Why settle for "Normal?"

Every time we do something….again…the way we used to…going to the symphony or the theater, bringing back traditions we’d set aside or modified in a pandemic at my school; dinner with a group of friends with whom we used to do that semi-regularly…I feel such a mix of feelings. “Ohhh…this feels good“ but I also feel a little sad. Sad for what we’ve lost, maybe? I go through this roller coaster ride of emotions. Each time. Music starts at the beginning of a concert, tears spring into my eyes and I want to cry and feel an outpouring of joy in the exact same moment. But what I won’t let myself say is “it feels so normal.”

I’ve been trying to write about what I think is wrong with “back to normal” for at least a year and every time I start, I stop, stuck because I think the concept of “normal” is a myth we tell ourselves.  Early on in this Covid world, I wrote about how “I just wanted to get back to normal,” or maybe even a “new normal.” That was my hope. I felt like if we could just get back to how life was in 2019 or create the perfect "new normal," then everything would be fine. But would it? 

I’m not so sure anymore. During that summer of 2020, as protests and racial unrest took hold throughout the country, I started recognizing that the “normal” I so desperately craved wasn’t so great for a good portion of our country. That one person’s normal is another person’s hard time. For so many people, they probably don’t want to go back to that normal where important discussions don't happen and we stop trying to fix the wrongs of the past. They want a normal where those aren't a thing. 

And as I thought more about it earlier this year, it occurred to me that the quest for "normal" comes at the expense of making needed and important change in so many areas of our lives. How schools operate. What’s important for the greater good. Dealing with hard things, such as poverty, hunger, shootings, race, women’s rights, gender roles, voting rights, a global pandemic. The very things that some people wish were "back to normal" could actually be improved upon in ways that could make things better for more of us than just some of us.

 I feel strongly that it was the urge to just “get back to normal” that’s made coming back from this pandemic so difficult. People who couldn’t see the greater good in distancing or masking or vaccinating and fought each mitigation effort so strongly, creating even bigger divisions. But the thing is…NONE of this was normal and there really is no "normal" to get back to anymore, I don’t think.

And now, as we get so excited about doing the things we used to do, we forget to step back and see if there’s a way we could improve on these things…put new systems in place. A perfect opportunity to reframe and retool is something we’re so quickly squandering before we even try, all at the expense of going “back to normal.” 

None of this is to say that I don’t want the things I (or we) missed so much to come back. Because that’s not what I’m saying, at all. As I sat listening to a live music performance in an intimate setting the other night, I was thinking about what I’ve written here and my feelings about returning to normal. The music washed over me...tears sprang to my eyes. Of course I want the things back. Traditions are important and matter greatly. 

And yet, there are so many traditions that we used to take for granted as “normal.” But we now know they’re so much more than that. They’re treasures to be enjoyed and are fragile reminders of things that can quickly and easily get lost or go away.  Traditions and "normal" aren't the same thing. And for me, I intend to never take any of these beloved traditions for granted again. 

Winston Churchill once said, “Perfection is the enemy of progress.” But if you ask me, I actually  think it’s "normal" that’s the “enemy of progress.” It’s hard to see the many ways we can improve things if all we want is to “get back to normal.” 

A year ago I didn't know...

Pandemics. Throughout history, they’ve tried to level full societies. And yet, in my 55 years, I've been privileged and insulated enough that it never really occurred to me that it was something that could happen in our time. How did we become so complacent that this happened? When this all started a year ago, there was so much I didn’t know.

A year ago I didn’t know...

• I didn’t know that it would take more than putting fever ridden people on a bed of ice to end a pandemic (After all, it worked for Doc Baker and Ma & Pa). In fact, I didn’t know that society crippling pandemics could be anything other than a thing of distant history or of far off places. And honestly? Everything I knew about pandemics before this year, I learned from LHOTP;

• I didn’t know that I could feel isolated, connected, lonely, happy, angry, bitter, joyful, unlikeable, sad,  loved, perfectly fine all in the span of an hour (or even less);

• I didn’t know that, for better or for worse, most every single thing that we could do in our culture could be moved to a virtual, online environment;

