Mary Zelinka

My mother always said she was like a sundial – she counted only the sunny hours. No one would ever accuse me of being a sundial, though I have been described as chronically idealistic. I can usually find some measure of joy no matter what. But lately, if I see anybody looking happy, I want to yell, What is wrong with you? Don’t you know we’re in the middle of a Pandemic?

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Many years ago, I copied these words from Jessamyn West into a book I keep of quotes:

Perhaps joy has been the true story of my life. 
Perhaps the events I witnessed, and sometimes participated in, were no more a part of me than the wind that blows through the forest is part of the forest.”

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My friend Donna, one of the three representatives who will make decisions for me if I can no longer speak for myself, calls to talk about my Advance Health Care Directive. I’m over 70, which lands me in the pandemic’s vulnerable category even though I have no underlying health issues and am strong. We go through the checklist. 

“Are you sure about no prolonged life support?” she asks. “Some COVID patients who were on ventilators for a short while came out of it.” 

Now I’m unsure. “Maybe at first,” I say. “And then after a few days you could reassess it with the doctor.” We are quiet for a moment. “I trust you.  No matter how it turns out, I know you will have had my best interests at heart.” 

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Three things made me happy today:

<>    The wind and rain came up so abruptly. Just like that, it’s Fall.

<>     My workplace, the Center Against Rape and Domestic Violence, has paper towels. We were down to three rolls because we haven’t been able to accept in-kind donations during the pandemic and we are using so many. We sanitize our shelters and offices three times a day and our shelters have been full. I bought two 24-packs over the weekend at Target and Chelly scored ten 24-packs from Costco. Now we are rich.

<> As I was waiting at the stop sign to turn right on 9th street, a young woman bicycled in front of my car and yelled, “I love your purple hair!  You rock!”

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Question: 

Shouldn’t I be writing about more topical things now than leaving my violent ex-husband? My parents disowning me? Being sexually abused as a child? Do I really need to examine my family from one more perspective? My sister who estranged me, my brother who died leaving instructions that I not be told? Yet isn’t it our shared stories, whatever they may be, that ultimately bind us? Isn’t this exactly the time that our personal stories are needed the most?

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Maybe Joy is knowing that you are part of something bigger than yourself. That you belong with all life – amoebas, giraffes, forests, oceans, rivers, mountains, sunsets, as well as dogs barking late into the night, pouring down rain, days so hot breathing wears you out, icy cold dark mornings, scorpions.   

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We are all anonymous behind our masks. We don’t make eye-contact. Our voices are muffled.   

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My throat feels scratchy. If my body were a coal mine, my tonsils would be canaries. My throat is always scratchy when I’m overly tired, under a lot of stress, or starting to get sick. Tonight though, I wonder: Is this COVID-19?

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My grocery store offers pick up service so you don’t have to risk your life by shopping in person. I place my order through their website and arrive in the parking lot at the designated time. A masked man brings out my groceries and puts them in the trunk of my car. When I get home, I discover that he has given me Tide instead of All. The mop I needed for one of the shelters is missing – the order sheet says “backorder.” And the three carrots I ordered are giant. They are so big that at first I don’t even know what they are. They are as long as my forearm and almost as big around as my wrist at their base. They are like cartoon carrots.

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I am the sort of person who gets hugged a lot. Friends when we greet and again when we say goodbye; survivors who use our services; co-workers. Occasionally some random person when I’m out and about. 

Since the pandemic, I have been touched by three people: 

<>    The hygienist who cleaned my teeth.

<>    The nurse at Rite-Aid who gave me a seasonal flu shot.

<> My hairdresser when it was finally safe enough to get a haircut again.

I am starved for touch. 

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Routine, power-walking, working out (at home since my gym is closed), writing, living with a housemate, weekly phone talks with my friend Sheila in Denver, my women’s group (on Zoom now), my work and co-workers (wearing masks and socially distanced), reading, cross-stitch, organizing and downsizing. These things make me feel like I am still in control of my life. Even though none of us ever are really. 

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During our weekly socially-distanced walk, my friend Nancy said, “It’s all so Old Testament. When will we be covered with boils? When will the frogs start raining from the sky?” 

I’m afraid that the world, my world, will never be “normal” again. Yet I am as comfortable as anyone could be. I’m healthy. I have a job, I’m financially okay. I have a nice place to live, a safe place. I have toilet paper. Maybe I have survivors’ guilt.

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I like the quiet of the Pandemic. The lower expectations. No one expects anything to be done in a hurry – it’s the pandemic after all. And there’s less traffic. I can get to work really fast. No need to slow down in school zones because the kids are home-schooling. Sometimes I worry that I won’t be able to get myself motivated again when the Pandemic is over. Other times I worry that the Pandemic will never be over. 

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Three things I noticed today: 

<>      A woman getting into her car at Home Depot with a big grin on her face. I followed her – not on purpose – I was just going in the same direction she was. At the traffic light I was next to her and she was still grinning.

<>      How tired I am. I don’t have as high a tolerance for craziness as I used to. I am worn down by COVID-19, climate emergency, racial protests, politics. Plus, three wildfires are raging in the mountains and the air is thick with smoke and soot.

<>      How much fog there was this morning and how it lays upon the ground in waves.

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Maybe joy is simply a kind of acceptance. But not acceptance like resignation. An acceptance like this is what I have before me right this moment. And really be in that moment.  Live in that moment. Think about what you will miss when that moment has passed. Maybe you will be relieved that the moment is done. Maybe you will miss that moment. Maybe, in the end, that’s all joy really is – just being in the moment, whether it’s joyful or not.   

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