Bread

Bittercress

Today was brought to me by the letter A: anxiety. I can trace back to the triggering moment during the workday when I felt like I had taken on more responsibility for something than was called for. I blamed myself that important updates to our website had not been made, which seemed to be causing an issue for my supervisor. In times of stress, I want everything to be perfect. I want control. A few chat messages from my supervisor about the situation followed by what I perceived to be radio silence on her end after I asked what I could do sent me spiraling into the abyss of worst-case scenarios.

During a stress response like this one, it's even difficult to put cogent thoughts together. All of my wires cross. Tasks I can normally perform with ease become arduous. For example, I walked at lunch and saw these tiny, wiry flowers poking out of the grass. They're pretty common in yards in spring. It took me 20 minutes to remember what they were: bittercresses. Such a little thing causing me such huge stress. Pandemic days have challenged my coping skills, but I knew I had one non-pharmacological intervention to which to look forward after work: fresh bread.

Easiest Beer Bread Ever! Yuengling Black & Tan all the way.

A friend shared a recipe for "the easiest beer bread ever" on her Facebook page. I'm usually skeptical of hyperbole, but when I opened the recipe, it seemed easy enough and without any weird steps or ingredients. What's not to love about a recipe that says to make sure you pour all of the butter over the dough before placing it in the oven? Beer is second to butter in my world. It came out perfectly and complemented the butternut squash and black bean chili I had made.

Bread is life, really. Taking comfort in a warm, homemade loaf has been baked in our DNA since we humans discovered how to harness the power of flour, yeast, and heat. Sometimes when I am anxious, walking on the earth calms me down. Tonight, eating an elemental grain of the earth (with butter!) brought a bit of peace at the end of an internally chaotic day. I miss breaking bread with other people. I miss being able to cook so I can share it with others. I long for these days again, as I long for so many other things.

Emergence

After all of the downpours yesterday and overnight, area streams and rivers were extremely swollen. The Cuyahoga River was in hundred-year flood territory in some places. Some of the usual places where I might have hiked in search of spring wildflowers were now off-limits without waders. However, with the temperature above 60 and the sun shining, I thought I might try to find a mourning cloak (Nymphalis antiopa) butterfly which usually hangs out in wooded areas.

Most people believe that all butterflies migrate like monarchs do, but we actually have some species in Ohio that hibernate, or overwinter, as adults, including the mourning cloak. Eastern commas and question marks (I'm sure I will discuss in a future blog post because who doesn't love insects that are named after punctuation) also fit into this category. They take refuge in tree crevices or under leaf litter, which besides laziness, is a good reason not to rake the leaves in my yard. Save the butterflies!

Mourning Cloak in Mantua

I was yammering on to my hiking partner six feet away about something inconsequential when I saw the familiar dark flutter in front of me and felt the familiar flutter in my heart. Like a four-year-old, I exclaimed, "There's a mourning cloak!" and chased after it while removing my camera lens. It landed on the grass in front of me, just long enough for me to take its photo. Its bottom left wing was a bit tattered. The butterfly life isn't easy. It alighted again and joined another one circling above me. Pure delight. Pure grace. They flew off into the woods and on we hiked.

Seeing a mourning cloak at this time of year and in that place was very much expected. Nature is cyclical, but perhaps the universe knew that I needed this boost. Two years ago when I received a job offer after nine months of job searching and interviewing, I made a SoulCollage® card that prominently featured a mourning cloak rising above the pines. It symbolized newness after a long period of hibernation and preparation. Twentieth-century British entomologist L. Hugh Newman thought the mourning cloak's pattern reminded him of a girl tired of grieving who let a few inches of her bright dress show below her mourning attire. Perhaps to the casual observer, the name mourning cloak implies some kind of sadness, but for me, these brownish insects trimmed in purple and gold bring nothing but joy and hope for the months to come.

Saturation

I woke up this morning to a rumble of thunder, our first spring storm. With my eyes closed, I could still see the lightning flashes. I counted to see how close the storm was; it came upon us quickly. I thought of my grandmother, who hated storms so much that she hid in her pantry/coat closet. She told me the thunder was really the angels in heaven bowling. I closed my eyes and went back to bed, a Saturday morning luxury.