• I didn’t know that I could teach online and that, while online school will NEVER hold a torch to in-person, I was actually pretty okay at it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I’ll keep recording my lessons and mini lessons going forward. Lessons that took 30-40 or more minutes with interruptions, can be delivered in 10. The way I see it, in a 45 minute class, or better, a double blocked 90 minute one, kids will have more time to work on projects...more time to communicate and collaborate...be productive. I've learned so many new ways to freshen up and improve on my classes and that’s a good outcome of this year;

• I didn’t know I could cook dinner almost every night of every week, with planned menus, and not only enjoy it, but not really want to go back to the routine we had before, which included lots of eating out and not terribly healthy ways of eating. That's also a good outcome of this year;

• I didn’t know that the “normal” I thought I missed so much was probably something that doesn't really exist outside of our memories or imagination and maybe even something I don’t think we should be striving for. I think we can do better than "back to normal." It really wasn't that great for many and we have an awful lot of work to do to make "normal" good for others outside of just ourselves. And I didn’t know that I could ever have such a visceral reaction to the expression, “the new normal.” Maybe what we mean when we say “a return to normalcy” is really a more ordered, calm, predictable, less chaotic life? Who wouldn't want that? (More on this in follow-up upcoming blog post. Maybe. If I get it out of my head and write it);

• I didn’t know that creativity and love and relationships and connection are so vital to a healthy society that they could actually help save it from collapse under the weight of all the heaviness (actually, I did know this...but now it’s more clear than ever before), or that art and creation are so needed to keep us healthy. I don't think stimulus money was wasted on the arts. Aside from the really small percentage that was allotted there, their industry was hit incredibly hard by all this. AND, content creators and artists stepped up in such a big way when this all began a year ago...how many of us watched free live-streamed concerts from performers' living rooms, or how many of our kids had stories read to them by celebrities or took online drawing lessons from them?;

• I didn’t know that a simple piece of cloth could be such a symbolic reminder of the many things that divide us;

• I didn’t know that public health concerns could be so politicized that entire groups of humans could make choices that could ultimately not just bring themselves and their own families down, but entire communities worth of people, all in the name of “not living in fear” or "giving up freedom" while at the same time being okay with others not having the same freedom;

• I didn’t know that I, an extrovert, could actually enjoy, and maybe even prefer, the quiet life of being at home with the people I love most in the world. The greatest gift of this year (for me) was time with my family and the months that my adult children have been/were home with us (something I'd never expected to have again);

• I didn’t know that, at the same time, I could miss time with friends so deeply that it legit hurts, but not really know how to fix it;

• I didn't know "Pandemic pets" were really a thing. Until I got one, and that's another good outcome of this year;

• I didn’t know that, while relief and thankful to scientists were the things I would most feel upon getting vaccinated against this virus, I would also feel pretty uncomfortable even just thinking about what it looks like to move into this next phase of pandemic life. What to keep, what to ditch, what matters;

• 
  I didn't know what happens next. I still don't. I mean, this all seemingly came from out of nowhere to begin with: One day on the news, there was a strange virus that appeared on our shores. The next, we were stocking up on toilet paper and staying home. "I don't understand what's going on," I thought at the time. "What do you mean we're closing schools and everything is stopping? It doesn't even make sense." Now, just over a year later, it's not really ending, but it sort of kind of is? But it isn't? And while so many of us are getting vaccinated, we're being warned to not let our guards down and of fourth waves and mutating variants and countries in Europe going back into lockdown. Past pandemics lasted 2 or more years. We've been doing this for a year. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but in some ways, I envisioned it being like when bears and other animals come out of hibernation in animal documentaries: Like a great scene change...Spring flowers blossom, beautiful music plays and critters start to appear in the sunshine. But that's not really what this is like. This is more like this "in between" world where it's hard to know what the "right" or "safe" thing to do is and it maybe feels more comfortable to just stay put for now.
  
  

A year ago, when we went into our lockdown mode, in the beginning, it seemed like a break from life as we knew it. There was a sense of “we’re all in this together.” That didn’t really last. I guess it really wasn’t sustainable. Trauma and pain bring out different things in different people. And each hurt that feels so terrible and personal to me feels just as terrible and personal to the next person and so on.

I wonder what sociologists and historians will conclude about this time as they study us in future years. Will they talk about the parts that brought us together? The parts that drove us apart? What broke us? Will they talk about how the people who complained most vocally about “not living in fear” or “giving up their freedoms” were the ones who never really gave up that much, anyway? Will the time coming out of this feel hopeful, joyful, free? 20 years from now, how will we talk about this time? What will the kids who did school the way they've done it this year say? 

