that was completely out of my comfort zone in more ways than one but I had persevered and made something that truly gave me happiness.  I could've told this more simply, spared you many of the agonizing details, but the story of this headboard had to be told in its entirety to appreciate the journey it required and represented.  I hope in your time of Covid you have found a way to make something of beauty out of what's broken in your lives.  

I don't know if this will work but I tried making a video showing the completed work.

The Numbness of Quarantine

There is a numbing monotony to each day.  I wake up and think every day is Sunday.  A day that stretches out before you with nothing to fill it. I'm not a church-goer so I don't have a virtual service to occupy me — though CBS Sunday Morning is my ritual.  I used to eagerly arise before 9 to make my coffee and breakfast before sitting down to watch Charles Kuralt, then Charles Osgood, and now, Jane Pauley.  I find comfort in its easy-going, informative, balanced mix of news, human-interest, and now, Covid-related stories.  They present the best and the worst of us in a palatable way that early in one's day.  Lately I set it to record because I don't want to wake up early.  Once the 90 minutes is over, then what?

Yes, I am structuring some of my time.  I Zoom with my quartet of Random House buddies twice a week for virtually two hours a visit.  It's great to see them and talk about this, that, and the other things, just as we did over 45 years ago over salad and baked chicken or tuna noodle casserole, mostly in Barbara's apartment. There we were, in our twenties, around her dining room table, sharing the ups, downs, puzzles and gifts of our lives. We're in our late 60s now and while the problems have changed, the challenges haven't.  Though now short on husbands, we each have our issues: with our lives, our adult children, and this pandemic.  It makes my life easier to have dear friends to commiserate with when things go wrong and cheer each other on when things go right.

Another quartet — of my college friends — has begun to Zoom weekly, but all four of us haven't been in close contact over the decades so it's more of a reacquaintance with one another.  I'm happy we've been able to "get together" despite being in four opposite corners of the country.

Yes, I'm taking an online class: Rodgers & Hammerstein — wonderfully taught, interesting and informative, and highly entertaining with clips of their wealth of songs from Oklahoma to Carousel, The King & I, and more...but it's just 75 minutes once a week and soon to end.

Unlike the industrious types, I have not cleaned a single closet.  Betsy is working her way through decades of memorabilia ("I'm in the 80s now!") happy to have the uninterrupted time to devote to reorganizing, sending along, clearing out her lifetime of papers and memories.  Or Laura who's been going through all her costume jewelry and that of her mother, grandmother, and Aunt Marion, to keep what's most dear and to get rid of the rest — some of it to me to dissect and use in a project I'm working on (haha).  I have no motivation to act.  Doing nothing is exhausting.

My kitchen is strewn (for a month now) with plastic bins filled with my summer clothing, waiting for the packing up of winter to make way in the drawers and closet.  Instead of making the shift, I just keep sifting through, pulling out what I need for the day and leaving the rest in disarray.  The dryer is filled with clean clothes for a week.  The dishwasher, run but not emptied, leads to the pile-up of dirty dishes and pots and pans crowding my double sinks.  The only thing I can motivate myself to do is cook, which involves shopping for groceries and lots of prep and then more dirty cookware and utensils.  Cooking the food makes me happy enough, but then I realize it's only me there to eat it.  I've forgotten that my pleasure in cooking comes from the communal eating, the sharing.  Yes, I do share.  I pack up and drop off to assorted family and friends, and occasionally eat together distanced outside, but then the weather must cooperate or else it's back to my home alone.

My dear best friend, my constant partner ... the TV.

As a child I was always frightened to be alone in the house.  My parents worked twelve hours a day and to allay my fear, to comfort me, I had the TV on constantly.  Being young I actually thought that when I turned on the television our living room was filled with company. It soothed me then, stayed with me through my single life, and once again, accompanies me now.   I rely on the old stand-bys: The Forsyte Saga, Friday Night Lights, The Americans, Downton Abbey, The West Wing — and newer ones: The Great British Baking Show, 13 Reasons Why, Counterpart — because watching them brings me in contact with a family.  They may not be my family, they may be a work family or a foreign family but they're families none the less and I crave being a part of some human connection.  Even though it's make-believe, I retreat into watching a screen more hours than I can count, the number of which would surely appall you.

