On COVID and George Floyd and 2020

When the pandemic hit and weekly blogging became a thing, documenting and sharing a sample of photographs each week helped me process while also serving as a reminder of the many gratitudes. Everyday nuance kept reminding me to look for snatches of light, momentary wonder. That’s one way I’ve seen beauty, even as COVID-19 continued it’s destructive path.

And then on May 25 George Floyd died at the hands of the Minneapolis PD, and the world bore witness. “Again?” we asked, after Michael Brown and Freddie Gray and Eric Gardner and Philando Castile and Sandra Bland and Botham Jean and Ahmaud Arbery and Beonna Taylor and so many more. George Floyd couldn’t breathe, his airway blocked by the knee of a cop. His death sparked outrage. Black communities took to the streets to protest, joined by allies. I don’t know that we’ll ever know exactly why his death in particular caused many corners of America to stop ignoring the systems built to oppress Black people. I do know that last week I realized I needed to stop, to listen, to believe, to learn, to protest. I and we whose skin is white need to become anti-racist. White supremacy begets white privilege, and both are written into the fabric of this country. They must be dismantled. It’s not enough to have a few weeks of unrest. Laws and policies and people must change. And I have to start with me. You, dear reader, have to start with you. My audience is primarily white, and we have a responsibility to make individual and systemic changes. Silence is complicity. We may make missteps and mistakes in undertaking this work, but we must do the work.

Before George Floyd’s death I did not know it was possible to consider defunding the police, nor was I aware of the implications of qualified immunity. I knew American history is largely white-washed. I knew red-lining was a thing. I knew about mass incarceration. I knew Black women and babies die at vastly higher rates. I knew without making myself KNOW. That is privilege at work. It’s not okay. The work we must do begins with learning with open hearts and ears and eyes: the stuff of being a good listener to an entire population we’ve long marginalized. And as we learn, I hope we can transform the shape of this nation to reflect life liberty and the pursuit of happiness with equity and equality.

For me, that looks like Ty and I participating in an anti-racism course. I’m planning to work through Rachel Cargle’s The Great Unlearn as well. I’ve read I’m Still Here by Austin Channing Brown and am planning to read White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo and How to Be an Anti-Racist by Ibram X. Kendi. I’m following more Black artists, educators, athletes, and influencers on Instagram. I’m committed to learning. And taking action. Elections in November are too far away to be the sole way change is brought about, though voting is essential. Listen, believe, learn, give. Support Black businesses. Celebrate Black voices. Believe Black experiences. And commit to change. What I will work hard not to do is asking the Black people in my life to help me understand; they are not responsible to facilitate my growth. I share these as ideas in case you don’t know where to start. Police brutality needs to end. Racism’s roots need to be pulled out and destroyed. Black lives matter.

Here are my photos from the last two weeks: a mix of everyday cornavirus life and may-we-never-be-the-same-after-George-Floyd-died. I opted to leave everything in one big post, two weeks of photos, because life is chaotic and messy with beauty right in midst of that mix. And they are my process. I hope maybe they help you with yours.

COVID-19: Week 10-ish

Every week since we started staying home I’ve posted a collection of photos of the preceding week. It’s helped me pay attention, reminded me that the days going by hold choices about how to live in the midst of uncertainty in these altogether strange times. Sharing I hope helps you parse out the happenings in your own life as we walk this out. Today, with the passing of 100,000 deaths in this country alongside of another Black man slaughtered in the street by a white cop, it all feels like too much. I don’t have a lot in the way of words.

The photographs from last week (I pull Monday to Sunday of the prior week in this series) today remind me that even in the face of hatred, death and denial, new days keep dawning, and maybe for this post, that’s enough. New days mean hope exists in the midst of the mess, and I want to inhale the relief that comes with that reality and exhale the overwhelming grief.

We’re all in this together, even as we are, for a time, apart.

COVID: Week 9(ish)

Time keeps moving even as life stands remarkably still. Last week, a non-blur of much of the same. Wake, coffee, read, eat, work, run, video chat, watch a show, repeat. Sleep when it works out; try not to yield to anxiety when it doesn’t. Go to therapy. Don’t go anywhere else. One day we hiked a trail with friends, distanced, of course, but still, being outdoors made the world brand new for an afternoon. They’re the friends who inspired me to fall in love with New England, and many years of friendship make everyday adventures simple to plan. We compared notes on our pandemic experiences while exploring a state park and promised to meet again in a few weeks. Having the time to meet up in the middle of the week made lemonade out of the furlough lemons for a few hours, at least.

We finally ordered food from a favorite restaurant stretched that dinner into lunch as well. Takeout Indian never tasted so good. I think the heightened awareness of ordinary pleasures during these endlessly similar days is an unexpected gift and gratitude. I try to note them, because they’re an antidote to the negativity that kicks in at times. It was a slow week, a pretty good week. The best of times. The worst of times. And here are a few snapshots illustrating that in my neck of the woods, at least, we did our best to be present to it all, alive.