I keep coming back to that poem by Kitty O'Meara that went around this time last year and its closing stanza: "And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed." This is my wish and hope, too.

Dear 2020...don't let the door hit you...

Dear 2020, 

Well. What a difference a year makes, eh?

• A year ago, I was all about “the end of a decade and the beginning of a decade” jokes.

• A year ago, I was worried about the state of the world, but felt distant and safe from where I sat.

• A year ago, I felt at peace with myself in a way I hadn’t before and felt so fortunate to feel that way.

• A year ago, I was working out with others in a space that I loved and doing things with my body that I could hardly imagine doing.

• A year ago, I felt safe and happy around my bustling school and loved that feeling of belonging that came with being part of a community.

• A year ago, there were gross inequities in education across our country, lack of technology that was a given for others, but only a few really talked about it.

• A year ago, people could pretend that civil rights battles were a thing of the past, even though deep down they probably knew better.

• A year ago, a global pandemic was the stuff of horror movies.

• A year ago, it would have been laughable to think that the idea of protecting fellow citizens in the name of public health was something that could be politicized in such a way that people would deny there was anything wrong, or worse, use a laughing emoji as a reaction to a post about a fellow countryman’s death.

How was I to know what you had in store for us all?  In my world, as excited as I was to welcome you, by the end of the very first day, I was ready to send you back. Fear and trauma in my own family gave way to grief and sadness for friends, big losses in my community, and finally so much loss, anger and anxiety in the world. I’m honestly not sure rehashing the year is the direction I want to take, since just about every other person who has something to say today is already doing that. Instead, more and more lately, I can’t help but think there’s a reason we all (collectively) have experienced this hard year together. 

Brene Brown refers to the big events that people experience together as “collective effervescence,” an “experience of connection, communal emotion, and a ‘sensation of sacredness’ that happens when we are a part of something bigger than us.” She writes that she got the term from a Dutch social scientist and ever since I read it a few years ago, it’s stayed with me and I come back to it. A lot. Usually thinking of big, happy events. A great rock concert attended as a teen and finding out that a current friend was there that night, too. The day it snowed in Miami. The day your team won the big championship (looking at you, '72 Dolphins). But sad ones, too. 9/11. The Challenger explosion. The day John Lennon died. And now, 2020. 

There has to be a reason, or a lesson, or even a moral to this crazy story. So many times this year, I’ve thought, “No. Seriously…this isn’t really happening. Right?” And then, of course, “Oh. Yes. It is.” Maybe it was the message to slow down. Maybe it was that we need to take a time-out and figure out what our priorities are, as individuals, as communities, as a country, as a world. Maybe we’re supposed to fix the things that are wrong. Maybe we’ll never really know because we’re too busy fighting. With each other. With the messenger. With the message.

2020, when I look back at you, I know that part of your lasting mark will be the memory of loss, tears shed and anxiety. The year we said goodbye to our beloved dog, the year of "virtual" graduations and everything else. The year of curbside pickup and words we'd all probably prefer never to hear again (looking at you, Unprecedented, pod, pivot and hoax). 

But I don't think that tells the whole story. I think your legacy will also be the beauty noticed in everyday things. A gorgeous sunrise on an early morning walk, or an equally as gorgeous sunset on a different day’s later walk. Cooking dinner at home, night, after night, after night. People met in my neighborhood during daily walks; different “regulars” depending on time of day, most ready with a wave and "Hello." And when you stop seeing someone, having a little tug of concern, even if you don’t know them well enough to check on them. A global explosion of creative expression and compassion in a world that so often feels less than kind.

I’ll look back on you as the year you almost took my love from me, but then didn't, and we found new ways to live and be grateful for what we have; the year you brought my immediate family together, under one roof, for a time. At a time when, while getting used to and sort of digging the empty nest, having us all together felt safe and right and like a gift that was most unexpected. Realizing, as an extrovert, that I might actually just prefer being at home with my people and that might not be a terrible thing. And really, maybe the biggest take away for me is how much the things I need the most, the things that sustain me the most, have been right in front of me all along. And I didn’t have to get stuck in a twister and go on a journey to a strange land with a scarecrow, tin man and lion to figure it out.

