Dispatch from the Quarantine

Quarantine, Day Fifteen. I know because I checked the calendar. It's not always apparent anymore what day it is and this is starting to feel a bit like childhood summers did, one day melting into the next. Now that April 30th is being thrown around as a date when all of this will perhaps-maybe-possibly end, I imagine there will be a lot of melting. But I did know that yesterday was Sunday and when evening came, I still had a notion knocking around that we would have to be ready in the morning to head out the door; that I'd have to make sure there were clean work trousers for my husband, clean school uniforms, a snack, and a washed and filled water bottle for our little guy. But I didn't need to do those things, and the realization of this came not with a jolt, but with a wash of relief.

Relief!

Relief seems almost wrong to feel, given what's happening. It's the same relief of realizing that I don't have to face meeting up with someone I have difficulty with, that I don't have to steel myself to face and respond to pointed criticisms respectfully - not at all, and possibly not for a long time.

Maybe isolation isn't all bad.

And yet I feel like I should cringe at that thought, because there's something tone-deaf about it, when health care workers who are friends of mine don't get to choose isolation, when single people, hospital patients, prisoners, and the elderly are forced into isolation and into its subsequent loneliness. Lucky me, that mine can contain a certain amount of relief. Perhaps being sheltered from this disease, and from the world, is something that my spirit has needed. After all, here I am, writing a blog post after nearly eighteen months without having even peeked at this particular corner of the internet.

There's some comfort in this isolation, too. I feel safe at home. I feel confident that my parents are safe from the virus, tucked up in their own cozy place a mile away. And our home is a blessing that we didn't realize the expanse of until we had to be here indefinitely. On the first day of school closures in our district, my husband and I stood looking out our back door and counted the ways we were grateful to be here. At our house, we have a spacious back yard with interesting nooks and crannies for the children to explore, ample sunlit space for our vegetable garden, low-sweeping tree canopies that can serve as a hiding spot or a fort, rock walls to scale, and three friendly families on each side of the fence. We have a pretty reliable income, and my husband can work from home - again, safely. We even have a secluded room (with a child-proof lock!) where he can go to work in peace, complete with a lovely view of spring creeping across the yard. We are so blessed in all of this. We are blessed that this virus arrived not in the deep freeze of January, but in the surprising warmth of an early prairie spring. We are blessed to live in a place that doesn't have a huge population, where we won't encounter quite as many people when we do have to venture out for food or exercise.

Blessing may be an odd word to use here in light of the big picture of this new virus and the havoc that it is wreaking on economies, cities, and lives, but not if you are a Christian. We are taught from the very start to look for God in all things, to lean on him in times of adversity, to literally put our trust in the Lord. I am trying to remember that this is it, the moment to trust.  I'm not saying that I have been doing it consistently. Day Three of the quarantine is when reality set in and I began to gain a picture of what we are facing and what might come of it. Reader, I had to sit on our staircase while the children watched a movie and take deep, slow breaths in order to stop the tears, to calm my beating heart and my shallow, panicked breathing that had come about from all of the 'what ifs' and 'how wills' that had been assaulting me all morning. This is a scary time, and in many moments over the past two weeks, I have not been trusting in Christ. The days that I have placed in His hands have, conversely, been wonderfully calm, ordered days. He will carry me through this if I let Him.  If I let Him. I mean, God is good all the time, right? Even now, even in this, He is good.

Last thought, I promise. Does anyone else feel like we are living the answer to the Litany of Humility? This prayer kept popping up in my facebook groups over the past few months and into my music streaming and oh look, this is life today.

Take care, trust in God, and wash your hands.

#MeToo

I mean, who hasn't been groped, grabbed, or intimidated, right? It almost feels embarrassing to pull up old stories and share them because I feel that, well, it's something that all women (and probably lots of men) have to deal with in their lives, and we all just get on with things. But this week, thanks to many brave souls who are speaking out against Harvey Weinstein, it is being talked about, as it should be. So here are my stories, even though this feels a bit attention-seeking (cringe). I hope it doesn't read that way.

The first time, I was a fifteen year old girl, hopping into a car with some of my friends. An older guy was in the back seat, squeezed between me and one of my girlfriends. I didn't know him, a friend of somebody's sort-of boyfriend. He was probably nineteen or twenty. Not half a block from my house, he reached over and stuck his hand in my crotch, jiggling it. When I slapped his hand away, he laughed and said 'God, what a virgin!' As if that were something to laugh about. As if that were something to be ashamed of. Everybody in the car laughed. I felt myself turn scarlet, at the violation and the humiliation, crossed my arms and legs away from him and made myself as small as possible. That was the first.

Then there was the boy in school who came back from the bathroom into sophomore algebra class and stage whispered 'I just peed on my hand' while he wiped his wet fingers across my cheek. That same boy who would put his foot in my backside as I crouched in front of my locker to retrieve books, who kicked my chair whenever he walked by. Who supposedly liked me.