We’re all in this together, even as we are, for a time, apart.

COVID-19: Week 8-ish

A struggle: I want to believe we are all in this together, that in coming alongside one another, even from a distance, we will beat the virus. I fear, instead, that the refusal to believe scientific evidence coupled with putting individual perceived “rights” (to not wear a mask, to pretend business as usual will not be harmful, to ignore CDC and WHO recommendations or to dismiss them because “I’m not high risk,” etc) will further divide an already polarized nation. And for what? A few more dollars in our pockets at the cost of many more lives lost? Remember in the beginning when this country was told we wouldn’t have a problem, then that there would be very few deaths, then that a hundred thousand would be pretty good? I lose sleep over this, not because I’m pessimistic- I’m not- and not because I’m liberal- though I am. I have eyes and ears as well as the recognition that I don’t know enough to make best practices recommendations. People devote their whole lives to studying this stuff, and they, along with those on the frontlines who must go to work and risk illness themselves, need to be considered when making choices.

This struggle is the exhaustion-inducing grief of living in this moment, and I know that acknowledging it allows breathing room for all of the other pieces of living in this moment, many of which counterbalance the weight of the virus.

Staying home, because we have enough to live in a comfortable house with access to what we need, has slowed the pace of life for weeks now. Instead of feeling frantic during the workweek, which had become commonplace for me, I complete my daily tasks without eyes constantly on an impossibly long to-do list. At work my role is reduced, which remains unsettling. My requests, though, are limited to prevent virus spread and to keep my workload reasonable for the time I have. My side-hustle has gone silent for the time being, and while I miss taking photos of families, I believe those opportunities will return down the road. With boundaries around work, I find myself grateful for time to run when the weather is best. Ty and I continue to go on a lot of walks, and noticing the changing trees and flowers almost daily mesmerizes me. Books get read and words get written on a whim, and that feels like I gift I haven’t had access to since high school. This week we had another dusting of snow and historic cold right alongside of warm, sunny evenings. The tulip garden at Elizabeth Park was in full bloom. Neither of us sleeps particularly well, but we have grown in our ability to rest, even with so much uncertainty. I feel like I report the same happenings weekly now, and while some of it is quite monotonous, the wonder of finding beauty in hidden corners of our home and neighborhood provokes curiosity and creativity, the very stuff of hope.

The unexpected halt to life as we knew it remains. I don’t have answers about what normal will look like when we get “back” to it. I do believe hope that even as we hear stories of the worst of humanity, many, many stories of goodness are being quietly lived out in masks on faces, in groceries purchased for elderly neighbors, in teachers reading stories, in smiles and waves and choosing to stay home, in signs in windows, in buying from small businesses whenever possible (we ordered takeout this week from our favorite Indian place- the first time we’d had restaurant food since March!). So we keep moving forward, hopefully with some wisdom and grace, packaged with a side of kindness. Hope you’re hanging in. The landscape of this perpetual Groundhog Day is shifting in some places; be and stay safe.

COVID-19: Week 7-ish

Spring’s slow roll, a New England phenomenon decidedly different from my Texas experience, continues to amaze me on the daily. The wearisome rain, persistently present throughout the pandemic so far, threatens joy in the way of the wizarding world’s dementors; like Harry Potter we find ourselves looking for chocolate frogs (in covid terms: sunny days) to relieve us. The rain, though, coaxes seedlings to sprout, to bloom, to flower. Our garage houses baby birds; our neighborhood continues to explode in color. Outdoors continues to be my best coping mechanism for these strange days.

Indoors, Facetime and phone calls and food prep and working at home build a routine. A friend texted me midweek last week (impossibly week SEVEN of this) “weekends feel like weekends again.” Indeed, they do. I suppose that speaks to adjusting to whatever this is, to letting whatever this is be what it is. Days hold enough space for tears and frustration and fears right alongside of laughter, hope, calm. Even as the world feels chaotic and broken, I’m learning that acceptance means recognizing that my life remains safe and relatively peaceful. I feel fortunate; I am privileged. I can be grateful for what I have even while I grieve that many have wholly different experiences.

No answers to the questions of how bad and how long and how many and who continue create tension. So much suffering. So much death. And still, there is evening; there is morning. New days dawn; their persistence reminds me to breathe out fear and breathe in hope. Last week that looked like deciding to go for walks to see the flowers. To watch the wind chimes my sister mailed me blow in the breeze, knowing in her backyard they’re twinned and chiming too. To sit across a blanket from friends and make the baby laugh. To watch my husband fall asleep on the couch, nightly, surrounded by at least two thirds of our menagerie. To bake and run and sleep and write and photograph. Some day we will have answers to the hard questions of this. We don’t yet. What we do have is the choice to acknowledge the uncertainty and decide to show up for our lives as best we can. I think anyways.

Hope you’re doing okay, friends. We’re all in this together, even as we are, for a time apart.