I don’t know what your successor has on tap for us. I certainly don’t harbor any illusion that 2021 will magically put us in a happy place where we’re all singing “Kumbaya” together. I’ve spent enough time deep in thought over  the past 10 months, trying to imagine how others in past eras responded to their own hard times. They pushed through, they found the strength and courage to do the tough things. And that’s what I hope we can do, too. 

Happy New Year, 2020...don't let the door hit you on the way out!

Love,

Jen

Random thoughts six months in and about RBG...

Six months ago, this felt temporary. “Honestly? If it means being holed up for a couple of weeks while this blows over in order to stem the spread of this virus and protect the more vulnerable among us, then yes,"  I wrote in a blog post on March 12th. "Isn't one of the things that makes us so great as Americans the ability for us to pull together in hard times to do the right thing? Even if it makes us uncomfortable? Is disruption to daily routine annoying and a pain? Sure. But wouldn’t losing loved ones because we didn’t do everything we could to slow this down be a lot worse?” On March 12th, when I wrote that, 38 people in the United States had died. Today, six months later, that number is just under 200,000.

Six months ago, the president of the United States was recorded telling a Pulitzer Prize winning author that this virus was deadly. More deadly than terrible flus. Yet in public press briefings, he downplayed it, saying it was no worse than the flu. I just watched a news story from somewhere in the US where people protesting mandated mask wearing parroted those words, “It’s no worse than the flu,” said a little boy. 

Six months ago, the pandemic poem by Catherine O’Meara, In the Time of Pandemic, was passed around as a relic from a past pandemic, but was actually written at the beginning of this one. The sentiment was lovely, evoking images of pioneer women slowing down, meditating and enjoying the beauty of a slowed down world. It was lovely in March, as the Internet pulled together and people shared and families enjoyed time together and life slowed down for a little while. But now, six months later, for some, that idyllic moment has passed. People want their travel ball back. They want to go to bars. This odd politicization happened and it’s hard to imagine us all finding something in common to pull us together again. But I sure wish we could.

Is it normal to still be in a state of disbelief about where we are right now? I see a commercial on tv for face shields and I have two thoughts: 1) smart, the opening is at the top and not the bottom, and 2) how is it that we’re living in a time where the reality is that there are commercials on tv for devices to protect us from each other? (and I guess 3) how is it that that IS the reality, but roughly 40% of our country doesn’t believe any of this is necessary and refuses to take even the most basic measures to protect anyone?

I don’t like feeling “not okay.” I prefer happy go lucky me. I know now, what I didn’t know six months ago: there isn’t going to be a "new normal." We shouldn’t even want a new normal. Wanting a new normal would be settling. Because the old normal really wasn’t so great for everyone either. In fact, it wasn’t great for many. Systemic problems that were right there always are still there. Wouldn’t it be something if we could actually learn from this period we’re in and really tried to fix things? 

Friday. Friday was a good day at work. Parents had lunch brought in for teachers as a teacher appreciation gift. As I grabbed my boxed lunch to take back to my room to go eat alone, I realized many of my colleagues were out on our patio, safely distanced, eating and chatting with each other, so I went and joined them. People! My extroverted side felt gleeful! Later, we celebrated our seniors as they drove by in a car parade. Again…more people. It felt right, it felt good and I felt happy for a little while.

Until that evening, when news of Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s death broke just as I sat down to watch live-streamed Rosh Hashana services. Utterly devastating. The Rabbi, seeing the news in the Facebook Live chat, didn’t miss a beat, changed the course of his service and talked about her, her legacy, what a hero she was and reminded us all that in our own grief to remember her family was grieving, too. 

As the weekend has unfolded and the battle lines drawn regarding this sudden gift to the president and his supporters and the potential loss and fear for those on the left, I’ve thought a lot about this. How much we have to be thankful to RBG for. Her fierce tenacity. Her fight for equality for women. Her five time fight against cancer. What an unfair burden we placed on her as the one thing that could protect us all by staying alive and holding onto her lifetime seat on the SCOTUS. Yet, of course she couldn't do that. So what happens now? We have an obligation to step up and not let her legacy or fighting spirit go to to waste. Most often, goodness prevails. Will it now? It has to.

