Sylvia's Journal

We are learning (or with a sigh surrendering) to do things we used to buy or outsource. Like cleaning the house. Yesterday we talked with friends in Pune, India, where I stayed in December. I remembered the two ladies who would come in the morning, prepare lunch and dinner, clean the house and do laundry. They are no longer coming and the chores are now insourced rather than outsourced. Many middle and upper class folks around the world now have to clean bathrooms and do dishes themselves, unless their help stayed with them or they have daughters or daughters-in-law living with them. Our Indian friends have divided the chores between them, with, as one can expect, the lion’s part falling on the woman. Of course, this inconvenience is mild compared with the missing income for the millions of people who did all that work and who no longer have a job, at least for now.

I am also learning to make things that are always on back order, like paneer for our favorite Indian dish, sag paneer. Last night we made it with most of the accoutrements produced by us: the yogurt, the paneer, the lime pickle and the chapatis. Soon we will be able to add our own vegetables. It’s planting time for some varieties of beans, peas, spinach, shallots, and potatoes. The garlic I planted in November is already up. We make our own bread. Given the dearth of yeast I made a sourdough starter that is nearly ready for prime time. Axel has been brewing beer which should be ready in about a week. We produce mung bean sprouts every week. With some creative meal planning and what’s left in our pantry, we can help ourselves.

And then there is hair. The pandemic may produce a resurgence of women with long hair – not styled, just long, just like the 60s. For people like me with short hair, the closing of hair salons as non-essential while gun shops stay open as essentials, reveals a male prejudice. Yesterday I ran out of patience with my locks falling in front of my eyes. I am not quite ready to entrust this task to my husband, although I some point I will have to (I am sure there are some YouTube videos on haircutting). I cut the front part, bangs and sides. That was difficult enough as I had to keep my glasses on and do everything in mirror imagine. I am pleased with the outcome, even though it’s a little uneven. We’ll see if I can manage another 6 weeks without a skilled hairdresser.  

Oh those things we thought essential and that are not, and the ones we took for granted that are now essential.

We had a physical-distanced-in-person cocktail gathering at our beach yesterday, which remains nicer than a Zoom one, although those are easier to organize and execute. Our friends are isolating as a family pod, two sons, a daughter and their mates and a gaggle of grandkids of about the same age. 

There is something very comforting and smart about the idea of three generations living together. Of course it stops being comforting and smart if you don’t have a large house or a farm. Three generations in a two bedroom apartment in a city would be hell, especially now.  

Margaret Mead, who herself grew up in a three generation household, as so many of our parents did, recognized the enormous value of such an arrangement. ‘Her hypothesis,’ according to David Cooperrider, ‘was that the best societal learning has always occurred when three generations come together in contexts of discovery and valuing — the child, the elder, and the middle adult.’ 

It is not just the formal learning (think homeschooling now), but also learning to play, to deal with conflict, to listen, to apologize, storytelling, and other social skills that are hopelessly missing when I watch the news.  Our daughter Sita has always known this, possibly even more than we did. Maybe because she has befriended members of the Bateson clan. She has been sending us real estate ads for large houses or wide open spaces that would allow us to live together yet not on top of each other. It does remain an appealing vision.

And so, in the spirit of intergenerational possibilities, I was thinking about inviting our daughter, husband and two kids, to move in. We have all been in isolation longer than we can remember, so we should all be clean and could help each other out. Having the grandkids would do us good, real hugs instead of virtual ones; having us around for childcare would help our kids do their day jobs, the envy of working parents with kids now. The large yard, a driveway for biking, and the beach for exploring Rachel Carson’s world, would do our grandkids good. And we could make music together.

There is of course a downside to this joyous three generations togetherness, giving our particular space. There would be the permanent chaos; coats, boots and shoes scattered in the entry hall, the enormous amounts of toilet paper that we would use (it would make us toilet paper hoarders). Faro would constantly getting his shoes, socks and pants wet by straying into Lobster Cove, and we would have to watch endless reruns of Shawn the Sheep. And the parents would not be happy with us indulging the grandkids, especially when it comes to sugary things, so we’d get into scrapes with them.

