Two weeks ago it felt like the world was ending.
The numbers from New York, which captured me with their stunning speed and the realization that I had left just before the situation became so much worse, grew rapidly each day. It began to dawn on the US that this was going to change everything. The grocery stores were filled with empty shelves. Empty shelves could only indicate that the world was ending.
Until I heard the birds singing.
I was on a run in a park when I heard them. They jolted me out of a reverie thinking about the headlines. Pandemic, economy, toilet paper. I looked around at the space around me in the park. The prairie grass expanded around me even in its dormant winter state. I saw the sky, blue with flecks of white clouds drifting above me. Nature is still in business.
Even though the news is dire and the world we humans have built seems to be falling apart at the seams, buds are appearing in the trees. I see birds now on the roof through my childhood bedroom window that are playing in the rain water.
And when the weather is good, the sun brings people who are cooped up all day, out into its warmth. You see couples walking, children riding bikes and people setting up lawn chairs in their driveways as if to watch a soccer game. Entire families, with children of all ages, are trooping out in the neighborhood to get fresh air and escape the confines of their homes.
But my favorite is when I go out on days the weather isn't as nice. During these times, I relish having to zip my coat and put my hood on. I miss weather I realize with the hood covering part of my gaze. Or at least, having to brave the weather because I have to go to work. Now, I rarely go outside unless its sunny and warm.
There is also a stillness in the neighborhood now. Silence has always reigned in my hometown (meaning the noise in New York has taken quite some getting used to) but the quality of the silence is different.
Everything is still, waiting in place. And with waiting comes anticipation. So I stop to take the stillness and the anticipation. And sometimes, just to listen to the birds.
The numbers from New York, which captured me with their stunning speed and the realization that I had left just before the situation became so much worse, grew rapidly each day. It began to dawn on the US that this was going to change everything. The grocery stores were filled with empty shelves. Empty shelves could only indicate that the world was ending.Until I heard the birds singing.
I was on a run in a park when I heard them. They jolted me out of a reverie thinking about the headlines. Pandemic, economy, toilet paper. I looked around at the space around me in the park. The prairie grass expanded around me even in its dormant winter state. I saw the sky, blue with flecks of white clouds drifting above me. Nature is still in business.
Even though the news is dire and the world we humans have built seems to be falling apart at the seams, buds are appearing in the trees. I see birds now on the roof through my childhood bedroom window that are playing in the rain water.
And when the weather is good, the sun brings people who are cooped up all day, out into its warmth. You see couples walking, children riding bikes and people setting up lawn chairs in their driveways as if to watch a soccer game. Entire families, with children of all ages, are trooping out in the neighborhood to get fresh air and escape the confines of their homes.
But my favorite is when I go out on days the weather isn't as nice. During these times, I relish having to zip my coat and put my hood on. I miss weather I realize with the hood covering part of my gaze. Or at least, having to brave the weather because I have to go to work. Now, I rarely go outside unless its sunny and warm.
There is also a stillness in the neighborhood now. Silence has always reigned in my hometown (meaning the noise in New York has taken quite some getting used to) but the quality of the silence is different.
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