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A yellow zucchini hangs dangling obscenely down the side of the pot that it was planted within. The foliage covers only the place where the stem connects. In the jungle of tomato plants there are some signs of orange shapes turning to red. The peas are tired and it is time to rip out the plants.

I am waiting for the squash and pumpkin blossoms to create the promised shapes. My neighbour down the block has volunteer vines that support giant pumpkins just beyond their short fence. We are obviously in different seasonal experiences.

The watering, weeding, standing on the lawn with my right hand on my hip while I appreciate whatever burgeoning has taken place overnight is a ritual. Does my vigilance play a part in the change over time from seed to plant to a vegetable? I believe it does.

And now, this activity is anchoring because so much else in my life just seems obscured. Am I moving in the right direction? Am I gaining ground? Is my future unfolding and developing in a way that I envision? I don’t know any answers. There is only the rhythm of moving my body repetitively, weeding, plucking up fuzz or feathers from the floor, folding clothing and storing it in the dark drawer. The action itself becomes the totality of my life. The repetition itself is a signal that I am still functioning.

How much did I sleep? How much do I weigh? What tasks do I need to carry out to run my Airbnb today? I measure the things that I can measure obsessively. But underneath it all I am cross and grumbly. My first response is overcast with burdensome thoughts. The most I can hope to do is to clear the clinging vine weeds that wind about me from social media and from the leftover anxiety when others are taking action that seems to put me at risk. The most I can do is put a checkmark next to an item on my chart I have made to help me build new habits.

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“Time will tell.” That is what my mother used to say to me. “All will be revealed eventually.”

These sayings were like well-worn coins passed on through generations. I listen to them in my mind and feel the heft of them in my hand.

I go through repetitive actions not expecting anything at all. The action itself has become a form of soothing, a self-calming ritual. To expect the seeds I plant to create a plentitude in my future is too onerous for me. I will take an action, plant a seed and let go of the knowing. I will just keep rowing without asking” What surface is this I travel upon?”

The harvest will come. Time will tell. And at the same time, I can expect to be growling in the cave of my head like some sun-deprived gargoyle. Nothing is perfection now. All will be revealed. Eventually. My mother promised me.

What is your personal margin of error? Is a drip on the carpet the end of the known universe as you know it? Or do you run wild and throw those black work out pants into a washing machine full of fuzz spewing sweaters and towels?

Each of us has an operating system that we let gauge our choices. What we are currently having to adapt to as a worldwide phenomenon is the unknown. When I was growing up what was unknown became more and more clarified through my knowing. If I knew one particular law of reality and lived within it, I was more likely to understand the unknown.

Babies drop a toy off of the high chair tray repeatedly engaging in a physics experiment. Will the object once released from the hand always fall to the floor? The only way to know is to conduct the experiment until you are satisfied.

And so we pursue a way of surety, of predictability, of knowing how events will unfold.

It is how we go in the world. Expecting consistency is our security.

Naturally, for some people the soothing repetition is more assuring than for other people. The risk takers, the rebels, the to hell with it cadre are satisfied with whatever has not shattered them.

And then the North Pole moved and we discovered that the sands from the Sahara cover the world. What are the limits if we simply don’t know the rules?

Now we are all learning more and more about our own personal limits. What do we do when we are in the locked room of COVID, climate change, human tragedy, disruption? How do we find our way out?

The baby lets go of the cup and it floats, or spins out like a boomerang to smack him in the back of the head.
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We cry, “It isn’t fair. It is too much.”

We cannot judge our own performance in the midst of turbulence unless we have the skill of calming down.

We knew exactly how far we could walk out onto the ice-covered lake of winter, or overdraw our bank account without destroying our finances, or how long we could leave a pan untended on the stove. But THIS! This world we are in currently does not obey the old rules. We simply don’t know what is slightly risky and what is a move too far to ever recover from again.

Traditionally, we judged our own margin of error from the rules of our society, our culture, our familial tribe. We relied on others to show us how to behave. And in a time when one of the only ideas we can agree upon is that we cannot agree, we feel out of control.

The gauges are broken. The yardstick has shattered. How safe can we be within this restructuring energy?

And knowing that the only possible action we can take is to stop fighting the flooding in and just lie back and relax into the drift is the wisest kind of knowing. Release. Relax. Let it carry you.

There is no getting away.

I go about my daily rituals smoothly, calmly, ritually. The morning coffee, the care of plants, the walkout on the lawn barefoot in my nightdress that is a day dress so nobody knows. The sky is Baltic blue, the air is gentle on days between the blasts of heat. When I awaken without neck or head pain from deteriorating vertebrate in my neck I am immediately thankful.

What will this day bring? Who will I be in this meeting of my flesh, breath, hands moving among the minutes? What did I do yesterday or in the deep dark forgotten jungle amnesia of many yesterdays?

The marker is March 11th. That is the day I retreated and stayed hunkered down, bunkered down away from COVID. At first, I was finding a deeply tranquil way of living without the expectations or the gentle tugs from the calendar… tomorrow you will do this, or get in the car and travel across town.

It was becalmed and introverted. But for the first time, my love of the introverted existence was not a rebellion. I was not some motorcycle leather-clad rebel acting out ferociously against the constrictors that have been placed on me in my life.

We were all at home. we were all not gathering for an exchange of idle talk, breath, the agreement to burn up time in some meaningless circle of bodies. I was not going against any social mores.

And it was weird for me to experience that for the first time in my life because it meant I was no longer weird.

The second stage of gradual opening was when I felt most lost. The collective societal agreement was the same as if a drunken uncle had fallen face forward at a family celebration and broken the china, or the heritage crystal vase. We would all agree not to remember, not to have noticed. All around me I saw people taking the words “extend your bubble” to mean anything they desired to happen would happen.

Twenty-year-olds gathered close, yelling in one another’s faces. No one wore a mask. The walks that I took previously in a cityscape that appeared like the neutron bomb had been dropped were now sporting clusters of people who had decided that their bubble meant anyone that they had known for long enough.

People were past the building of a raft of toilet paper rolls and clinging to them as they left the stores and were now confident. The virus was not for them. They were young enough or bright enough, or energetic enough, or educated enough to be immune to its reach.

My personal reaction began to amp up. The more I saw people taking their children to crowded venues without protecting them with masks, the less I trusted others to act in a manner that would protect my loved ones.
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I reacted by digging my fox hole deeper. I stayed home more. I focused on my fitness, my wise eating, my gardening more. As much as I had an underlying desire to expand, to take risks, to send my novel out, to drive to another town for coffee… I found I just could not.

This feeling is not new for me. I have been in a car rolling off a highway. I have been in a car swirling around and around on ice smashing front and back in to the point where witnesses assumed we were dead inside. I have made a dreadful decision that took me ten years to recover myself.

I remember knowing as a small child that the wrong move, the wrong response would result in a beating that could break my bones. And these life experiences are coming to play in my response to COVID.

Always alert

The wrong decision, a step too far, acting out of some undisciplined urge to feel pleasure for a moment can be tragic. I know this.

So now I have been mostly cut off and isolated since March 11th. The bigger dreams, the underlying desires for a richer life are still there. But I live as if the floor were lava.

“Don’t you dare take the wrong step,” I say to myself

I live in a quiet that is monastic. But underneath there is fear. Underneath there is the aching realization that I depend on other people to make wise decisions. And it takes me back to the very heart of my woundedness.

“Who can I trust?” I find myself asking that.