But what stopped me extending the invite, more than anything listed above, was the realization that our quiet morning and evening routines of meditation, yoga, exercise, blogging, music practice, knitting, and reading would be severely disturbed. It took us a while to get into those routines and having to alter them would be hard. So, we’ll go for the intergenerational living as a future vision, and in a limited virtual manner for now.

There is much talk now about the old normal that some want to go back to and others want to leave behind. We sometimes forget that our old normal was once the new normal. In the FDR days the new normal meant women left their private space and, especially during war time, started to contribute to the formal economy in jobs few thought appropriate for women only a decade earlier. Women started to vote, wear slacks, smoked, drank, flirted, crossed their legs in ways that their made their mothers shudder.

When I think about the two Roosevelt women, Alice and Eleanor, it is interesting how the passing of time has re-arranged how we label thing, what is normal and what we find courageous. Courage always means moving into a new normal, whether tiptoeing or dashing into it. Although not by all, many people now remember Eleanor as someone who lead the way into the new normal by embodying a new understanding of the role and potential of women – while Alice has faded away. 

The emergence of a new normal doesn’t mean the old normal disappears. Just like at previous times of upheaval, while the new normal expands, the old normal hardens.

I am wondering about the new normal, what it will look like. Will it include a new set of practices around how we work together, who we work with, when we work and when we play, and what we can do for ourselves, and what we cannot? What courageous men and women and kids will step forward and lead the way?

While we explored Ken Burns’ documentary about the Roosevelts, night after night, I also learned about them from the perspective of Alice Roosevelt, the daughter of TR from his first marriage. I listened to an historical novel about Alice based on her diary and other original sources. The author of the book informs the reader at the end what is historical fact (most of the book) and what is literary fiction. It added an interesting perspective to the Burns’ story. 

It’s a good read/listen/watch in this time of global upheaval, because the Roosevelts also lived in times of global upheavals: two horrendous wars, a depression and rapid industrialization. And those are just the external upheavals. In parallel were the Roosevelts’ more private upheavals: premature deaths of loved ones, sickness (polio in particular), philandering husbands, out-of-wedlock babies, psychological abandon, political rivalries, paralyzing depression, suicides and alcoholism. 

To me, those members of the Roosevelt clan who survived all these tragedies serve as great examples of resilience: the ability to pick oneself up, dust oneself off and put one foot in front of another.

TR’s famous quote comes to mind: “It’s not the critic who counts. Not the man who points out where the strong man stumbled or where the doer of great deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena. Whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood. Who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again. And who, while daring greatly, spends himself in a worthy cause so that his place may never be among those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.” 

‘Daring greatly’ are the words Brené Brown borrowed from TR for one of her books, which picks up on the topic of resilience through the lens of vulnerability. This may not have been that applicable to the male Roosevelts, but it certainly picks up where Eleanor’s journey left off.

There are more cosmic swings on the way, a major drought in California, a grasshopper plaque in East Africa, earthquakes in Utah and Italy, and a snow storm coming our way tomorrow with a predicted 3 inches of snow. I am going to need to talk to the baby leeks and daffodils, to tell them to duck and cover.

The  finches are busy with the thistle seeds, blissfully ignorant of the impending snow storm, as well as our all encompassing corona storm. The gigantic black crows are equally busy with foraging, taking apart the leftovers of either a red Anjou pear or an apple. With no one around we wondered where they found those. I used to throw what was left of my home commute apple into the forsythia bush. But I haven’t been commuting for ages and apple cores now go into the freezer bag with vegetable and fruit remains that I will turn into a broth at some point.

All creatures are preoccupied with food and I must admit we are too, though vastly better prepared than the crows and finches. We are missing some ingredients that would, in the past, led to a quick excursion to the local grocery store where we would buy those as well as more stuff we didn’t need.  Now, going to the grocery store feels like a daunting expedition. Our daughters are discouraging us from such an expedition. We take another  look at our supplies and decide with a slight sigh that we can wait, and cook something different than we had planned. Compared to the finches and crows, we have so many choices.