A neighbor's flooded yard.
The fire hydrant is an innocent bystander.

In the past 12 hours, we've received nearly 3 inches of rain. As I write this, we are in the midst of another torrential downpour. Before this one and the last one, I took a quick walk in the neighborhood. It's gray and dreary but warm outside. The creek across the street is out of its northern bank and creeping rapidly into my neighbors' yards but is no danger to the houses. Other yards are flooded in spots. The ground squishes beneath my feet as I rescue a worm from the asphalt and place it on the grass. My sump pump in my basement churns out water regularly. This area of Ohio used to be a swamp, and every so often, we get a reminder about that.

The earth can take more, but I feel saturated.

First crocus in bloom
in my front yard.

I braved the grocery store last night, an anxiety-inducing errand on a non-pandemic day. When I came home, I was completely exhausted. I didn't sanitize my groceries because I don't have a stockpile of disinfecting wipes. The ones I have are carefully rationed for cleaning doorknobs, refrigerator doors, credit cards, keys, and my cell phone after said outings. Of course, I turned to Facebook and Twitter where most of it is now a constant repeat of sanitizing your groceries, memes about social distancing, criticizing inept national leadership, dire curves, and my least favorite, horror stories from healthy thirty-something people who have COVID-19. I'm not really reading any of this or letting it soak in anymore; I just scroll like the water from the creek rushes by. Unlike Mother Earth, I think I am reaching the saturation point.

In time, this saturated feeling will subside. It's probably good to take a break from mindless scrolling on a screen and see the world as it really is right in front of me. 

What I Miss

Working from home has been intense at times as we all adjust to spending eight hours in front of our screens with no real human contact. There is little to break up the work, besides trips to the bathroom and occasional household chores. There are no hallway or doorway conversations. No antics. We're all in our own little bubble. Today, though, the bubble broke for a few precious, joyous moments.

My colleague and I are responsible for converting an in-person campus visit into a virtual visit using Zoom. I have used Zoom for the last few years to meet with my faith-sharing group in Florida, but I've never hosted a meeting. I watched a video tutorial yesterday that reviewed the basics in preparation for my meeting this morning and picked up some tips and tricks that I felt would be enough to get our test meeting started. The Golden Girls, as our boss calls us, are pretty resourceful after all. We are both former (or recovering) "church ladies" who used to work in ministry settings but are now in college admissions where hospitality and event planning are mainstays of our jobs—along with listening and helping students discern major life choices. Knowing how to use Zoom's functionality well will help create that comfortable space where students and families can ask us questions and get to know us and our campus.

Yesterday, I learned about the virtual background feature and thought this could be really fun. Zoom's virtual backgrounds are like the green screen that meteorologists use to broadcast the weather. Instead of students having to look at the wall in my rather boring home office, I can come to them live from pyramids, or from the beach, or from a baseball game. Oh, and I suppose from the campus, too. I was super pumped about this feature, but because of technical difficulties, I was unable to make it work on my computer until IT downloaded a driver later in the day. However, my coworker was able to make it work, and it was the most amazing thing. She found an aquarium scene and then thought it would be hilarious to take a green sweatshirt and basically play peek-a-boo and yell, "Surprise!" I recorded this on my phone, and it was the best five seconds of the day—no, of the week! No, maybe of the last 15 days. I belly laughed over and over again—and so did our boss who shared the video on her own Instagram page.

For a brief moment, everything felt normal. I miss feeding off this kind of energy. I miss hearing not just one other person's laughter on a videoconference, but an entire room laughing together. Even though I'm an introvert, I miss the camaraderie that comes from being part of a team.

In other news, gas is $1.55/gallon. Eight hundred sixty-seven Ohioans have been tested and diagnosed with COVID-19.

#InItTogether

This is Governor Mike DeWine's hashtag related to our response as Ohioans to slow the spread of COVID-19. At any other time in history, I would probably scoff at such a trite phrase from an elected official (no, not probably—definitely). Today, however, I felt those three words in my bones when I donated blood at a local church.

I carry my own pen to correct
instances of "Mary."

