The wind is rushing through the bare trees, thumping and buffeting the house. I love the rush and roar. I mourn when warmer weather begins to melt the snow, but I suppose it’s the change in temperature that makes the spring winds so fierce.
Everything I thought I would write about in this blog got tossed upside down by COVID-19. I thought the commute along route 117 would provide a unifying theme, but I haven’t commuted since last March, and I probably will never drive to work again. I will probably work from home until I retire.
I expected to write about shared work life, but my own came to a halt with the beginning of total isolation at home. In addition, the background noise of our work lives is utterly different now. Instead of a steadily functioning economy, we have a patchwork of seeming normality mixed with closed or cratered businesses, people unable to pay rent and mortgages, and mounting debts and obligations that sooner or later are going to crush us or someone we know. My own circumstances are secure, and my social life and family are so small, I haven’t had much contact with people who are hard hit. It would be pretentious for me to write as if I understood it well. So I don’t write about it at all.
I thought I would write about church life, but churches are closed. Online services are either impersonal, or intimidatingly personal. What conflicted, anxious, God-suspecting person – my target audience, to be perfectly honest — wants to attend a service, if it means emailing and asking for a Zoom invitation, and then appearing in the Zoom checkboard? How can you have a furtive assignation with the Holy One if you have to declare yourself publicly before you can get started?
When I was a kid living at home, I used to love walking on windy spring days. My dog and I would reach the end of the paved street, climb through the barbed wire fence, and walk the length of the cornfield. We would reach the scrubby in-between place of second growth between the cornfields and the woods, and step silently toward the deer yard under the pines. There, a group of four or five deer would sit and stand. Peaceful. Were they communing with each other? Were they daydreaming?
I could stand a long time and watch without their noticing, and then I would always give in to the temptation to creep toward them. How close would they let me approach, before one startled face would turn to me, one foot would stamp, and away they would race, white flags raised. Crashing footsteps rapidly growing faint, then only the sound of the wind.