I’m not a big fan of suspense novels. I didn’t really like Gone Girl, the Couple Next Door, or the Dinner.  Those kind of stories make me tense and I need to know how it’s going to turn out. And, true confession, if it’s in a book and my chest is tightening too much from the story, then I’ll cheat and read a bit of the last page or so, just to be sure the person I need to know is okay is going to be okay. I feel like we’re living the pages of the most intense suspense novel right now. Only I’m not able to flip to the back of the book or  scroll to the last page to reassure myself that things will be all right.

My Heart Aches Tonight

This evening, as I was coming back from a walk, I stopped to say hi to a neighbor and we talked about what was going on in our country right now. She pointed down to her 5-year-old daughter and said that she’s asking questions and how do you explain this to a young child? As I walked away, I said, “I have to go home and cry now,” and we both gave a small, sad laugh.

And my heart aches tonight. 

It aches for the families of George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor and so many that came before them.

It aches for people of color who have been held down for too long by systems designed to hold them down and beyond which they have no real power.

It aches for Black parents who live in a sort of fear I’ve never really known that their kids might be the next story on the news.

It aches for the Black community for their pain and anger and for feeling so unheard and unhelped for so long.

It aches for the almost 107,000 dead from Covid-19, which though it’s not gone, it is all but currently sort of, but not really, forgotten.

My heart aches tonight. 

It aches for our country, which feels like it’s falling apart as we stand by wringing our hands in horror because no one in Washington has the courage (or maybe desire) to throw water on the Wicked Witch of the West by standing up to the man who could have chosen to lead our country with compassion and strength and worked to unite us, but instead chose the exact opposite, using loaded, incendiary language designed to hurt and divide.

It aches for the US Constitution, particularly the First Amendment, which protects people’s right to protest peacefully, while some were fired on by tear gas as the President called himself the “ally of peaceful protestors.” 

I don’t know how a parent explains 400 years of systemic racism that ends in terrifying images on a TV screen to young children. I don’t know how to reassure my own adult children that we will see better days. Honestly? Right now, I don’t know how to reassure myself the same thing. 

What I do know is this: We have so much work to do. We have to do more than post memes and platitudes and hashtags. We have to read and learn and figure out what it means to be anti-racist. We have to speak up and help out when we see injustice happen. We have to have compassion. We have to be kind.

Finding the simple joys on the harder days

There are days in quarantine that just feel harder than others. And of course, they are. Pandemics are hard. People are dying. We already have more than 10,000 more than the estimate we were given two weeks ago for total US deaths. And we still lack adequate testing. And we can’t trust the information we’re given by our leaders as they work to silence the scientists who are most knowledgable. And people are storming state capitals with artillery and others are balking at the mere suggestion that wearing a mask might help others stay alive. Or they’re refusing to social distance in the name of “we want to go to work” when what they seem to mean is “I’m bored and I want to go to the beach.” (disclaimer: I KNOW people need and want to go back to work. That isn’t what those “protests” are really about anymore than they’re what this post is about). Of course this is hard. People are struggling financially, people are dealing with all kinds of things. It’s hard to watch the news most days. 

But when I say some days just feel harder than others, I mean hard on a more visceral level. The kind of hard where you feel like you’re going to cry and can’t really pinpoint something “that’s wrong,” but you know you just feel sad enough to, anyway. Maybe you miss your students and school the way it used to be. Maybe you had an “optional” Zoom class and no one showed up and even though you’re adult enough to know not to take it personally, you still do. Kind of. Or you sign in to a staff meeting that you don’t absolutely have to be at just because you want to see your co-workers’ faces for a few minutes. Or maybe you’re at the point where, in any other school year you’d be knocking out some of your best work and projects along with winding things down with students, but you can’t seem to make yourself do them the way you want to, instead inventing new things to do that don’t turn out the way you want them to.

And on these harder days, I suppose we have a couple of options. We can: 1) Wallow in the sadness; 2) Ignore and just push through; 3) Stop, take a breath and realize you’re not being terribly productive, lace up your shoes and go for a walk. If you opt for number three, here’s what could happen. You might get a couple of doors down and see these grand sidewalk chalk drawings that say, “Thank you” and “Thank you Teachers.” Maybe you get a little further into your walk and you see a family across the street with their dogs and you yell over to the 3-year-old who’s wearing a backpack, “Hey…that’s an awesome backpack,” (because that’s the sort of thing you typically do) and he strikes up a great conversation with you (from a distance). He tells you his dogs’ names and then, as you say goodbye, he finishes the conversation with, “Bye. Be safe!” And at this point, you tear up but also start smiling a little. As you keep walking, a song like “Titanium” comes on and it does exactly what you need it to do,, so you listen to it two or three (or maybe four?) times and you even add in the arm motions from your cardio dance class, not caring what others may think as they walk by you doing your big muscle arms. 

