To quote Pema Chodron: The Wisdom of No Escape (Day 11 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

I can't speak for him or know what's good for him, but I'm grateful I'm here and not there.  Not up there (I assume somewhere in mid-northern Ontario) in an undisclosed survivalist refuge, but down here in the city instead.  In the midst of the pandemic and its consequences.

A few years ago he and I used to meet occasionally for coffee and he told me once that inside the walls of his house he had hidden large caches of preserved, vacuum-sealed food -- six months' worth.  And that when the social apocalypse would come as it surely would in one way or another, he would just break open the walls of his home, load into his truck what he had hidden there, grab his rifle, and head out of Dodge to wait out the End in safety far from the front lines.

I wonder if he's up there now.  

Or if he saw that COVID-19 is not yet the apocalypse he is prepared for, and is still down here among the rest of us.

I swear if he'd somehow woven the name and fear of God into his over-coffee message of The End being near and me needing to be saved from it, he'd have been right up there with today's televangelists and the revival preachers of my youth, offering me fire insurance and a fire-proof escape plan.  Little wonder that as I listened to him I felt an unsettling twinge of anxiety, dread and regret at not being appropriately prepared for what might come.  At not having done what I should be doing to be one of the saved.

Apocalyptic anxiety still rattles in my brain.  I still stumble a bit over the ruins of the fences that an emphasis on personal and individual salvation set around my heart.  And as much as I've learned and come to love a different image of God and of faith than that, old lines drawn in a young heart and mind are hard to erase.

I'm glad I'm here, though. 

I can't speak for my friend -- or for anyone else for that matter, but I cannot imagine for myself a better, more challenging, more formative, more holy place to be than where I am.  

What's good for me is not driving away to a secret place armed to defend myself against others, but letting myself be driven by life to greater dependence on others right where I am.

Down here.

Grateful through, even if not for, the pandemic (Day 10 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

Grateful for a pandemic?

No.  There is too much suffering and too many sorrows for gratitude to be possible.

Grateful through a pandemic?

That's possible.

* * * * *

I was thinking this morning about cocoons, because of the "Rhymes with Oranges" in today's paper.  And how a cacoon is such a wonderful image of what our homes have been -- and might still be, in this time of pandemic.

A cocoon is a safe self-enclosure; we've wanted our homes to be that for us and for our families.

A cocoon is also a place of deep, inner transformation.  And I wonder if our time of solitude and separation from others and from "normal life" has also been that?

A cocoon is a pretty amazing thing.  The time spent in a cocoon is quite miraculous because while there, the pupating caterpillar actually undergoes a change in its genetic structure and identity ...

... that transforms it from creepy, fuzzy, voracious caterpillar to gracefully-winged, multi-hued butterfly.

It seems there are genes shaping and determining the creature to be a caterpillar that in its first stage of life are dominant, and that during the time in the cocoon begin to recede, fade and even disappear ... with totally other genes at that point coming to the fore and becoming dominant, that shape the creature now into something different than before -- a butterfly.

And if you compare the genetic DNA of the caterpillar and of the butterfly, they really seem two different creatures.  A different creature coming out than went in. 

The image of cocoon makes me wonder if now might be the time to reflect on a few spiritual questions, before we start focussing on easing the social distancing and restrictions, returning to "normal," and losing whatever spiritual change and growth may have been going on inside us during this time.

Spiritual questions like:

• during this time of social distancing and solitude what have I not been doing that I normally did --even spent a lot of time doing?  What has my life been like without it?  What has taken its place?  What do I want to spend my time doing, when this time is over?
• during this time of social distancing and solitude what have I learned or come to see differently about myself and about others?  How have my relationships changed?  What changes do I not want to lose, and want to build on instead?
• during this time of social distancing and solitude what has fed me, comforted me, and helped me grow spiritually closer to God and to my Higher Self?  Helped me be content in myself, grateful in my life, and open to others?  How can I keep growing in this way? 

* * * * *

For myself, I think I have a few answers already. 

One of them is the way I have had to learn to accept more deeply that I cannot fix everything and make everything better.

Not because of the pandemic itself; I think I always accepted that there are big things beyond my control in the world.  But because of the change the pandemic has made to what happens more personally when Japhia is in the hospital (as she is again now).

Before, when Japhia was in the hospital, I'd be there as much as I could be to comfort and support, to listen to what the nurses and doctors say, to figure things out, to work out strategies and solutions, and so on.  In other words, to be in control of what could be known and what could be done.  To be the Answer-Man.

Now, having to stay at home while she is in the hospital I've had to let go of that role and responsibility, and learn a humbler, more human and more honest identity.  Learn to offer care and support from a distance.  Accept not being in charge and in control of all the actions and outcomes.  To trust what she and others know, figure out, understand and are able to do.  As well as accept and live with what any and all of us are not able to know, figure out, understand and do.