Then there were the countless - really countless - times that my body was grabbed in pubs and nightclubs in Ireland as an older teen and a twenty-something. It usually went something like this: standing in a crowded spot, queueing for a drink at the bar, and I would feel a hand on my backside, sometimes in between my legs. I would spin around, angry and ready with some harsh words, and two or three lads would be behind me, acting like nothing was happening, or point at each other, faces serious, feigning an apology for the other's behavior. What do you do in that situation? Give a dirty look, tell the to eff off - those seemed to be the only possibilities, since I couldn't tell who had touched me. Or just ignore them, which is what I usually did.

Then there was the time I stood on the south end of O'Connell Street in Dublin, waiting for the bus to college. It was early in the day, and I had an assignment to turn in at ten in a seminar. I remember standing at the end of the bus queue, watching down the street for the bus, and suddenly being violently spun around by the elbow, a man's angry face blurring towards mine, and then warm spit all over my face. He was gone, dissolved into the crowd of pedestrians as quickly as he'd appeared. Two people in the queue turned towards me - a man and a woman. I stood there, shocked, saliva covering my glasses and cheek. The man started quizzing me - Who was that? What did you do to him? No, surely you know him. Why would he spit in your face if you hadn't done something to him? He probably heard your accent, that's it. Lots of people don't like Americans, you know.

I sputtered back answers. But I didn't know him. I hadn't been talking, I'd been standing silently, waiting for a bus. I started to cry as the angry man's warm spit ran towards my mouth. Could I have a tissue, somebody, please? The man in front of me handed me a tissue, tutted, and turned his back; the woman just stared. I didn't know what to do. Call my boyfriend? Go to the cops? Get on the bus and go to class? I got on the bus because, you know, that assignment was due at ten, and if nobody in the queue believed me, why would the cops? Once on campus, I bolted off the bus to the nearest bathroom and scrubbed my face and glasses with hand soap for what felt like ages. My skin was cracking with the dryness for the rest of the day. Yeah, it wasn't a sexual assault, but it happened to me because I was a young woman, of that I am sure, and disbelieved because of that too.

That summer I was in Rome, visiting a friend, when I went to make a phone call in one of those international telephone shops, tiny phone booths lining one wall. I was the only customer. When I hung up the phone, the man who had been behind the counter was spreadeagled inches behind me in the booth, completely blocking my way, smirking. My heart stopped. I asked him to move in very poor Italian, and when he didn't, I shoved him out of the way. He laughed as I ran from the shop.

Then there was the time that still makes me shake, and I hate talking about it. Thirteen years later, safe at home, happily married and expecting my second child, I can feel my hands starting to tremble as I write this. It was the next year, my final year of college, and I was home in Cork for Easter break. It was a beautiful weekend afternoon, sunny and warm, and I went out for a run. My parents lived in a small rural community outside of the city, and like most rural parts of Ireland, the roads were lined with high stone walls covered in brambles. A mile or so from the house, I turned up a hill by the parish church. That particular road was long and steep, usually very quiet, with no houses or other roads intersecting it on either side. A battered-looking white panel van with no windows in the back came down the hill towards me and I heard it stop after it passed. I heard a sliding door bang open. I looked around and three men were running towards me. I kept running. I remember that my only reaction was confusion, thinking 'this is weird, what are they doing?' Then a car came down the hill and slowed - I looked again and saw the van tearing off. I kept going. The car looped back; a young couple inside, clearly shaken, insisted on giving me a lift home. They said they had seen the men chasing me, stopped to help, and the men legged it back to the van and drove off. The couple followed the van for a bit and noticed that its front and back number plates didn't match. Of course, I then had to ask myself if I should trust these people enough to get in their car. I sort of had to.

When I got home, my older brother was the only one there. I remember how he held me once the story spilled out. He sat with me while I called the local Garda station (the Irish police). The guard I spoke with laughed and said 'ah sure, twas probably just a few lads pulling a prank.' Lads in their forties. Lads who I didn't know. My parents came home a few minutes later, and I remember how upset my dad was when I told him about the guard's response. He phoned a reporter who lived nearby, who then rang the station to ask a few questions. Within a half hour, the sergeant was at my parents' front door, very serious, and ready to interview me.

I have asked myself many, many times over the years if those men were really coming after me, if they were truly going to bundle me into the van and do horrible things, and I've come up with some pretty good alternate explanations of why anyone would chase a young woman up an empty rural road. I still don't particularly want to believe the most obvious conclusion myself.

But nothing had happened to me. Thank God. I wasn't raped. I wasn't kidnapped. Far, far worse actually happens to others. But beyond the incidents themselves, the things that stand out to me, that make me feel sick with emotion are the times when I wasn't believed. I can't imagine what it's like for people who are raped and who are then questioned, laughed at, disbelieved, accused. The humiliation. The frustration. The fury.