All the local groceries stores are now so overwhelmed with email orders and requests for delivery to car or home, that the wait time is one week or even more. Longer term planning, something we cannot do regarding any other aspect of our lives, is now required for food. 

On the recommendation of our daughter I subscribed us to Misfit Markets, a company that ships boxes full of surprise vegetables and fruits to anyone who is happy with less than perfectly polished, shaped and colored veggies and fruits. After many delays we got our first box yesterday. It was like a Christmas present. Out came an enormous green mango, a bunch of collard greens with flecks on the leaves that would not have been allowed entry into the supermarket, 3 undersized crispy apples, 3 undersized and not entirely orange oranges, a Euro cuke and its American cousin, a box of perfectly fine cherry tomatoes in a poorly wrapped plastic container, 3 large beets, a gigantic turnip, a perfectly fine butternut squash, and a couple of large potatoes. Such fun, To my great delight I discovered that you can add some non veggie extras to the box, like Taza chocolate, which I promptly included into our next shipment.

Axel started to make bread (in a machine). It was so yummy & warm when done that we ate more than half of it in one sitting. He then prepared to make the dough for chapatis, since we are eating a lot of Indian food. A phone call distracted him and he got the quantities wrong. We added mroe flour and before we knew it we had enough dough to make chapatis for a large extended Indian family. He instructed me to get the chapati station ready and I kneaded and pounded and then rolled countless little balls in the 4 inch circles. Because we had gotten the proportions wrong they did not taste at all like real chapatis but this was easily corrected with butter. The remainder of the little dough balls disappeared into the freezer, next to the garbage soup bag of frozen vegetable debris. We really don’t need to go on a shopping expedition right now.

This morning during my early morning meditation the word ‘Cosmic Swing’ walked into my consciousness. Then, when I looked outside I saw large fluffy snowflakes fall out of the sky. It is mid-April, we should be seeing something other than snow, however lovely and fluffy the snowflakes. Then the cosmic swing lurched up and the sun shone and the buds opened up. Sometimes the swing goes very fast up and down and sometimes it has a more moderate pace, as the seasons are supposed to swing.

Focusing on the breath, and how it moves through the body is like a swing, in and out, up and down, which is probably why the words came to me though I am not sure it’s cosmic. But the pandemic does feel cosmic, with all all 7.8 billion of us sitting on the same swing.

Today I learned from my daily science briefing that babies may well enter the world without any viruses but their guts are invaded within a month. Apparently, these are friendly viruses that infect harmful bacteria. It’s hard to think of viruses as friendly but apparently many are. That’s good to know.

And now, a few hours after the snow squall, spring returned. The daffodils I planted last fall are emerging everywhere. They are my favorite spring bulbs because I like their shape and colors. I also like that the squirrels don’t eat the bulbs during their winter scavenger hunts. 

Unfortunately, the squirrels do seem to be as attracted to the flower buds as I am. Maybe they look appealing to eat, and so they bite them off and then, not liking them, drop them. It’s very sad to see those decapitated daffodils. It reminds me of sharing my precious Dutch licorice with American friends who then spit out these ‘dropjes’ I like so much. Daffodils or dropjes, I can’t undo what’s done. The pandemic sometimes feels like that – we can’t undo it. But then I push the swing back up in my mind and recall all the good things that are already happening and may come out of this, both on a personal level (families coming together, more time for kids to be with their frequent traveler moms and dads, no awful and lengthy commutes), on a planetary level (less pollution) and on a cosmic level (higher consciousness).

The thing with numbers is that you have to keep looking at them and keep collecting them, to see trends. I watched this animated counter about COVID19. It tells you something about leadership.

My personal numbers from two weeks ago have shifted only slightly, some things holding steady, others at rock bottom. They can only go up, like miles driven in our new car, or hugs with our grandkids.

Every morning the Gloucester Times has a little yellow box at the top of the front with the numbers: COVID19 cases confirmed and deaths, in the world, in the US, in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. It’s the first thing I scan after I have washed my hands that may be contaminated from removing its wrapper. All those numbers are trendng up, but some not as fast anymore, except in NH where the realization that this pandemic is for real appears to be finally sinking in.