COVID-19: Week 6-ish

Marathon Monday, once the Boston Marathon was postponed, loomed on the calendar a small-picture disappointment. In the big picture, the race mattered little given the state of affairs, but I’d worked hard for several years to qualify post-cancer. In 2019 I ran a personal best at the Vermont City Marathon and earned a spot at Boston. When the virus demanded nationwide attention to eradicating it, I made peace with Boston being ellipsis pointed into the future. As Marathon Monday approached, I felt sadness descend, unhelpful in this already wearisome present tense.

The week before I realized I could perhaps run a solo marathon on April 20. I had the training and the time. If I ran it slow, my risk of injury was relatively low. Because running is helping me cope with being home and all the uncertainty, that mattered. I talked to Ty about it, then to running partners, and all of them said if I decided to run they’d join for a few miles. So I decided to do it. I ran my seventh marathon from and to the front door of my house, my slowest time and loneliest course. Having partners for part of the run made it doable. Running through the years, checks this trifecta of blocks: it challenges me, it provides self-care, and it helps me celebrate my own strength. Last Monday it also allowed me to control the choice to run, even as the pandemic took away the race. I’m glad I did it.

Outside of the run, week six passed in the same Groundhog Day reality as the previous five weeks. We can’t quite seem to break into repeated sunny days here, and I notice that on bad weather days finding energy takes work. On nice days, Ty and I go go for walks, the cats watch the birds, and Darby lays in the grass in the backyard. The household breathes easier; we’re all better for it. I don’t really have a lot more to say about last week, though. It passed. I noticed spring continuing to emerge, brighter and brighter colors showing up in the flora and fauna almost daily. We hiked a bit of the Appalachian Trail over the weekend. I felt the true joy and the most myself when I ran the marathon, and that highlight makes me marvel a bit that joy exists in the midst of uncertainty and a broken world. I’m trying to pay attention to that as a means of getting through.

It’s working for me. What’s working for you?

COVID-19: Week 5-ish

Week 5, in a nutshell: we do so much less and are tired so much more. I think maybe it’s living with so much uncertainty? Days stretch long and taut, lacking the elasticity normal routine provided. Remember when we made mental adjustments to busy weekdays and slower weekends? Work requires attention for fewer hours, and weekends are spent home, quiet, so it seems like rested should be the present tense at our house.

Except it isn’t.

Being at ease with the discomfort of the here and now means acknowledging the absence of control. Which is itself uncomfortable. This is where we live, in the midst of the madness. I try to remain grounded by gratitude: for miles to run, for food to make, for work that remains, for health in my home and in our families, for video and calls, for therapy, for friends, for unseasonable warmth, for unseasonable snow. These photographs remind me of the abundance in my life. It’s enough. Truly.

Last week I had the privilege of talking about photography during the pandemic on my friend Jenny Stein’s podcast the Family Photographer. Have a listen if you like. Hope you’re doing well out there, friends, together, apart.

COVID-19: Week 2-ish

My sister sent a video of my two-year-old nephew this morning . “He all done quarantine,” he said, pointing to a stuffed elephant at his side. Aren’t we all? And yet the second week passed, a Groundhog Day playing out against the hum of Zoom meetings and video calls. We found ourselves with shrunken paychecks and non-existent social lives. Even on the nights I managed to sleep solidly for seven or eight hours, I woke up exhausted.

Still, the week started with an early spring flash of snow, and we stood wide-eyed in the backyard, delighted for a morning decorated white, even as new blooms peeked through. Daily a little more spring emerged, nature reminding us life perpetuates, even in this weirdly shaken state. Watching winter yield to season’s change, as it does, always, gives me hope that this great pause is our own yielding to life, to health.

That doesn’t mean I don’t fear for my livelihood, for the livelihoods of others. In a matter of days my employment reduced substantially. I would fear more, though, if this necessary slowdown wasn’t happening, because the trajectory of the virus indicates we had to stop. Just stop. Everyone, except for those whose lives sustain ours, to whom we are all indebted. So partial furlough it is. Both Ty and I are now working fewer hours, which means we’re doing puzzles and reading. A lot. We get outside every day. I try to stick to limits with the ever-present newsfeed. I’m still running miles. I take out my camera often. That practice became a daily tool when I was recovering from cancer treatment, and I’m finding that rhythm similarly soothing now. It makes me pay attention. In paying attention I find that each day holds room for gratitude and grief, for delight and depression, for anxiety and awe. Our menagerie, sensitive to whatever this change is, bring comfort and levity to this abnormal mundane moment. The vague unknowns are. Acceptance is all that can be done with the ever-curling question marks.

So, I’m doing my best to be present to each day as it comes, because like it or not, we’re not all done with quarantining yet (sorry Freddy and sorry your toddler self is well enough acquainted with that word to use it appropriately). My photos, like Freddy’s elephant, help me process, so I’m sharing them. Maybe they’ll help you too. How are you doing, friends? We’re all in this together, even as we are, for a time, apart.