Something I really, really need to keep saying these days

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love
Where there is injury, let me sow pardon
Where there is doubt, let me sow faith
Where there is despair, let me sow hope
Where there is darkness, let me sow light
And where there is sadness, let me sow joy.
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console
To be understood, as to understand
To be loved, as to love.
For it is giving that we receive
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi

Scrape Her Off the Pavement, Lads!

Today is my sweet sister's birthday. Ten years ago today, we were on the lash in Galway city: my sister, our younger brother, and myself. On. The. LASH. It was raining, but not hard, and it was a weekend night anyhow, so nobody cared. We were dressed up, actual dresses, fancy looking shoes that weren't made for walking far in, sparkly purses, the lot. The theme for the evening, however, was 'Scrape Her Off the Pavement, Lads!' Didn't really match the outfits, did it? We shouted the theme as often as we could, and nobody paid attention, which is one of the best things about living in Ireland. Eventually, many pints in, my brother ran away from us towards the end of Cross Street and disappeared around the corner. He was fairly slippery, sneaking off when we were turned in the opposite direction. He didn't come back for a while, but when he did, he had a beer smirk on his face, cradling a paper tray full of chips and curry. Bastard. Then he shared. Ah, lovely brother. We perched on a shop window ledge next to half full pint glasses and ate. Messy and silly and carefree.

It was my last night out in Galway, really. My last night in Ireland before emigrating. Re-emigrating? De-emigrating? What is it when you move back to the place you were born, but you were born to an immigrant anyhow? The gray spaces are there, for sure. What I remember of that night is the laughter, the looseness of all of us, the rain falling on our faces and necks, strangely not cold for the north Atlantic, and the joy of shouting out into the street full of people out enjoying the misty summer night.

Now my sister is married, the mother of three teeny children with rosy cheeks and ready laughs. We never did have to scrape her off the pavement, even though that was the goal that night. It's probably for the best.

When your kid is sick, you will get sick.

This is us right now. Presenting at work? Terrible cough! Packing for a conference? Pink eye! Fingers crossed that thirteen days of a ridiculous, hanging-on, day after day, hack-up-a-tonsil cold paired with three, yes, three cases of pink eye is almost gone.

Having lived and worked in North Dakota for several years, missing consecutive days of work feels like a cardinal sin. This is a place where the ultimate compliment a person can receive is to be called 'a hard worker,' so missing work hints at a character flaw.

But really, what can you do? Spread the wealth and make everyone else miserable? That's not much of a character strength, in my opinion. So blankets, couch, medicine and tea it is.

Now go wash your hands, this post is probably contagious.

Shameful Saturday

There's nothing quite like waking up at 5 am, finding oneself still fully clothed in yesterday's work outfit, laying face to face with an infant. Oops, I did it again.

Also, if it's true that the state of your home is a reflection of your inner self, I'm the emotional equivalent of pile of junk mail and unfolded laundry, with baby toys and wet towels scattered around the perimeter.

That reminds me of a guided meditation we had to do in secondary school years ago. All of us gerruls jammed into the refrectory at the convent, a sea of green wool jumpers and knobbly knees. It was meant to be a treat - a break from the stress of exam prep. We were told to close our eyes and imagine ourselves walking in the woods. Along our way, we were told to find some kind of drinking container, and an animal. It was up to us to decide what those items looked like.

The drinking container I imagined was a partly-crushed plastic water bottle with dirt mushed into the creases, and I could see that there was some grit rattling around inside in the small amount of water that was left. I didn't imagine myself drinking from the bottle (would YOU?) The animal I pictured was a deer.  I didn't pet it because I could see that it had ticks crawling on its body. Realistic, right?

At the end, we were asked to share what we'd imagined. The other girls had not grown up in North Dakota. Irish-born, they had spent their childhoods frolicking on blue flag beaches and mixing with organic farmers from Germany, so they had imagined beautiful stone bowls and chalices filled with spring water, noble elk pausing in the distance or remarkably tame horses who came up for a nuzzle.

Heh. Cute. Then the home ec. teacher shared the meaning of our imagined objects. I think you know how this is going to go... The animal represented how one imagined oneself, and the drinking container was how one envisioned love.

Ah. Righteo, then.

With that, it's Saturday. The sun is shining, and the baby is yodeling at his father. Bring on the coffee!

a toddlery morning

I don't know that there's anything more joyful than running in a big field with a toddler. Little kids have the best grins, the biggest laughs, and the most willingness to have a rollicking fun time. And when they fall down, they laugh harder.

You can probably guess how I spent part of my morning. It was great.

Fall has been my favorite season for a long time, and being able to scamper outside through piles of leaves with a laughing munchkin makes it a zillion times better.