Over the weekend, a friend of mine told me she was planning to donate. I had been struggling to believe that I was making any significant or good contributions to humanity (staying home is not hard for introverts). Her nudge helped me to sign up. Then, the anxiety kicked into high gear. What if I get sick after donating, not because of the blood donation but because I will need to be around people. You can't take someone's blood from six feet. I seriously considered not going. I fear this virus, and I fear having to ride it out alone—or worse—if I contract it. As the afternoon wore on today, I felt the quivers inside. The governor says daily that we are at war, so I tried to think about our ancestors who sacrificed much in previous generations, including blood. I thought about my dad who is a champion blood donor, giving faithfully every 56 days and earning plaques from the Red Cross for donating gallons of blood. I remembered the last time I gave blood three years ago when I was unemployed. Then I was also hoping to do some good for others at a time when I felt very self-centered.

Thoroughly convinced of my duty but not necessarily calm about it, I decided that my pint of A-negative could make an impact down the road. Upon checking in and going through the intake process, I was surprised that I passed the temperature check at a perfect 98.6 degrees, that my blood pressure was 95-over-70, and my pulse was its normal 58 beats per minute. I also passed the hemoglobin test, which I was secretly hoping I wouldn't because I lost my slow-release iron tablets weeks ago somewhere between home and the office. There was no turning back now as I sat in the social hall waiting for my turn.

The needle is out of the shot
because once I look, it's all over.

The gravity of this moment in time struck me. It was surreal in many ways. Everyone present had a purpose, from donors like me to the Red Cross staff working diligently to ensure a safe and clean collection process. It was mostly quiet, except for some 2010s pop music playing from a Bluetooth speaker. I overheard a few donors say they had not donated in a long time. One woman was giving for the very first time. The staff made some jokes about the restricted areas inside the half-circle of gurneys as being "lava" and donors made sure only to follow their staff person to the right place. Laughs in the midst of serious business.

Once that needle was in, I was proud of my choice and proud that I conquered anxiety, at least for a few moments. When it was over, Tyrone said I could go to Cookie Land. I didn't do it for the cookies, though, or even the organic juice box; I did it because we are truly in it together.

PS. For my oodles of followers, I am sorry for skipping yesterday's entry. My Mac decided it needed to do a major, overdue upgrade, and by the time it finished, sleep beckoned.

Perspective

The routines of daily life keep changing as COVID-19 steamrolls its way through humanity. The county department of health where I reside announced the first confirmed case today, but we know there are more unreported cases—and that this virus does not care what county you live in or were tested in. These are simply ways for us to try to keep track of the spread in a somewhat orderly and scientific fashion.

In earlier posts, I have lamented the (temporary) losses of the most ordinary but necessary things, including eye contact and human touch. This afternoon, our governor and health director issued a mandator stay-at-home order, which is pretty much what I've been practicing since our university suspended in-person classes on the afternoon of March 10. For some of my friends, this has been or soon will be enforced even more strictly. My heart aches for them, but they live in close proximity to others, and such distancing is necessary to keep them safe, despite my own selfish needs and wants to see them and to be with them.

Today, my friend and I, who are accustomed to spending Sundays together going to church, having breakfast, and going on hikes, took one last hike for the foreseeable future before her residence goes into what they have described as a "hard closure." After we exchanged some food, books, and other items, we walked the path north while maintaining the recommended six-foot safety zone (and moving over for bikes). I miss this friend's hugs and gentle nudges. Although we plan to video chat, it won't be quite the same, so I tried to soak up as much humanity as I could today with someone who is not just my friend but is family in every way but blood.

Here is our forced perspective selfie that makes us appear physically closer than we really were. In these times, a little photo magic reminds me that we are all closer than we appear to be at this very moment.

Eye Contact

Now that most of my work and social interactions take place using videoconferencing, I realize how scarce and sacred real eye contact is. Yes, you can see the other person's eyes, but where do you look so that you can both have sustained eye contact? If I look at the camera, then you can look into my eyes, but I can't look into yours.

Two deer stare me down.

