I began thinking about these words I now write on the first day of spring, a date etched into the books since the invention of the Gregorian calendar and not subject to cancellation in a public health crisis. Our schools are closed, March Madness evaporated and our theaters have gone dark; but whimsical spring, indifferent to human plight, moves forward. No matter how gloomy we feel, the snow will melt, the buds will fatten and crocus flowers will push through the sod.
The question we all face daily is what to do about COVID-19. Not what to do about safety and survival because that part is abundantly clear. Thank goodness for the doctors and nurses who go to work every day and for all the public servants and store owners who open their doors. These people treat us when we are ill and keep us supplied with food and necessities when we are well. Thank goodness for the teachers who are figuring out new ways to reach their students, and thank goodness for high-speed internet that allows so many to work from home and to FaceTime or Skype with family and friends we are unable to visit.
No, the more pressing question we face about COVID-19 is what to do about maintaining our sanity while we hunker down.
The last thing I want to do is trivialize a disease that can kill people we love, but while we wait for an uncertain future to play out, our lives go on. We need to fight the impression that nothing will ever be the same and, instead, recognize how much actually remains unchanged.
The sweet innocence of children, for example. A day or so after starting this piece, I drove to our local general store for the newspaper and mail. A light, overnight snow had sugared the ground and there were still flakes in the air, but both coming and going I saw a young boy riding a scooter on the one short sidewalk in our country town. I believe it runs by his house because there he was in a short-sleeve T-shirt riding back and forth, his face flushed with joy. This is the kind of image we need to see every day.
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
We all know a form of this clever adage and likely quote it when we hope to sound both ironic and wise. But these words — first written by Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr, roughly translated as “The more things change, the more they remain the same” — ring like a clarion urging us to maintain perspective when we visualize the path that the novel coronavirus is cutting through our economy and culture. No one knows what to expect on the other side, but the truth is that most of what is real in the world will remain when the virus is done with us.
To see this clearly, I need just to step outside and look at the natural world. I admit I am especially lucky living in a rural setting where woods just a few feet from my door are laced with trails, woods where spring is arriving at her own pace, as she always does, in small incremental steps.
To maintain a sense of normality in our lives, my wife and I walk these trails. We take our dog with us, and she runs ahead, chasing scents and sounds completely oblivious to the notion of mortality and the alarming reports of a tanking stock market. And there in plain sight are so many durable truths: swift streams swollen with snowmelt, rising vernal pools, brilliant red canes and the unmistakable aura of incipient green. I suppose what I see in nature is similar to what religious people find in their faith. The trick for us all in these scary times is to know where to look.
What about the people in cities like New York, the ones in the eye of the storm? I admit I would feel differently if I were sheltering in place in a high-rise and had to ride an elevator to the ground, but spring comes to New York as surely as it comes to Vermont. What never changes in a big city may be less visible, but it’s there in the flowering trees and the small oases of green rimming the sidewalks, there in the nests built by peregrine falcons on skyscrapers and bridges.
Back down to earth, is it far-fetched to see eternity in the innocent joy of children? Just a few days ago our son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter came to our house for dinner. They live nearby, our homes connected by a trail through the woods, and because they have jobs that allow them to work from home, we are self-isolating as an extended family.
Sit down to dinner with a 4-year-old, and you can soon forget a world of woe.
When we were done with the main course, my wife brought to the table a plate of cookies ringed with strawberries. My granddaughter reached for a strawberry, and the pleasure on her face when she took her first bite echoed for me the expression of the T-shirted boy on his scooter. We adults continued talking and drinking our coffee and watching this child slowly devour the entire ring of strawberries, eight of them.
Jonathan Stableford lives in Strafford.