Tag Archives: Social distancing

#365: Staff Meeting in a Google Hangout

hangouts_512

Our principal postponed
the official and virtual staff meeting
until Thursday, expecting new
information about distance
learning to come in after our
regularly scheduled Tuesday
morning Hangout. He held the
Tuesday meeting open, though,
made it voluntary, invited us
to attend for mostly social reasons.
I’m guessing about 30 of us
showed up at that virtual meeting.
We talked about grocery shopping,
the best place, the best time,
gardening, home projects, children,
dogs, better lighting for video posts,
how to view everyone in a grid,
Jack’s mustache, my disco hoodie,
and the virtual cornhole competition.
My friend Drew said the other day,
or maybe he posted it, that he
held a little bit at arm’s length
the sentimentality with which we
sometimes view our teaching
community–until now. 30 of
us sat together this morning,
looking at tiny little moving pictures
of each other scattered across
a slightly less tiny computer screen,
and we talked about nothing,
we talked about everything,
and sometimes, we all sat there
for a moment or two in silence,
which is fine by me, just looking
at one another, smiling, laughing,
almost as if we were in the same
room at the same time.
This poem would like to avoid
a sloppy ending; I feel it, under
my fingers as I type this, resisting
that sentimental slide. But there’s really no
other way to say that I love the
people I work with, and while I’d
much rather see them up close,
this odd, awkward, cold way
of being with them is way better
than nothing, and I am grateful
for every minute of it.

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A Journal of the Plague Year: #15

Famous people are sick and dying. Yesterday we learned of the passing of Adam Schlesinger from Fountains of Wayne. I love that band. He was 52 years old. That makes me sad and anxious. So, among the new coronavirus developments is this understanding that you don’t have to be old to be especially vulnerable. The CDC is asking us to wear masks in public while there is, as far as I know, still a shortage of these things for medical professionals. We’re seeing some more blatantly reckless behavior from politicians, like the governor from Georgia who apparently just learned yesterday that the virus can be carried and spread by people who are asymptomatic, causing him to shut down his state three or four weeks after almost everyone else did it. There ought to be a law against that. How many people did that stupid man endanger? According to my research, about 10 million people.

As we reach the end of the fourth teacher work day in this new reality, it’s still National Poetry Month. My workday ends by trying to write a poem. It’s interesting to me that the NaPoWriMo website has said in the first three days nothing about the pandemic. Maybe that’s intentional. Writing creatively might be a way for us to take our minds off our troubling current situation. I really did try to write a poem with today’s suggestion of using a rhyme generator for inspiration. I drafted a funny little thing after collecting about 40 different rhymes for the word “butter.” But I found myself returning to A Journal of the Plague Year and writing more poetry for the pandemic. My strategy, perhaps, is to go through rather than around. Here’s my 347th blog poem, my third offering for National Poetry Month, 2020:

#347: Distance Learning

Don’t stand so close to me.
Everything we used to do with
people we should now do with
computers. We’ve had some
practice with this. Soon we’ll
be old pros, but for now,
we’re going the distance.
It’s going to be a long road
and nobody I know has a map.
Distance makes the heart
something-something but
I’m not sure I buy it.
No exertion of the legs,
Thoreau said, could bring
two minds closer together.
He may have been wrong
about that. Maybe not.
How far could you throw
a bouquet so that your lover
could catch it? I know now
one friend who is sick.
It’s not a severe case, but
she has to stay away
from her husband and they
must communicate through
a hole in the wall like
Pyramus and Thisbe
from the play Pyramus
and Thisbe
, or A Midsummer
Night’s Dream
, if you like it.
There’s a forest in that story
so deep, the distance seems
impossible. We’re in that boat.
I know there are new metaphors
right around the corner, hiding,
the little bastards. We’ll dig
them out, learning about distance,
distance learning, and in some
distant day, I am almost certain,
we’ll be able to touch each other again.

id-distance-learning

 

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A Journal of the Plague Year: #6

This morning (upon waking? in the shower? during meditation, while Sam Harris spoke to me about conscious awareness? over breakfast?), I found myself thinking Thoreau. Passages from Walden were emerging from the memory banks where favorite books are stored. It occurred to me that if one were to grab a classic from American Literature off the shelf that might be of great use during this time of the COVID-19 pandemic, it would be Walden. In particular, the section called “Solitude.” If there was ever a prince or a king of social distancing, it would be Henry David Thoreau. This particular passage comes to me first, as he imagines what he would say to those who question his nutty project of living in the woods alone for two years:

Men frequently say to me, “I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights especially.” I am tempted to reply to such,–This whole earth which we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart, think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments? Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way?

