Disembodied

Did you ever feel like you're having an out-of-body experience? I think I had something akin to that today, and it happened in the most unlikely of ways.

A friend of mine who I have not been able to see in person for fifty-eight days now sent a photo to me that someone took of her at a socially distant gathering where she lives. We talk every day, and Zoom or FaceTime multiple times during the week. This photo showed her from head-to-toe, and I gasped a little when I saw it, not because of what she was wearing (a tie-dyed shirt and a wide-brimmed hat) or what she was holding (a stuffed dog that plays Christmas music), but because I remembered that she had a body: a torso, arms, and legs.

I realized today that video chats create a kind of disembodiment, if that's even the right term for what I experienced. While I do see people walking and moving about their business in my neighborhood or at the dreaded grocery store in all their embodied God-given glory, the people who I talk to the most—friends and coworkers—remain floating heads on the screen with their lips never quite catching up to their voices. In photography or videography, if a piece of the image is off-camera, the mind can fill in the missing details. For example, if you photograph a cloud but don't get the whole thing, your brain knows that the rest of the cloud exists, even if you can't see it. Today, though, I discovered that my mind has stopped filling in the gaps, and it was jarring.

I guess I'm going to have to practice filling in those gaps a little more because if I ask people to stand up and show me their bodies, it could get a little weird, even in these weird times.

Butterfly Love from the Admiral and the Pearl

As the temperatures finally warm to more seasonable readings, I'm starting to get my cycling legs back on—and my sit bones used to being in the saddle for multiple days in a row. Butterflies are starting to catch up, too, after this cold and rainy spring, so that gives me something to look at while I cruise at thirteen miles per hour.

Carmen took this picture for me. Red Admirals rarely pose.

About a mile from home last night after a ride to Akron, I stopped by a friends' house. I've been feeling pretty tender lately and was craving some real human interaction where people don't freeze or look flattened. My friends have an expansive open but covered porch, and I knew that based on the time and temperature, I would most likely find them there having dinner. I could also smell the barbeque ribs from the street.

As I pulled into their yard and said hello, interrupting their meal, I choked back tears. Most anything can bring me to tears lately, like making eye contact. Carmen said they were just thinking of me as they had been watching a pair of Red Admirals flit around the yard for most of the day. They appeared for me, too, and were with me the entire time I sat on my bicycle in their yard, more than six feet from the porch, a picket fence further dividing us. One Red Admiral grazed my bike helmet several times, even landing there for a short time and then landing again on my bicycle mirror. As it flew by again and again, I could hear its wings opening and closing, a magnificent and rare sound that is like a little click but softer. I felt so loved at that moment, so graced by these delicate winged creatures that never fail to steal my heart or amaze me. Butterfly love. Human love. The essentials.

A pearl of grace

Today, at one of my customary stops along a bike trail I frequent, I noticed a little something moving on the rocks beneath me. "A skipper?" I thought to myself. No, a Pearl Crescent, my first of the season. Seeing a Pearl Crescent is a lot like seeing a robin; they're everywhere and after a while, not so special. I will probably see hundreds of them by the time the season winds down in the fall. I crouched down in my spandex shorts (sorry, world) and photographed it as it opened and closed its wings. It looked pretty fresh. A family stopped at the intersection where I was and asked if I was ok (that is a lovely thing to do, by the way). "Yes, there's a butterfly," I replied and pointed to the ground. "I look like I'm in distress, but I'm actually in ecstasy." And with that awkward statement, they were on their way and soon I followed, held by wonder, remembering again that grace often comes to me in two-legged or six-legged form, a phrase borrowed from a dear friend and mentor, now deceased. (I know some of you are partial to four-leggeds, and that's ok, too)

I'm ready to get my cycling legs and grace on once again.

What is essential?

Over the past few days, I have been reflecting on the question, "What is essential?" and its corollaries, "What is a necessity?" and "How much risk am I willing to take?"

For weeks, now months, I have been reading about essential workers, essential businesses, and essential services in Coronatime. Our definitions of these have changed or been changed for us. Before COVID-19, would anyone have considered a supermarket employee earning minimum wage essential? Would anyone have seen distilleries and breweries as essential when they produced only liquid spirits instead of liquid hand sanitizer? And would anyone have guessed that the bureau of motor vehicles, a necessary evil in normal times, would be classified as nonessential, at least temporarily?

At work, we have been working to transform in-person orientation programs to virtual ones. It is unrealistic and cruel to have a six-hour orientation session like we used to, especially without the free pizza. We humans have not yet transitioned to full androids, even though we may feel like we live in a screen, displaced from time and space. So, what information is essential that we must include and share live and what information is important but nonessential that can be shared in other ways? And how do we tell a staff members that their content isn't necessarily essential without hurting their feelings or professional ego? I think we have done a pretty good job so far being both creative and sensitive in this transition (no one has sent any nastygrams to staff or participants yet).

It's different, though, when the question of what is essential becomes personal. After our governor's announcement on May 8 that salons could reopen on May 15, I received a text message from my longtime stylist asking me if I would like to come in on the grand reopening day at Noon. Looking at my sprouting gray hair and lengthening locks staring back at me in the Teams video conference I was in, I immediately responded, "Yes! And I'll wear a mask!" She booked me, but as a new week began, my excitement waned and anxiety crept in. Is a haircut essential? Or is it vanity? Kara will attempt to keep me safe by wearing a mask and following other cleaning protocols, but will I really be able to wear a mask and get my hair colored, washed, cut and dried with it on? Will I put others at risk if I can't wear a mask for the duration? Will a curtain between chairs be enough to keep the viral particles away from us? And what about the ventilation system in the first floor of this old house that is a salon?