These hard days really are tough. This may be the hardest thing most of us, collectively, have ever had to do together. There’s no real instruction book on how to handle life in quarantine. Or what to do when the news brings us down and we become disillusioned or we miss things from LBC. We all have different ways of coping: Sharing funny memes, political rants, baking, creating, exercising. It sure feels like getting out and finding the simple joys during a midday walk is one sure thing I’ve found to help on days like this. What are some things that work for you? 

A New Normal?

This started out as a post about loneliness. Because I can’t imagine that my feelings of loneliness, even in a house full of human beings and never actually being alone as we’re quarantined, are unique to me. Or the crushing sadness I feel for people who are truly alone right now. My mother, a widow, alone, unable to get together with her friends. My friend’s mom, also a widow, also alone. Another friend’s mom, in a nursing home. How do you explain to someone with dementia why no one is coming to visit them anymore? That kind of loneliness is gut wrenching to imagine. Sick people dropped off at a hospital’s emergency room, left alone in the hospital as their loved ones go home to worry. Alone. Missing my own friends so much it feels suffocating at times, but not really knowing how to connect the way I want, so avoiding more than I should. Thinking of kids who are missing their own friends. Yet, I have  no solution and I’m not sure I have anything insightful to say about it other than to acknowledge that I have these feelings and you probably do too and they don’t really feel great.

So instead it became a post about “the new normal.” On the first night of this year (in what feels like another lifetime ago), my husband suffered a heart attack, sudden cardiac arrest and then later had open heart surgery. In the weeks that followed, I was told, “It’ll be okay, you’ll find your new normal.” And I really wasn’t sure what that looked like, but I guess as we developed new habits and routines, we kind of did. And now, just 12 short weeks later, we’re all trying to find “our new normal” in the face of a global pandemic. Characters in books, after going through some major life change, often “find their new normal.” But truthfully? I don’t really want a new normal, I want my old normal back. I want my comfortable normal from December 31st, 2019 or even March 13th, 2020 back. A normal that wasn’t filled with fear or sadness or loneliness. I had it pretty sweet…mostly empty nester learning how to maneuver life with my husband in the “kids done or almost done with college mode.” We would go out to eat, travel a little, laugh a lot, we had routines. But as Mick so eloquently said, “You can’t always get what you want,” and that sure seems to be the case with this. So what is our new normal? What does that even mean? How do we know when we’re there? Do we stay there? Is that it? We fall into new routines. Are the routines and rhythms of a household in isolation really the new normal?

But that’s not even what this post is about. What this post is actually about, or what’s on my mind right now, is this: What happens when we’re done doing what we’re doing right now? So much has changed. And so quickly. We’ve learned new ways to do our jobs. New ways to do school. New ways to connect. New ways to patronize restaurants. New ways to interact with our families. New ways to slow down. New ways to be. New ways to think. We’ve learned that we can get by without so many things. We’ve learned that in the face of scary, challenging stuff, we can have days where we’re productive and things feel, dare I say, “normal,” and we can have days where we feel off and not so productive and we’ve learned that both are okay. We’ve learned that funny memes are sometimes just the thing to get us through hard days and the upside to social media is that it can help us not feel as alone as we might otherwise feel.

But when the stay at home orders are lifted and the pandemic fears have died down, what happens? I mean, after we do the things we've missed, like get a haircut or go for coffee with a friend. Do we go right back to the way things were? Does the hustle and bustle of LBC (Life Before Covid) ramp right back up? This virus has taken so much from so many: loved ones, jobs, health, security, human connection. And at the same time, it’s given much: fear, yes, but also time to think, time with family that felt like it had been lost forever, time to breathe, new ways to connect, time to reflect on what really matters, time to get outside. How do we take the good parts of now and combine them with the good parts of LBC? Do the calls and need for human connection and kindness stick?