It's a view of myself, others and God, and an acceptance of powerlessness and limitation that I think makes me a more whole and honest human being.  And the spiritual task, once this time of pandemic is over, is to find ways of not just going back to what was.  Of not just returning to "normal."

I'm grateful for that growth, even though it's come in a way neither Japhia nor I would ever have chosen.  And I've no doubt this is just scraping the surface of where those three sets of spiritual questions might lead me, once I take time really to sit with them in this still-cocooned time.

* * * * *

And I know others also have experienced this difficult and challenging time as a time of spiritual growth and enlightenment. 

My son, whose humane agnosticism I often share, texted this, this morning:

Over the last few weeks I've learned that as much as I'm agnostic, I truly am a humanist.  There is so much room for love among humans and with it, so much power.  All this COVID distancing and doing for others reinforces in me that people are inherently good, and want to spread love in whatever capacity they can.

That being said, there are still a bunch of selfish sh**heads out there, but I think they  just haven't experienced love in a genuine way.

[Preach it, brother!, texted I.]

If I had to be a "minister," [he replied,] that's the exact message I would preach.  There's a reason the golden rule is in all religions.

Do unto others, and when you have the power to do for others what they can't, it's your duty to at least try.

* * * * * 

Grateful for a pandemic?

No.  There is too much suffering and too many sorrows for gratitude to be possible.

Grateful through a pandemic?

That's possible.

Because maybe whatever nourishes growth in us and enlightenment among us is, in the long run more life-renewing and soul-transforming for us, than the things we more superficially call "good" or "bad" based on how they strike us in the moment, and align or not with our (usually self-centred?) desires.

Even a pandemic -- if we let it be, and if we are open to it -- can be an occasion for the kind of transformation of our spiritual DNA that the graciously-winged, multi-hued butterfly in us yearns for.

The butterfly images are courtesy of Dr. Ed Aitken, long-time friend and member of Fifty United, whom I have also had the great pleasure of being befriended by.

"All I was doing was taking my usual walk..." (Day 9 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

Probably I've seen them often.  

Today I noticed them, and was grateful for them.

It's the day after Easter.  I'm tired.  I woke with slight nasal congestion.  Not COVID-19.  I know well the symptoms of a mild head cold.  And with the early morning as dark and rainy as it is, the thought of just staying in bed for a while was uncharacteristically appealing.

Not appealing enough to keep me there, however, even though being home alone (Japhia is back in the hospital for a few days) no one would have known.

Once up, I took some oil of oregano with a Cold-FX on the side, got the newspaper in, and instead of plunging right into work (being home alone no one would have known), I settled in instead at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and the remains of the Saturday crossword, to wait for Japhia to call and to fill in the time until I would head upstairs to my study for my regularized 9-12 work shift before lunch.

Recently I noticed a little essay about how in the pandemic we all are monks now.  I didn't read more than the title, but if I had written the essay one thing I would have mentioned is that like monks, with workplace and home being one, we and others with us benefit from a routinized day -- a balanced rhythm of regular hours devoted to the different elements of life, whatever they may be for any of us.  Work, meals, leisure, recreation together, reading and prayer, chores, study.  

Whatever.  As long as it's all good, natural and healthy human stuff.  And as long as there are set hours.  Where any alteration is the exception that proves the Rule.

Then as I puzzled at the crossword through the dining room window looking out onto the street I saw them.  Two neighbours in yellow rain jackets leisurely strolling past our house and down the street.

They didn't seem in a hurry to get anywhere.  It was obviously their regular and usual morning walk.  And the rain and dark heaviness of the sky were not going to change their routine.  Inclement weather meant only that they choose appropriate clothing.

I was grateful, and am still grateful these four or five hours later for their regularity.  And for my seeing them pass by the house this morning. 

Their yellow raingear was a wonderfully bright contrast to the rest of the morning.  And the sight of them following through on one of their routine and regularized healthy habits was welcome affirmation of my big decisions of the day -- to get up when I did, and to keep the practice of the past few weeks of taking time for my usual entry-to-the-day morning activities before heading up to work at -- and for, the appointed time.

The day has gone well, and I am grateful to those two all-weather walkers for helping me be aware of it.  

Funny what we sometimes need one another for.  And the good we are for others without knowing it ourselves. 

The clatter of dawning (Day 8 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

I left the house shortly after 7.  

It was fifteen or so minutes after the gently brilliant sunrise that woke me with new light through the bedroom window.  Once out on the walk it took that long again before I noticed and really heard them all around me.

It was good to be walking again so early in the morning.  The morning was fresh and clear.  The streets were quiet.  The wind was blustery and toque-and-gloves-chilly.  The recollection of brisk morning walks in recovery years ago was deeply satisfying.

Then finally settled into the walk and into my self, I heard them -- the birds all around me.  In treetops and bushes, on housetops and lawns, in the air and in my opening ears.  Singing all manner of songs and refrains.  Solo, and back and forth in sequence.  A cacophony of praise to the new dawning.  Thrilling and trilling.

