Here on Earth

For close to a decade I’ve avoided watching anything - for entertainment - that I deemed too upsetting.

Anything excessively violent. Or cruel. Or sad.

When Dan would suggest The Wire, I’d counter with Peggy Sue Got Married, and we’d eventually settle on a couple of hours apart.

This type of self-regulation coincided with becoming a mother, when everything felt so raw and I had trouble “metabolizing” the darker subject matter.

I didn’t anticipate - years later - this type of protection dissolving when my own kids would come to me with their creepy nightmares and existential fears — with no regard to trigger warnings!

And instantly I have to be brave and calm and honest and - on the spot - find words to ease their fears, which are also my fears, and also all of our fears.

My five-year-old son is suddenly aware of death, which is age appropriate, but also heightened by what he’s absorbing around him during this pandemic.

A few nights ago he took my face in both of his hands, at bedtime, his chin quivering and tears rolling down his cheeks - bereft that after I die I won’t be with him — here on earth — for “so much time.”

I tried to console him with ways that I feel connected to my grandmother and aunt, and the belief that our souls will be reunited someday. It didn’t take.

So I told him that I’m also sad about this.

And that none of us know what happens after death, and that I can’t ask anyone because the only people who I know are living (which is a loose paraphrase of a Franz Wright poem).

Our consolation — here on earth — is running on the deserted beach — sand sticking to our wet clothing after we went straight into the water fully-dressed, because it felt so good to be outside.

And let’s do that again. And again. For as many days as we can.

He seemed to accept that.

Then I told Dan I was ready to watch The Wire.

We’re two episodes in, and it’s spectacular.

New Rules

I’m pausing a lot mid-game these days: my daughter will stop to ask about the rules which she wants to be sure weren’t violated by her younger brother.

And I’ll explain that we don’t know the rules yet: We just invented the game.

I’m grateful that they’re so willing to play together - mostly games fashioned out of their rich imaginations and the motley crew of legos and actions figures laying around our house.

New rules are issued each week by our governors and we wait to hear.

We’re required to wear face masks outside now.

Though, not while walking around the block at a safe social distance.

I thought that was the new rule.

But then, while walking around the block at a safe social distance, it looked like other people were wearing masks.

So I ran back inside for a scarf to tie around my face. Only I couldn’t find a lightweight scarf, so I grabbed a black-and-white-striped bathing-suit-wrap and tied it around my face.

Paired with the first thing I grabbed off the floor: Dan’s oversized black hoodie with huge white lettering, a quote from Isaiah: “Feed the hungry, Shelter the homeless, Clothe the naked”

(I was oddly color-coordinated for someone sporting such a bizarre look.)

Of course I ran into a couple of people who I know on this walk and one gently told me that I didn’t need to wear the bathing-suit-wrap over my face unless I was entering an enclosed public space.

I’m still figuring out the new rules. We all are.

While also praying — for the entire world’s sake — that they will lift soon.

In the meantime, I find consolation in our new games, in our innovations.

The San Francisco Unified School District and local TV station KTVU teamed up to create a weekday hour-long tv program featuring segments from the teachers who educate our thousands of pre-K - 2nd graders.

(I found it every bit as entertaining and educational as Sesame Street!)

My five-year old followed along with matching games, movement, mindfulness — there were even magic tricks performed by the superintendent.

What an absolute labor of love, generosity and commitment from our educators.

I’m awed by them and by so many people on the front lines of this pandemic.

They are holding us all.

Strength & Love.

Passover & A Pink Supermoon

Before I had kids, I’d wake up at the witching hour - 3AM - to write. I didn’t set an alarm; a physical force — energy that can present as anxiety (creativity!) pulled my body out of bed.

I stopped this practice when I had children; when they were newborns I needed those hours to rest.

But even after they started sleeping through the night, I still felt that I had to stay in bed to be my best-self, when I was needed, at 7AM.

Since this shelter began, I wake up every Tuesday when I hear the rumbling of the first garbage truck — around 4AM — and I go downstairs to the pantry-turned-writing-space to record the week’s consolation.

I now know that my best-self gets several hours of solitude and creative time before interacting with other humans. At the very least, as a weekly practice.

There’s been an ease to this discovery, to this Passover.

Not eating pizza for a week doesn’t feel like a sacrifice this year; it feels like the wise suggestion of a loving friend.

Examining my daily routines and rituals — and bad habits — that go unchanged because there’s no break in my busy over-scheduled life, also feels like a gift now — there’s enough disruption to make changes.

I took a ride with the kids as night began to fall last Tuesday.

Driving down one of our favorite hills, I stopped the car. I pulled up the emergency break.

People were standing in the middle of the street taking pictures of the huge pink supermoon.

It was a complete surprise to us — this stunning beauty on our unplanned evening drive.

“Look at the moon!” my kids yelled out the car windows.

“There it is!” they shouted trying to follow it as we headed towards home.

There it is, a constant consolation.

Look up.

Happy Passover.