My volunteer activities are picking up. The demand for my complimentary sessions is increasing. As I prepare for them through interviews and emails, all teams, no matter where they are in the world, appear to be struggling with the same thing: balance. Balance between attending to personal needs (the anxiety, worry, burnout, stress, sense of isolation or overwhelm), and the needs of others, and balance between attending to task (getting the work done) and process (how it is being done).

I see teams struggle to continue to work as if they are still in the office and as if the pre-pandemic team norms, whether implicit or explicit, still hold. Yet everything around them has changed. This is the next frontier I am heading for: understanding how to be of service to teams in times of unspeakable turmoil.

There is a very recalcitrant entry on my Google calendar that I haven’t been able to delete: at 2:30AM this morning (8:30AM in Holland) it reads: pick up car at Enterprise Car Rental at Schiphol airport. That’s now many hours ago. An entry that is petrified in the plans of a world that no longer exists. Even if we go back to whatever can be called ‘normal’ it won’t be quite the same normal as before, and all these petrified entries have to be re-considered.

Today, after Heather Cox Richardson’s daily peek under the hood of our government, I thought I’d call on any and all creative spirits in the world to create an animated version of the American Constitution. Maybe there are other art forms that that can explain to our president, in an attention span of no more than a couple of minutes, what our Constitution says. It may reduce the depth of the hole he is now digging for himself.

On a more personal note, I am going to spend some quality time this week with various teams that have taken me up on my offer for complimentary sessions. I am thinking of how best to help them stay grounded and find some sort of balance as work and home life collide. To my faithful readers, if you know of any team that could use some help, let me know.

Our two daughters managed to organize a surprise party on Zoom. They had found friends from different phases of our 40 years together: my siblings, nieces and nephews in Holland, and Axel’s cousins who are nearly like siblings; two of Axel’s housemates in Beirut, who saw the romance start; friends who saw my first marriage fall apart and helped me through the turbulence; friends from our years in Georgetown after we left Brooklyn,  from West Newbury, then Manchester; Sita and Jim’s family and friends from Tessa. 

People zoomed in from Florida, North Carolina, Colorado, Washington State, Maryland, as well as those nearby in Essex County; Holland of course, but also southern France. Two full computer screens with tiny images of people laughing and talking and toasting, one wriggling mass of friends. We had no idea they would have been able to bring togetehr that many people. I had expected just the people who would have been with us in Holland, two weeks from now.

It was a heartwarming reunion. We forgot all about the sadness of not being able to be physically together. People told tales, memories, and we smiled and drank the entire bottle of champagne while eating the frosted heart cake that we had assembled earlier. At the end of our celebration there was music (‘Happy Together’) and we danced – a dance party on Zoom, who would have thought that possible?

The beautiful weather had made way for another cold front that reminds us it is still winter here, even though the calendar says Spring. The daffodils don’t dare to bloom yet, and they are wise. We draw back inside and count our blessings.

I wrote a letter to the editor of one of our local newspaper which got published the next day under the title ‘US paying the price for foolish government decisions.’ It was inspired by my blogpost a few days ago (Connections).  I hope to get the attention of at least a few Republicans in our area who realize that their party line vote for Trump (or their not voting at all), was a bad idea. I hope that Biden will at least be a more acceptable alternative than their party ticket.

Today we woke up to a beautiful Easter morning. Easter is a special time for us – our love started in the Middle East around Easter time; we got married in Senegal a few years later, again around Easter time (April 12, 1980) and since 1985 we have celebrated Easter’s message of new beginnings with our dearest and nearest. This year the three events would have been at the same time: Easter, our wedding anniversary and our Easter party, and the weather, not always cooperating in the past, is perfect. But this year’s convergence of good things also converged with bad things and so we are celebrating in place.

Tessa sent us an ‘assemble-it-yourself’ cake: a heart shaped cake with a bag of frosting, ready for decorating. She also sent a friend, masked and gloved, to deliver a bottle of champagne which he placed on one of the septic tank covers, before stepping back 6 feet.

The effect was, as planned, very festive.  She is also organizing a Zoomfest for toasts, later today. We are immensely grateful – it will be are most unusual wedding anniversary/Easter/Easter party ever.