Maybe this post is about the “new normal,” after all. Because it seems like the new normal can, no, should, include parts of the old normal. The smell of freshly cut grass on a pretty spring day. A stunning full moon on a clear night. A song on your playlist that makes you smile; or a song that makes you cry. That feels normal. And right. And good. Making dinner. Night, after night, after night (this, is definitely new for me!). Seeing a little girl run through a sprinkler in a bathing suit while holding a polka dotted umbrella and squealing with laughter. Maybe the two normals eventually morph into something that just feels like life is moving forward. Maybe not the way we intended, but still in a forward motion and it becomes this thing that we all experienced and will never forget and that will shape our futures in a way that we really can’t imagine, yet.

All the Feels (more of my random thoughts on COVID-19)

This past couple of days have truly hit “all the feels.” Here’s just a sampling of some of the emotions I’ve felt, sometimes all in the same hour, sometimes all in the same 10 minutes.

Relief. Relief that we had the ability to quickly get out of town and get my son from college who’d been displaced from his last semester and have him home. 

Grateful.  Grateful for doctors and nurses who are on the front lines dealing with sick people every day, grateful for the sacrifices businesses (small and large) are making, thankful for the helpers. Grateful for journalists who are working round the clock to keep us informed of what’s really going on. Thankful and appreciative for the amount of work teachers and administrators have put in trying to wrap their heads around how to “do school,” knowing that they won’t be able to please everyone and that changes seem to happen on a dime.

And sadness. So much change. And so quickly!  Sad for the disruption to life as we typically know it..for teachers and administrators trying to figure out the best way to “do school.” For seniors in HS and college. I was thinking about how happy and hopeful we felt on the quad when we dropped our son off at school 3-1/2 years ago, and how sad and lonely the campus seemed when we got him on Saturday. Sadness for the seniors in my school, not knowing whether, or when, any of the senior “things” they’ve looked forward to for years will happen. Sadness that I don’t know when I’ll see my students in person again or carry out traditions that we do near the end of the year in my classes each year. Sadness for families who struggle and will be dramatically effected economically by what’s going on. Sadness for people who are sick and dying of this virus. Sadness for those who are considered among the more vulnerable and are scared for their lives right now.

Angry. Angry for many of the same reasons as above. Angry that our federal government bungled this so much and yet still says their response has been “great and unprecedented.” Angry that people called this a hoax, that they assigned some political agenda to this. Since when is public health a partisan issue, anyway?

Happiness. Happy to read of families having great attitudes about being forced to slow down and enjoy time together. Families sharing resources and ideas online for how to plunge forward in the coming days and weeks. 

And hopeful. I’m hopeful that these measures we’re taking will contain the virus. I heard someone on the radio the other day say they were concerned that the social distancing works so well that people will say this was all hyped when, in fact, the reason cases started dropping was that the measures worked. I’m hopeful that people will continue being kind to each other. Hasn’t it been lovely the way people have been smiling at others, acknowledging them, making offers to tutor each others’ kids online? I’m hopeful that we will continue to offer grace and compassion to others. Most teachers have never delivered content to full classes of students for long stretches of time. It’s uncharted territory. Most schools haven’t closed for extended periods of time. It’s also uncharted territory. Mistakes will be made. Infrastructure may not handle it well. Parents will be frustrated. Teachers will be frustrated and everyone will need to have compassion for each other. I’m hopeful we can have compassion for young people whose big milestone events are up in the air and might be sad about it and have every right to be. Being sad, and even saying so, doesn’t mean they are spoiled or lack resiliency. You can be sad and still grateful for the first responders all at the same time. I’m hopeful we can have compassion for each other as the newness of our situation wears off and reality sets in.

I know I’m not alone with these thoughts and swirl of emotions. I think again, back to Ma and Pa trudging across the prairie in a horse drawn buggy with 3 young girls (or was it four? Albert? Who knows how many they really had, anyway?). Imagine the uncertainty they felt as they embarked on new lives in new places. We’re kind of in the place of a new normal now, but the certainty is that we can stay connected, at least virtually, and that we’ll come out of this stronger than we were before. And hopefully, the kindness and compassion that we expend during this period of time will carry into the future when we’re on the other side of this.

A Study In Contrasts (re: "Won't You Be My Neighbor")

This morning, I watched the “Today Show” as they profiled a campaign rally in Montana. The featured speaker, the 45th president of the United States, makes fun of of a US Senator’s heritage, makes winking jokes regarding the “#metoo movement,” picks on an elderly former US President and an ailing US Senator, both of whom served our country in times of war (while he received multiple “medical exemptions” from the Draft to avoid serving), tells lie after lie about things that just aren’t even remotely true. And the audience behind him? They are whooping it up, smiling, nodding, encouraging, cheering him on.

