March 28, 2020
Years ago I bought a little blue ceramic fountain. It sits on a side table I sprayed with gold paint when I lived in England, and now lives in a glassed-in porch here in Raleigh, North Carolina. I come here each morning as soon as I wake up, light some candles, plug in the fountain, and wait for the sun to rise.
Birds begin to sing as dawn approaches. I focus my attention on their chorus, on the fountain gurgling, or on my own breath, to temporarily silence the chattering of my own inner voices. Sometimes I listen to a guided meditation, especially those about self-compassion and letting go, but usually it is silence I crave.
I am grateful for this time with no cars on the roads, no leaf blowers, no trucks, no bulldozers, none of the clanging, bleating noises which populate even my little corner of the globe. I live in a residential neighborhood, fervid with growth this springtime, trees greening and blossoming, azaleas bursting with color.
So this is how I’m coping, so far, starting the day in stillness and mindfulness, staying open to what possibilities this pause in normal activities can bring to my life, the lives my loved ones, and hopefully our world.
I am not consumed with fear or anxiety over the pandemic, not for myself. Not for my family, either, not in any overt way. We will all do our best to follow guidelines and stay safe. More than that we can’t do. But I do feel concerned for people who live in crowded conditions, in the US or elsewhere, in refugee camps, war zones, or poverty who can’t practice social distancing and who don’t live in hygienic conditions. .
I can only open my purse for the medical people on the front lines and for people whose livelihoods are at stake, and hope governments here and abroad will continue to scramble to meet the challenge, and that it will be enough. to prevent the worst.