I walked along one of the trails along the Cuyahoga River late this afternoon. It was cloudy and brisk; every so often, the tiniest of snowflakes hit me in the face. Spring is scarce today. A few people were out walking their dogs, but otherwise, the trail was quiet. Less than a mile in, I encountered a small herd of deer who all stood at attention and looked me straight in the eyes. I returned their gaze. Eye contact. I lingered for a while until they ran off into the woods.

On my return, I was at the apex of one of the many hills on this trail when I spotted a huge patterned wing and heard an ominous screech. It was a barred owl attempting to hunt a black squirrel about midway up a tree. The owl missed. The stunned squirrel made its way down the tree and across the path to a brushier and hopefully safer place. The owl perched in another branch. As with the deer, I gazed into its big brown eyes, and it returned my gaze in kind. Grace.

Barred Owl in the middle of the shot.
Note to self: don't leave your camera at home.

Some people speak of having totems and spirit animals. I recently learned that such terminology is cultural appropriation, so I won't perpetuate that here. But owls are definitely special animals in my life. A few summers ago, a clutch of baby barred owls lit up the decibel meter, almost as if a dementor from Harry Potter had taken up residence in my backyard. I had owl prowls on my back porch, and occasionally would be lucky enough to get a really good look like I did today.

Boris the Barred Owl (2015)

For my 33rd birthday, in the midst of a major family trauma, one of my friends reserved a private tour of a nearby raptor sanctuary where I got to meet these beautiful creatures up close and personal. When Boris (short for Aurora Borealis) looked me in the eye at mere feet away, I experienced a sense of comfort that had been eluding me for weeks. I felt that same peace tonight in the woods. Grace.

In other news, gas at the local station is $1.59/gallon. I filled my tank for less than $20, and I suppose I won't need to fill up again for a long time. Tomorrow I will see a friend in person for the last time for a long time. So many feels. I'm going to enjoy the real eye contact while I can.

I made it.

TGIF!

In the late 80s and through the 90s, ABC featured four shows in the primetime block on Friday nights called TGIF. This was almost certainly the highlight of the week for my young self. My best friend and I would get together to watch the Tanners on Full House, Urkel on Family Matters (I used to do a wicked Urkel impression, by the way!), and Baby Sinclair on Dinosaurs, and that iconic roller coaster scene that opened Step by Step. We'd eat popcorn, play Mall Madness, and test out the Ouija board. I lived for Fridays.

5 o'clock

This week, I was also living for Friday. Working from home is like starting a brand new job. Everything feels unfamiliar, even though I'm in my own home, and I know my role. I'm fidgety and am having difficulty concentrating at times. Except when I'm on Teams calls with coworkers who have children or pets, it's incredibly quiet, unlike the office environment. I was so eager to get out of the office and away from the contagion that I did not have time to prepare myself for the reality of working remotely, without human contact, without the energy of others—for better or for worse. I'm mentally exhausted. I've never needed a Friday more than I do now to push reset. I wish I could be that eight-year-old kid again who could have a sleepover at her friend's house and watch Urkel. Instead, I drank a beer. Maybe there are some advantages to TGIF nearly 30 years later.

The author at work.

Today's weather reminded me that situations often change quickly. My lunchtime walk, which I so desperately needed, was cut short by rain. With a strong wind indicating the passage of a cold front, we went from 68 degrees to 38 degrees and from puddle-lined streets to dry pavement in a span of hours. Even when we know something like that is coming, it's still a jolt. So why should this transition to remote work, with less preparation and warning than the 7-day forecast, feel like anything less than a jolt?

As much as I love Fridays (and posting Urkel Dance GIFs on our Teams chat), I'm going to need to keep seeking and recognizing grace each day to push through these pandemic days.

Quivering

Well darkness has a hunger that's insatiable
And lightness has a call that's hard to hear
I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
I sailed my ship of safety 'til I sank it
I'm crawling on your shores

-Indigo Girls, "Closer to Fine"

...

"How are you?" a friend asked me this morning. I had been working at my home office desk for about an hour or so, trying to wrap my head around completing tasks that do not seem as urgent as they once did. I replied and said that I felt like I was quivering on the inside. She replied with picture after picture of happier times we shared together and ended the litany of photos by writing, "Know you are loved."

