This morning a wan sun shines through skies streaked with fleecy clouds and patches of pale blue. Dare I say that here and there, in ground level brush I see traces of celadon, tiny leaves so delicate and ethereal as to leave me questioning their substance. This is spring in the Midwest. This is spring in the Corona Virus pandemic. This is spring, coming as it always has, in fits and starts but ultimately in all the glorious reality of yet another season of growth.
Each day I walk on the outdoor track of a nearby shuttered school. Often it is after a day of zooming clients and it is near dark. As I walk I breathe deeply, almost gasp to ingest the freshness, incorporate the scent of spring emerging, winter abating, as if I am desperate to feel embodied by new life. It is not lost on me that I am one of the privileged ones. One of those who is not on the front lines fighting a novel virus that has invaded our world. Not one of those who fears for a job, a next meal, a roof over a head, a time and place to bury, to memorialize, to remember what that dear one’s life meant with music and homily and prayer.
I walk and my mind wanders to other times, supposedly safer times. But sepia-toned World War II vignettes intrude. I am a tiny child. The phone rings. My father returns to the dining table. Tears streak his cheeks. “Steward is dead,” he tells my mother. Or, we are on our knees beside my twin bed, praying for Uncle Paul in a place far away called “The Battle of the Bulge”. Or we are in a queue of sorts, somewhere in a crowded corner grocery. Mother holds a small book of stamps. For what? For butter? For sugar? As post depression kids and World War II adults my parents understood hardship, frugality and depredation as I have not, their first hand experiences a life-long cautionary tale.
People speak of (and seek) silver linings. These are a few of mine. A unique birthday Zoom with those I love who reside now, literally throughout the world. Granddaughter Mary-Claire, home for who knows how long from college, delivering my groceries, setting them by the front door with an “I love you, Ami”, her smile almost as good as a hug. Family food drop offs, always delicious and so appreciated. The family message thread that is filled with “one liners” (Papa would have loved it), helpful hints, new puppy videos, joyous impromptu dance routines, scriptures, prayers and music. Phone calls! I have missed voices and rings more than I knew. And clients, who have given back to me in this time of uncertainty a sense of purpose, sharing their pain, their loneliness, their bravery, their humor, their resourcefulness, their tips for living. Then there is Zooming in general, creating happy hours, coffee klatches, small group interaction.
As Easter approaches this week, bushes leaf out, blossoms burst, their resurrection shouting Resurrection. And I pray the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi for this our hurting world.
Lord make me an instrument of Thy peace,
Where there is hatred help me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine master grant that I might not so much seek,
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving, that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
April D. Carlson, LCSW