I never thought I would have to think so critically about something that was once a regularly reoccurring event on my calendar with a professional whose expertise and company I enjoy. I sought counsel from friends and coworkers, all of whom had different opinions. I asked Kara about what safety protocols would be in place. I consulted friends again. And I fretted some more. Like so many others, I have been absorbing the message, "We have to get our economy moving again." But at what cost, to myself and others? These aren't only practical questions for me but also moral questions.

Good lighting hides the gray!

Ultimately, I decided not to keep the appointment. Kara understood and was supportive. My hair will get grayer and longer, and when the time is right, I want to be confident that my vanity won't put someone in harm's way. I had to do what was right for me, something that is not always comfortable. At the same time, answering this essential question is something I'm going to have to practice more as opportunities present themselves—and the answers to the same scenarios may change depending on how this pandemic unfolds.

Who doesn't want to go to a restaurant with friends and sit on the patio with a margarita in hand? The celebratory margarita or beer at the conclusion of orientation day with my coworker is the thing I will miss most about having in-person orientations! Speaking of essential, I'm still struggling to make myself go to the grocery store, now at least two weeks overdue, for some basic needs, like fruits and vegetables.

I think the grocery store checks all the boxes: essential and necessary, but somewhat low risk. Answering yes raises a set of other questions, for sure, but I'll save those for another entry. They're not essential or necessary now.

Plugged In or Unplugged

I was so excited to continue my honeymoon today after work, having made a plan to pick up my friends' bikes and bring them back to my house before taking them to the bike shop tomorrow. Such an ambitious plan was brought to a grinding halt when my car would not start, making an awful grinding noise itself.

I had taken my CR-V out for a couple short trips this week to the post office and U-Haul, but maybe not frequently enough during Coronatime to keep it charged well. I attempted to use a charging unit my dad bought me years ago from Sears (his favorite store, may it rest in peace). I hooked up the unit to the battery terminals and tried starting the car. Nothing. The exterior and interior lights worked. The radio worked. The engine would not turn over and the dashboard indicators looked like bad strobe lights at a dance party. I looked at the instructions again for the charging unit and realized I was connecting the negative cable to the wrong place. Correcting that error didn't help, either. My neighbor and landlord graciously came over with a gadget that slowly charges the car overnight. Maybe it's the battery? Maybe it's the starter? Plugged in. Slowly recharging. Will the light turn from red to green overnight? Time will tell.

Waiting for the green light.

Nine times out of ten when I talk to my father or my grandfather, they will ask me, "How is your car," as if it's some extension of my person or a friend of mine. Today, my car, currently hooked up to life support, seems like a good metaphor for what's going on with me. My internal battery feels a bit drained from living in a two-dimensional, pixelated world, from sitting in my home office for eight hours a day answering an endless stream of emails and having Teams video conferences with my coworkers on the spur of the moment. A Facebook friend posted the other day that she didn't have any Zoom meetings (on a weekday, no less), and I found myself slightly jealous. Staying home is exhausting. Going out is exhausting, too. Thinking about reopening the state wearies and worries me.

Won't some kind person come over with a battery pack and connect me to it for a while? I'll let you know when the light goes green.

Getting Hitched

I took a long lunch and got hitched today. My boss wanted to know where I was registered. "U-Haul," I replied, "because I'm a classy you-know-what!"

My bike Chase on her new rack.

No nuptials were exchanged, but I did venture four blocks from home to have a hitch and bike rack installed on my SUV, thus greatly expanding my range to cycle throughout northeast Ohio this summer. It's been a project I've been putting off since December and then again since early March.

Frequently, I see posts on social media about the projects people are accomplishing in Coronatime: cleaning closets, baking bread, rewiring their houses, painting rooms. I have not had the motivation nor the energy to do anything like that. The night before I started working from home, I did clean off my desk and put all the papers on the floor. All of the papers are still on the floor, sorted into rough piles, ready for filing. I started my taxes, and even though I'm getting a refund, the return sits unfinished in my tax software. Last June, I brought my grandmother's cedar chest from Scranton; it has been sitting in my garage ever since until I find a place for it in my house. I won't tell you how long it's been since I cleaned my one and a half bathrooms. I usually reserve that task for when company's arrival is imminent—and that isn't happening anytime soon, except on Zoom ... and I won't be taking people in the bathroom, at the risk of becoming the next Zoom Pooper on YouTube.

So why did I get hitched today?

While I am certainly eager to explore more trails beyond my usual 10-15 mile radius, a friend who is currently in a hard lockdown asked if I could deliver bikes she and her husband had left with friends over the winter. They can ride them on the roads in their retirement community for now, and then hopefully, on the trails in their community in the near future. When she asked, I remembered offering to do this months ago. "Sure," I said. "I have to get my hitch installed, which I can do this week."

Helping a friend in need provided the necessary nudge to do what I had been putting off for so long. It felt good to accomplish that task today, considering the struggles I've had tapping into the intrinsic motivation needed to do the things that could be done, or in some cases, should be done during this pause. And as I look around my living room now, I see the spot vacated by the bike rack box that had been there since December, and I think I can finally visualize where the cedar chest might go. Or not.

So today, I celebrate getting hitched. May the honeymoon last.