Pre-COVID, I was already struggling to manage my anxiety, but now I feel like I'm on guard all the time, waiting for another panic attack to grip me like it did earlier this week. My insides quiver thinking about loved ones who might get really sick—or die. My insides quiver thinking about if I get sick and going through that hell in my house, alone. My insides quiver thinking about the lack of physical contact for weeks, maybe months on end. My insides quiver because I'm afraid to venture into the world for the basics. Eventually today, these feelings subsided, and I'm always grateful when they do without a racing heart, weak knees, and gasping breaths.

A lone crocus blooms

I don't take medication for the quivering, but I've thought about it in these extraordinary times. The best medication I have right now is taking stock of spring's delicate beauty. Crocuses and snowdrops have emerged in neighbors' yards in the most unlikely of places. At lunch, I tried to photograph a crocus, but the slightest breeze caused it to quiver, thus taking it out of focus. Frustrated, I deleted the shot. Later in the afternoon, I passed the same spot and repeated the attempt. Success. No quivering. The quivering stopped. I pray mine will, too.

Tonight, my favorite duo, The Indigo Girls, hosted a Facebook Live concert. I have seen them many times in person, but this was the best concert. Raw. Unplugged. Like sitting in a living room with two of your best friends singing all the songs you know by heart. When they started playing "Closer to Fine," nearly 60,000 people were watching on Facebook (I have no idea how many were on Instagram). It broke the feed. I smiled a real smile. For an hour or so tonight, the quivering stopped.

There's more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
And the less I seek my source for some definitive
The closer I am to fine

Can these three words save us?

"How are you"

Three words and a question mark.

It must have been the way I said it this morning to my supervisor on our daily Teams video chat. Was it my inflection? Was it my concerned look that communicated a genuine desire to listen to her answer.

After a pause, she started to cry and then apologized (you know, professional boundaries and all). And then said, "No one has asked me that in a week." My heart hurt a little after hearing that, but I was pleased that for once I was in a good place to be present and available, even if it was just for a few moments before getting on with the business of the day. This pandemic reveals so many vulnerabilities in our world: health insurance, government policies, gaps in services, and most importantly, in each of us.

I have at least one person in my life that I can count on to ask me, "How are you?" In these pandemic days, I have another friend who has been checking in around 2 or 3 in the afternoon to see how I am doing. And of course, there is my departmental partner in crime whose daily buddy checks over the last year or so have given me a safe place to vent and continue to do so. I am so grateful for their care and concern; it helps me to feel more human and less isolated. When friends and coworkers and neighbors are sharing survival strategies, I think I will share this simple one: ask someone, "How are you?" and really listen for the answer.

These three words might not cure us, but they could save us.

Beavers in Fish Creek

This blog was born in 2011 or 2012 after a spectacular campus ministry conference and subsequent dinner with one of my students. My hope at the time was to share one grace from my day. I'm a little late. This is a reboot to recognize grace for the journey during some very challenging times for humanity.

Today was my first day of telework during—I don't even know what to call it—our pandemic response? Our COVID-19 precautions? Yesterday, as I packed up my belongings at work and realizing that I won't be seeing many people in the flesh for a good, long while, I asked myself, "Is this even real?"

This evening, I took a walk in my neighborhood. The sun had finally emerged after what was a pretty dreary start. How good to breathe fresh air! I immediately headed to the bridge over the creek in our neighborhood where some industrious beavers have been working on a dam and have felled several trees some yards away from the water over the last few months. My neighbors and their three boys went to investigate, and I suspect daily checks will be on their list during this extended spring break. No one has reported seeing the beavers (probably because they are nocturnal), but we know they are present.

Hmm, that sounds familiar, given the current situation with The Virus. Health officials tell us it's here, but the vast majority of us have not seen it nor experienced it. It seems to be happening in a cover of darkness. And unlike the beavers, I don't look forward to seeing what it can and will do. I hope some time outside each day will help keep me grounded to the earth and calm the fear inside.

In other news, gas is $1.75/gallon on the corner. Snowdrops are blooming. Birds are chirping. Many natural processes continue as they always do, reminding me of the cyclical nature of life. It's time to dig in.

Also, let's see if I can make it to my second day of blogging.