As things get more and more serious we tend to be more and more careful, and the difficulty of today was in telling our son that it would be best if his friend did not come over. She lives right down the road, is more than likely practicing her own social distancing, is likely safe to have around–but at what point can you know with any certainty that someone outside your family, no matter how trusted, is not carrying this stupid virus? What chance are you willing to take? It appears, at least today, we’re not taking chances. We’re only eight days into this thing and the chances are that it will get worse and that this conversation will get harder and harder. Us married folks, especially us long-time married folks, take each other’s company for granted, I suppose. If we had to, it probably wouldn’t kill us to be apart, but we don’t have to, and so we have each other’s company all through this thing, a huge comfort. But if you’re young and smitten, think what the prospects of weeks away from your friend might signify! The bloody end of the world as we know it. You’ll have to settle for your parents! And for solitude.

I am, I would say, a social person in small doses. I love small, intimate gatherings but I loath crowded social events–and I do love solitude. Thoreau again:

I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.

I think that my son has inherited some of this from me. He’ll spend gobs of time in his room “alone.” Most of that time he is not really alone, occupied as he usually is with communications in real time with his gaming buddies. But when he practices his drumming, or when he does his homework, or when he reads, he seems content often to be alone. But this will be difficult and it will get more and more difficult. And my thoughts move from Thoreau to Rilke.  In his Letters to a Young Poet, offering more advice about loving and living than he ever gives about writing, he gifts to the young poet and subsequently the entire world that famous and absolutely incalculable good advice: Hold to the difficult. Today’s reading, not a poem but a piece of prose–from a poet, a selection I hope you find as comforting as I do in times of difficulty.

 

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A Journal of the Plague Year: #3

Number of cases of coronavirus in Oregon: 75. Number of Oregon deaths from the virus: 3. Number of student contact days lost thus far: 3. Number of student contact days expected to be lost, as of this moment: 27. Number of educational hours potentially lost: approximately 175. Number of plans in place (or announced) for remote schooling: 0.  Number of prom nights canceled: 1. Number of IB exams students will be ill-prepared to take or might miss altogether: 11. Number of graduation ceremonies postponed or cancelled: unknown.

Unknown.

It is strange to know so little. It is strange to be in the middle of or in the beginning stages of a pandemic but not know a single soul who is sick from it. It is strange to think about any number of people you know who might have it or might get it. It is strange to be living in a constant nagging fear regarding your own health, your wife’s, your child’s. It is strange to have this great gift of time opening up before us. It is strange to think that the very best way to help might be in doing absolutely nothing–or at least–in going absolutely nowhere. I haven’t driven a car in four days. On our walk with the dogs this morning there were lots of people out walking or biking the recreational trail in our neighborhood, everyone keeping their distance from strangers, of course, but greeting people nevertheless as they passed, everyone polite, cheerful, kind, as if it were any Saturday spring morning happening on a Wednesday. I saw a student of mine and we said hello gleefully but did not stop to talk. I’ve spent a lot of time with my dogs. I read them poetry in the back yard.  I am thinking about embarking on a few ambitious creative projects. I am reading fiction.

Meanwhile, politics.

Never mind. I’m meditating every morning with Sam Harris on the Waking Up app. He gave me a free year’s subscription just for asking. That was kind of him, I think. The poem I chose to read today, first to the dogs in the back yard, then on my front porch into the stupid smart phone video recorder, is a favorite William Stafford poem, a poem that for years now we have been reading to our juniors on the very first day of class, and that I have read to seniors on the very last day of class. It’s all about the moment, friends, and serves us well as a meditation for this time, an appropriate mantra in our uncertainty. Take the best of care, everyone. “You Reading This, Be Ready.”

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A Journal of the Plague Year: #2

Good news and bad news.

Here’s the good news, in no particular order: the dogs got a walk two days in a row. I rode my bike two days in a row. I fixed the kitchen sink all by myself. It’s another beautiful day, weather-wise. Feels almost like BBQ season. The government is thinking about sending everyone money. The Boomtown Rats released a new album on Friday. Every single one of these sentences seem about the same length. While two members of my household are mostly recovered from late winter colds, no one in the family has a fever. We are all more or less healthy, and yet (this may count as bad news), when I told my chiropractor’s office that I was recovering from a cold, they postponed my visit for a week–no massage for me today.