I felt like I was watching a scene out of a teen movie where the kids all laugh as the bully picks on the movie’s underdog (Remember Biff in “Back to the Future”? Or Johnny in the “Karate Kid”? And the way their friends stand in the background, laughing and taunting along with them?)

Feeling a little sick and a lot saddened, I wondered how we got here.

To this place we are in. Right now. I wondered what drives people to be so hate-driven that they have let their own values go by the wayside as they cheer on a man who has…
...bragged on tape about grabbing women in places he had no business touching;
...equated white supremacists with “very fine people”;
...mocked a reporter with a physical disability;
...allowed children to be torn from the arms of their parents who were seeking asylum in our country; 
...praised dictators and alienated allies;
...had multiple extra-marital affairs, yet jeered opponents for doing the same;
...encouraged the “birther” movement against a sitting US President;
...made bigoted statements regarding citizens of numerous specific countries and religions; ...endorsed politicians who have been known for their bigotry, sexism and pedophile tendencies;
...and much more...

A few hours later, I went to see the “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” documentary, a profile of Fred Rogers. Mr. Rogers, to be sure, was an icon of my childhood. I have strong memories of watching “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” (probably long after it was socially acceptable for someone my age to do so). I loved his characters, the lessons he taught and his gentleness.

And as I watched this beautifully made film, heard the words directly from his mouth, his family and those who worked with him, I was struck again and again by how much I really miss Mr. Rogers. What he spoke and advocated for are exactly what we are missing in this time. This show, from its very roots in 1968 (a tumultuous time for our country), is incredibly relevant today. Right now. In the first week of his show, he taught that we don’t need walls to keep people out. He spoke of kindness for others. Acceptance. Yes, he made mistakes that I am certain he wouldn’t make today in regards to acceptance for all, but that doesn’t take away from what he did during his time.

He spoke of the human need for love. For meaningful relationships and for people to feel needed, worthwhile, heard. Oddly, he was ridiculed for this stance, as the root cause of “the entitlement of kids today.” (this is a topic for another post at another time...but I will write it one day, I’m sure!).

Not surprising to most people who know me, I cried as “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” ended. Cried for the man that has gone, and the values he espoused. Wondering what he would say if he were alive today. Would his words resonate? Would we listen to him? Would those who cheered at that rally be moved by him? I left thinking, “We need a new Mr. Rogers...who can be that be?” Who can come in as a strong, passionate personality that can change the discourse as we know it?

I posted the following on Facebook immediately after leaving the movie: “After seeing “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” this afternoon, I realize how desperately we need someone to step in and fill the void left behind by Mr Rogers.” I know many who could fit the bill. I work with them...passionate teachers, strong leaders, great parents, clergy people who speak truth and know how to reach large audiences...people who care deeply for and about others. How lucky I am to know such people. I’m sure you know some, too.

But then, while I think that, yes, a new Mr. Rogers would be a great gift to us all, I think that maybe what we really need, is to dig deep and find the Mr. Rogers in ourselves. If we’d all channel our own Mr. Rogers, we’d be so much better off. Maybe we could start a movement! Mr. Rogers once said, “We live in a world in which we need to share responsibility. It's easy to say ‘It's not my child, not my community, not my world, not my problem.’ Then there are those who see the need and respond. I consider those people my heroes.”

If we all stand up for kindness, love, compassion...can we make a change? What would it take? How do we reach those who cheer for and stand by someone who uses his persona as a platform for hatred and anger. How do we get them to see that they don’t get their value or worth from that and that people like that use them as an ends to their own selfish means?

In 1999, as Mr. Rogers was honored at the Television Hall of Fame, he spoke of the value of life and the responsibility of television going forward into this millennium to show the good in the world. He said, “But how do we make goodness attractive? By doing whatever we can do to bring courage to those whose lives move near our own – by treating our ‘neighbor’ at least as well as we treat ourselves and allowing that to inform everything that we produce.” What I really wish as our tv screens and social media walls fill with more shared images of hard, scary things in the world, is that we will rise strong, find our inner Mr. Rogers voice, look for the helpers and say, “Stop. Enough. We’re going to make goodness attractive starting right now.”