Given my age I have been forgetful but now I'm in a fog. I never know what day it is.  I can't stick to any one thing.  I keep meaning to do things and don't.

Things are opening up.  There is even a thrift store open and one of my favorites is opening Tuesday but I'm very hesitant to go inside.  And the thrift store I've shopped in since living here almost 30 years and volunteered in for almost eight, I just learned will never re-open.  It makes sense.  Given the store's layout and the nature of the largely volunteer-driven business model, it would be too difficult to refit, socially distance, increase cleaning, and still make the expenses, let alone a profit and profit is what we are in business for.  Our proceeds fund $1M in medical and nursing scholarships a year.  Yes, you read that correctly, one million.  All because 52 years ago a group of medical wives decided to raise money and endow a scholarship fund to help those who wanted to become doctors.

Their endowment will live on thankfully, but I have lost yet another connection.  A place where I not only shopped but ran to as a refuge.  Whenever I was feeling down, alone, I'd get in my car, drive over and start marking or checking out customers for a few hours, surrounded by a bevy of women who were always welcoming and cared about me. 

                  "How was your visit with your daughter?" 

                             "What did the doctor say about the upcoming knee replacement?" 

                       "You marked that whole basket already?  MY!  You're fast!" 

It was a place to go to lift my spirits, be surrounded by activity, and feel as if I were contributing something of value.  I could even get a hug if I wanted.  Now, that door is closed.  Permanently.

Thankfully I have group therapy once a week and individual every other week via Zoom; these sessions are keeping me sane.  None answer the questions that swirl around and around in my head when I should be sleeping:

"Will I ever feel safe to go about without a mask and gloves?"

"Will I ever travel again, see New York?"

"Will I ever spoon in bed with another human being?"

I know there are no answers at this moment,  but I'm just so tired of pondering the questions in isolation. 

The Unexpected Benefits of Quarantine

While being shut-in affects each of us differently — I long for my thrift-store outings — and there are deprivations, clearly there are those whose adjustment to quarantine is less traumatic.  For those who spent most of their day at home previously, this time is not that different.  

The Homebound

These are people who normally work from home, who have a physical situation that keeps them within their apartment or house, or those who may even fear the outside world.  They might miss the occasional venture outside, but they are coping with life that is much as they have known it. 

The Introverts

These are the people who prefer their own company to that of others.  They can and do enjoy people but actually like being with themselves and feel perfectly satisfied to engage in solo activities that require no one else.  Reading, writing, gardening, hiking, woodworking, painting, composing — all of these, and more, bring satisfaction without the need for others.

The Driven

These are those out-there-in-the-universe players who work hard and are constantly on the go.  Academics, social bees, Type-A personalities all are used to a driving pace that has them active and committed most of every day, sometimes day and night.  Now, with their calendars forcibly wiped clean there comes either a drift toward anxiety or a glide into great peace.  A freedom to be at home and relish their yards or their kitchens.  An expanse of time to spend with their families in a way they did not have room for before.  

I suspect when this pandemic is over there will be a new normal for many.  

There will be those that won't want to give up their new-found calm and ability to take pleasure in small things and more quiet pastimes.  Others will argue that they were perfectly capable of doing their jobs from their living rooms and don't need to always make that long commute day-in and day-out.  Many will have a greater appreciation for and understanding of connections with family and friends that will no longer want them to take a backseat to the continual demands of work.

Some will even rethink their physical place in the world.  I have a few friends who can't imagine going back to their lives out in their city because they can't picture anything being "normal" again.

With Passover and Easter behind us, and now that we have our new experience with a distanced celebration of these holidays, I find myself grateful. 

Despite divorce and separate households for all four of us, during this time of global crisis we have come together once again — to eat what I have prepared (and complained about as I overcooked the lamb!), to play charades or Jeopardy, to listen to music, and to tell jokes and stories that made us laugh — all at an appropriate distance.

When the quarantine is gone, I am confident and grateful that these gifts will remain.

No, I did not grow these but thank my friend Nancy for this gift of beauty...