And here’s the bad news, in order of severity, from this vantage point: The death toll from COVID-19 in our neighboring state, Washington, is up to 50, half of the total nation-wide. The number of confirmed cases in Oregon rises to 66, almost double from the stats I saw yesterday. One fatality. The governor extends the statewide school closure to April 28. That’s my job. That’s what I do. Restaurants are closed except for take-out. Bars are closed. Musicians can’t gig. The Flaming Lips did not perform in Portland with the Oregon Symphony. Having nothing but time on one’s hands, sometimes it is difficult to choose a thing to do. I spent maybe a half an hour today trying to decide between riding a bike and reading a book. I find it super difficult to stop touching my face. I’ve noticed of late that I often make inexplicable typographical errors. I have not yet heard the new Boomtown Rats album. It’s St. Patty’s day and there are only two beers in the fridge. I am out of whiskey.

So I decided to ride first, read later. Bike then book. I picked up Emily Dickinson: “There is no Frigate like a Book.” And that inspired the following video and the initial dive into Joan Frank’s Where You’re All Going. I’m hoping this lovely book by this beautiful friend will provide some answers.

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A Journal of the Plague Year: #1

We learned Thursday night, March 12, 2020, that spring break would be extended significantly. School is cancelled, the buildings are shuttered, by order of our state governor, for an extra week and some change. School business will not resume until April 1. Friday was our last day in session before this mandatory break. We were told to take everything home that we thought we’d need. We were told there was no expectation that we would even attempt to work with our students remotely. Think of these days like you would snow days, they told us, only considerably less fun. And it appeared no one was having fun on Friday. There was nothing like that excited expectation before a holiday break, from students or staff. Many students stayed home. I had 8 kids in my second period class. And, despite students’ relatively good spirits and a tendency toward a healthy dose of gallows humor, I felt most of the day on the verge of tears.

Four million people live in the state of Oregon. There have been 36 reported and confirmed cases of the Coronavirus to date and one death in our state. I understand that this is not a comfort, that the numbers will rise. But the weekend felt almost normal. My son and I made a foray out into the world for some retail therapy. He had gift cards burning a hole in his pocket and it had been awhile since the two of us had had any kind of father-son outing. So we went to The Mystery Gallery, we had lunch at Cha Cha Cha, we walked across the street to Things from Another World, and we drove downtown to Powell’s City of Books. It was getting late in the afternoon, and I remember asking him if maybe it wouldn’t be better to save the drive to Powell’s for another day in our extended break. He insisted we do it that day, so we did, and it wasn’t more than a few hours later, that evening, I think, or maybe Sunday morning when Powell’s announced that they would be closing all of their stores.

The word surreal doesn’t even cut it. It snowed Saturday morning, but today, Monday, the first official day of our district’s closure, it feels like spring has arrived. I went for a bike ride without a coat on. Outside, all seems right as rain, but today, the recommendation from the White House is that we shouldn’t gather in groups of more than ten individuals. Our governor is considering closing down restaurants and clubs, maybe since the last time I checked she’s gone ahead to announce that decision. It’s hard to keep up and it’s hard not to worry. I worry that I shouldn’t have gone out with my son on Saturday. I second guess the decision to allow a friend of his to visit. I’m not sure my wife should have left just now to go to the store. If her clientele for private music instruction drops off we could be in a financial pickle. And how long will this go on? Absolutely everything is up in the air. I comfort myself with a reminder that, no, not everything is up in the air. We have shelter and food, books to read, lots of music to listen to, instruments to play, and games. We love each other. And we have our health. Last night in the democratic debate Joe Biden announced he was healthy, and then he said, “Knock on wood” while giving himself a couple of knuckle raps to the forehead. I thought that was super funny. We have our sense of humor. And we have poetry. Welcome to A Journal of the Plague Year. I’m stealing that title from Daniel Defoe of Robinson Crusoe and Moll Flanders fame because I can and because it feels fitting. I don’t know if I will keep this up or not. Only time will tell. Things might get a bit tedious around here as the Chaos of the world intensifies. There’s a paradox for you. And here’s another one, apt for the situation, I think.

I will close with one of my favorites from Rumi: “The Guest House.”

 

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