A Walk During A Time of Pestilence

On the evening of March 19^th, 2020, the Governor of California, Gavin Newsom, announced a shelter-in-place order, for the foreseeable future. This could be eight weeks—or more. 

This is—in case you have not heard or in case you stray upon this memory from some future time—due to a pandemic that threatens livelihood and life. A virus called corona virus called COVID-19. Non-essential workers have been told to stay home. 

Those who work with energy, food, medicine, medical treatment, in-home supportive and other social services are deemed essential and exempt from this order. 

Strangely, I happen to fall into the essential group, as I work for the social services agency of a large county in the San Francisco Bay Area. Some people in this agency are working from home. Some have compromising health issues. Others have opted to stay home with pay.

I have opted to work. The office space that I work in is remote and my job is public facing mainly by phone. So far there is no indication that the contagion is present. I have found, during my time working for the County, that the workers are extremely considerate and careful when it comes to health. I have worked for the county since the mid-term election, and have been illness-free, in that time. This could, of course, change; given the virulent nature of this virus, health is not a given.

I ply a simple path, the same every day, Monday through Friday. From house to vehicle, I drive the nearly deserted streets to where the offices are located. Before I leave my car, I pull on gloves. 

(So far, I am not wearing a mask. I see many wearing flimsy masks that look like they have been worn for weeks; often, these masks are worn incorrectly.)

I exit the vehicle, lock it behind me and approach the entrance of the building. I have a few items in my pocket, and I check to make sure I can readily pull them out of my pocket. One of these is a simple bike repair tool, procured from a dollar store, that is a flat piece of metal, with cut-outs of all the wrench sizes appropriate for a bike. Either end has an open wrench that makes a good hook to pull open a door or file drawer, to push down and pull a standard handle. The other item is a AAA battery, which I use on any touch screen, from photocopier to ATM to store checkout register.

Using the bike tool, I enter the building, take the elevator up to the secure floor I work in, and use my keycard to enter. Signing in, I then go to my cubicle. I remain there for most of the day. Before the shelter-in-place, I would go on walks, run an errand at the grocery store or pharmacy. Now, I eat fruit for lunch everyday, at my desk. Sometimes I have a book to read. Other times, I write. Most of the time, I am glued to the news.

The usually bustling office is much more empty than usual. The unit in which I work is small and friendly—normally, we are chatty and share hugs. These days, we have to keep our distance, but the banter is there.

I cannot say that we are afraid. We are not specifically on the front lines. But we work in social services—others in the large department areon the front lines. We are given daily reminders of safe distancing and other updates.

When 5pm rolls around, I log out of the computer, gather my bag, put on my outer garments and gloves and retrace my steps back to the auto, driving directly home.

Last Saturday and today, I did some chores and writing in the morning. In the afternoon, I took a walk, planning to run an errand along the way. I headed to the beach; I live on an island. There is a bird sanctuary on the south-east shore, and a stretch of beach goes all the way along the length of the island to the west. Gazing across the bay, very prominently in view is the Grand Princess cruise ship that brought stricken passengers to our Bay. Some of these passengers have succumbed to this dread virus. 

The shopping areas had people lined up to enter stores, first come first serve, almost like war-time ration lines. The only retail businesses open at that time were the fueling station, the grocers, the office supply, the pharmacy and some food court places, for takeout/pickup. 

I crossed through the shopping center and crossed the street to access the beach. Today had been rainy, but the afternoon was dry, if cloudy and cool. There were fewer people today; last week, on a warmer Saturday, many people were there.

Many other solitary walkers, like myself, were passing at safe distances, silently. There were a few couples, a few parents with kids. 

As I strode down the beach, I noted the scarcity of people was in contrast to the bird population. I noticed something about the birds that I had actually seen many times before; they tend to hold themselves apart from others at a relatively similar distance. When you see a lot of birds on a power line, it will surprise you that they seem to have the same amount of space between them, all down the line. People do not congregate in the same way as birds.

I also noted the air, fresh from the rain, was especially fresh. The sky looked pristine. There was no traffic noise, although there were cars in the lanes, at intervals.

I went all the way to the end of the beach, and turned to make my way back. There were a few runners, and one man was trying to teach his girlfriend fly-fishing. There were a few people talking on phones, but it was mostly subdued and quiet.

This was the kind of quiet I had not experienced since the days following 9/11, when all the planes were grounded. Today, the planes were not grounded, but there were few of them going up and landing.

When I ran out of beach, I crossed up to the sidewalk. There was a woman taking a photo of a building across the street; I crossed behind her, so as not to obstructed her photo, and commented that I was doing so. She responded with a smile, and we fell into a conversation, with eight feet of air between us.

She is from South Africa. She is a registered nurse. Her work is with pre- and post-operative heart surgery patients. She told me that she had not been working since the end of February, as the hospitals were trying to dial down to all but the most acute needs. She told me that she was going back this Thursday, for the first time since the end of February. She also told me that her colleagues had been in touch, and the mask situation is dire. The nurses are being given masks and told to use them for as many as four days running. The supply cabinets are locked. She doesn’t know what to expect when she returns to work, but she was taking this afternoon to take photos of places that had changed since her sister visited, a number of years ago, from South Africa; she wanted to send the photos to her sister over her phone.

We exchanged some choice thoughts on the political situation that bears directly on this crisis. She laughed and said, “Don’t get me started on that—I find myself talking to the television, even yelling at it, as if that would do anything.” She did say that it was very possible there would be strikes soon by healthcare workers, if the situation with protective gear does not improve radically and rapidly.

We parted with smiles and best wishes to one another. 

I cannot tell you how profoundly grateful I was for that contact, that conversation. We are all vulnerable, right now. Vulnerable to this black swan that is a Trojan Horse. Vulnerable to the wrong thinking of the federal government with a buffoon at its head, whose only concern is his ego, all else be damned. We are rendered vulnerable to a virus, to stupidity, callousness and selfishness. We are vulnerable to fear. 

Rather than take the street, I walked path that crosses in front of beach homes adjacent to the bird sanctuary, and then I made to cut through a beach access to the street when I saw the most beautiful tableau.

At the corner of the property beside the beach access path was growing a large Pride of Madeira plant, in full bloom and covered with the distinctive purple/blue cone flowers. Underneath, a ground squirrel stood on his haunches—I could swear—in appreciation of the shade of the plant, maybe even the scent of the air or the plant he was sheltering under. Above the squirrel, bumblebees were buzzing all over the flowers, gathering pollen, and a red-throated hummingbird supped at the blossoms.

To think, I might have rushed around that corner without seeing any of this.

But, there it was, and there I was, too—this was a perfect moment. It was a moment of the most perfect and profound peace. It was a moment to which I was witness and participant. The squirrel sat there, still and content. I think it may have seen me, but I don’t know. When the hummingbird flew away, with the bumblebees following in its wake, the squirrel stirred and retreated into a deeper shadow, then into a bower.

We are living through an unprecedented crisis. Even in such a crisis as this, there is beauty to witness, beauty to make, peace to experience. 

In beauty may you walk.

© 2020 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com