I understand birds begin to sing to the new day even before it arrives.  Before the first slant of sun is seen or felt.  How many minutes before?  Maybe fifteen?  That seems to be the number of the day.

I wonder, do they simply anticipate the sun's rise?  Sense it in ways we don't?

Or does their song actually call the sun and the new day to arrive and be present?  Cheer the earth to complete that last bit of turn to make the miracle of new dawn happen?

Either way, they know it's on the way.  Imminent.  And happily and without stopping to think about it, they let the rest of us know.  We slow dullards who can spend a half hour in self-absorption before we hear them.  If even then.

I'm glad I heard them.  Didn't miss it as I so easily could, and so often have.

By the time I was almost back home they were starting to stop.  The general clatter reduced to a few scattered solos.  Then a handful of stuttering chirrups.  Until by about 7:50, silence.  

Dawning was over.  The new day now just was.  The only bird song the rest of the day will be random, unexcited, unexciting chatter.

I long often for the joy of the dawning, the moment of the arriving of the new day, the miracle of new light and gift of fresh start.

I know Easter is not until tomorrow.  Today is Holy Saturday, a day and longing night of deep vigil.

But I heard the birds this morning.  I know I will hear them again.  They are faithful.

I am grateful for them, and for having heard them today.  They teach me and help me to trust.  

I can wait now in confident hope for tomorrow's arriving.  For the gift of Easter.

Surprised by gratitude (Day 7 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

This is Japhia's story.  I saw it; she lived it.

It was one of the sick days, about two-thirds of the way along a downward slide towards re-admission to the hospital.  It was early evening -- around 7, approaching spring-time sundown when she'd had enough of trying to be well and up -- "up" for much of the day meaning sitting or lying on the couch and not being sick.

She went to bed and was listening to a few chapters of a favourite novel.  She was hoping for the soon relief of sleep, when all of a sudden from outside the bedroom window, down on the street below, there arose such a clatter from all around the neighbourhood of pots and pans being banged and struck.

"What's that noise?" she wondered.

I looked at the clock.  "It's 7:30.  It's people out on the street thanking all the health-care workers.  For their work in the pandemic."

Pause.

"Every night at 7:30 people go out and bang pots to say thanks.  For all that the workers are doing for people, and the risks they're ta..."

She was already out of bed with more energy than she'd felt for days.  Saying only "I have to go out there," she threw on her housecoat, found her slippers and was on her way downstairs.  Within seconds we were on the front step adding the sound of our cookware to the general clatter around us.  

Some of us were giving broad thanks to a general, anonymous category of people we know as "health-care workers."  Others, like Japhia, had in mind and in heart all the nurses and paramedics and doctors who have cared for her along the way, as well as her daughter and daughter-in-law whom she admires and worries about as they go to work these days as personal support workers.

The next morning she reflected on the night before.  Wondered about her sudden and seeming recovery.  Felt a residue of the energy still in her.  

The slide downward soon resumed, though.  Less than two days later she was re-admitted to the hospital for another stretch of treatment, observation and gradual weaning back to relative health.

But the gratitude remains.  

For the health-care workers.  

And for the opportunity to be so unexpectedly caught up into such a free and open expression of deep-felt gratefulness.  

And for the healing generated for a moment by that sudden, unfettered, un-measured outflow of gratitude for people who have cared for her that, as we all know, is always both deeper and higher than we can ever put into just words.

When instant isn't an option (Day 6 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

The Persistence of Memory, Salvador Dali

I'm used to instant.

Three minutes tops -- sometimes just two, to boil the water, add the oats and cook.  Another few minutes to eat and clean up.  Then after a quick off-to-work kiss, up to the study to start on the morning's to-do list.

But the grocery store was all out of the 2-3 Minute Oatmeal.  Both times I checked.  So now I'm using the 4-5* Minute variety, and on closer inspection of the label I've discovered that the * in the 4-5* is for microwave cooking.  Because I prefer a stove-top pot I'm in for a 15-minute wait that turns into 20 because I put in too much water.

So I'm sitting with Japhia in the living room with an unexpectedly unplanned, unproductive quarter-hour to kill.  Or fill.

We start by talking about the oatmeal.  Which leads to the grocery store.  To shortages.  And to the store's staff.  Until one step after another we're on to our local convenience store and the signs we saw on the door the day before.  One about their precautions against COVID-19.  Another about the store being closed until April 19th, with a phone number to call if you would like something delivered or prepared for pick-up.

And then we decided to do something we didn't think of the day before.  To go back to the store, get the phone number, and call.  Not to order anything (although I'm sure they would like the business, so we can probably think of something), but to find out if the owners and their family are okay.  

While they were open they did the best they could using plastic food wrap to create a hanging protective sheet between them and their customers.  And to keep the PIN pad and counter sanitized.  But we worry now that maybe they've been infected.

I'm not happy about that possibility.

But I'm grateful that instant isn't on the menu right now.  It gives us time to stop and care.