Dear Coco: The Coronavirus Diaries
Tuesday 3/17/20 — Quarantine Day Three
Dear Coco,
In a matter of days, life as I’ve known it has been turned upside down.
The restaurant I’ve worked at for 15 years closed, indefinitely, over the weekend.
The yoga studio I’ve been seeking refuge in for over a decade has cancelled all classes.
My favorite coffee shop has reduced its services to take out only—custmoers wait outside as baristas make drinks. When the lattes are ready, they’re carried to the door by hands wearing latex gloves. To say the cafe experience is bogged down by the medical masks and barred doors is an understatement.
The world seems to have stopped turning, mid-spin. The “cafe experience” is probably the least of my worries.
Temporary or New Normal?
I’ve been going for morning walks along the boardwalk, to breathe fresh air and try to feel healthy and hopeful. Passersby look up furtively, and if we make any eye-contact at all it is fleeting and guilty, as if we are both wanting to say, “I’m sorry for leaving my house, but I had to. Please don’t judge me.”
The mornings are not as challenging as the afternoons, and the afternoons are easier than the evenings. Once the sun goes down, the full effect of having been cooped up inside with no face to face interaction, save with Nathan, starts to weigh heavily, suffocatingly—the day is gone? And what have I done?
So I’ve given myself this writing assignment, to have something to do. At the end of the day, when the sun has disappeared and things outside my window go dark, my mind starts to spin with so many questions that there are no answers to—
How long will this last?
Do I have enough money saved up to float me through?
Are my parents safe?
Shouldn’t they be home from work?
But can they afford not to work?
And my sister?
And my friends?
And the future of our economy?
Our world?
Our planet?
—there are no answers right now.
Instead of drowning myself in questions, I’m going to save myself through writing.
It won’t be the first time.
“And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now.” —Rilke, of course.
I’m sitting at my desk, looking out a big window, grateful for the sun shining through, warming my cheeks. Big clouds drift across a blue sky, heavy but bright.
Heavy but bright. That could as easily describe the state of my heart right now.
People are using the word “uncertain.” Uncertain, unprecedented, crazy, weird.
I feel all of those words. There are no words more appropriate.
Still, I also feel a strange, inexplicable surge of HOPE.
Yes, a lot of our societal structures are crumbling, and what will be left of them is uncertain. But there is a lot that is not crumbling. If anything, some things are growing—petals, swiftly expanding into full bloom.
A Working List of Things that are Not falling Apart Right Now:
Our caring for those we love. Phone calls, group chats, letter-writing, care-packages. These are happening.
Our creativity and ingenuity. Artists of all kinds—writers, musicians, painters, dancers, teachers—are using their time alone to create inspiring, comforting, soulful art, and sharing it with others.
Our instinct to protect one another. Young people are coming to the aid of elderly and other high-risk communities. They are dropping off groceries, picking up prescriptions, and checking in to make sure those who stand to lose the most have everything they need.
Our sense of humor. I mean, have you seen the memes?
Our curiosity and desire to learn. People are reaching out for books. Watching youtube tutorials to learn new skills. Listening to podcasts to absorb new information. Picking up hobbies they’ve never had time for. while the outside world may be put on bedrest, the inner world is expanding.
Our need to rest and take care of ourselves. This is the big one. This is at the very center of where my hopes lies. The world is being made to take a mental health break. We’re being forced into an indefinitely long naptime. Go lay down. Or sit and meditate. Clear your head. Don’t worry about things you have no control of. The truth is, we have no control over anything that is not immediately related to us in this moment. We can try our best to maintain our safety: we can wash our hands; we can self-quarantine. But we can’t ensure anything about the global outcome of this pandemic. We can’t save the economy. We can’t guarantee our jobs. We certainly can’t force others to bah in a safe and responsible way. We can’t decide how long it will take to “flatten the curve.” The only thing we can control is how we respond, minute by minute, to these uncertain and unprecedented events as they play out in real time.
I have to continue to believe that good things will come of this. I am going to carry on, looking for the happy things, trying to discover the JOY.
And I will keep writing it all down for you, Coco. Or rather, typing it all up. Because that’s another thing I’m using this unexpected free time for: I want to transition from journaling on paper to writing on my computer. It’s a transition I’ve wanted to make for a long time, but I haven't felt ready to make the change until now, when everything else in my life has changed, seemingly over night.
I’m typing now, and it’s not so bad as I imagined. I assumed my words wouldn’t flow as freely, tapping the keys, as they did spilling the ink. And while typing on a computer is far less romantic than swirling across a page, there’s something of a pianist in my fingers, and I like the idea of making music, or at least finding a rhythm, while I write.
I feel good. I feel nearly empty, for now. Perhaps I’ll venture outside once more. Read a book in the sunshine.
Thank the lord for books! One day, maybe readers around the world will thank God for my book. Perhaps this is the beginning of that story. It’s hard to imagine the beginning of anything though, while life as I’ve known it comes to a grinding halt.
Until tomorrow, stay safe and wash your hands,
—J
On my desk today: the flowers I picked on my walk this morning; coffee made by Nathan, in my Beyoncé mug; a sweet Jane Austen hardcover—only stories with happy endings, thanks; my favorite photo of Camille Claudel’s defiant, beautiful face; a sweet token from Grandma; my computer, for typing this all up; sunshine spilling over my desk as I write.