It’s become a weird vacation-meets-work world. I’ve been up since 5AM. I don’t clock-in until 8AM. The GF is still fast asleep and probably won’t be out of the bedroom until 7AM. Both of us are “lucky” that we are able to work from home. I think for me it is more so.
My job, before the virus, was predicated on in-person support for technology. I’m a computer technician. When all other network-based remediation fails, I am supposed to help in-person. Puts hands on the problem and fix it. Now, I chat or talk people through their issues.
We’re all afloat in the same ocean, but in separate boats. With swells, we rise and fall together. The same storm will impact us differently, but still the same. It’s hard to not see this.
It’s hard to keep the clouds out of the head. I have times where the thoughts are hopeful and humorous. Then, like a switch, turn melancholy or dark. I am seven billion people facing the same thing.
This morning, I watched a Randy Rainbow video. As usual, Randy made me laugh. It was fun to see Randy’s adoration of New York governor Andrew Cuomo. Then the next Tweet in my timeline swept out that joy and backfilled it with sadness.
Now, I sit in the quiet of my apartment. Spring is pushing its way through the morning gloom. Birds are singing. Cars are rolling by. Soon I will be at my computer. Another person, another coworker, will post a question that was asked and answered yesterday, or they will have some deeply involved problem. A problem whose solution would be quick under my hands, but is magnified by frustration that I can’t just take the computer.
Facing the frustration is the hardest part. It is there with almost everything that we do now. Buying groceries requires masks, gloves, and the hope that we’ll be let in without waiting for others to leave the store. This is true of picking up carry-out or hardware or cat litter. The social distractions we had evaporated with the quarantine protocols.
We shelter-in-place now. We plot our outings for minimum exposure to others. We assume everyone around us and even ourselves are sick. Meanwhile, around us, our American society crumbles. The economy is shuttering. People are without jobs. Medical services are focused on the coronavirus infected. The news is an onslaught of bad news, poor reporting, or just plain state propaganda.
I do have hope. The hope is that this pause will let people catch a breath. I now have time to think critically about what I value and reprioritize. With time spent commuting returned to my daily budget, I do more of those projects that are either in mid-progress or still sketches in the book. I now have the time to spend on the ‘us’ of my relationship with my GF.
Life right now is precious. So many of us are sick. Many of the sick are dying or dead. Heroes are falling daily now. Federal government still does not want to embrace its role in this pandemic. State and local governments struggle to do what is right and must be done. It’s easy to get buried under this weight and think that life is losing its shine.
Then I hear the birds sing. On my porch grow seeds for this year’s garden. My Japanese red maple came back from the winter and is sprouting new leaves. And I finished a project that was until recently just sketches and pieces on the workbench.
It isn’t all good right now, but it isn’t all bad either.
