Pandemic Days

It is the weekend. The routine that I have adhered to seems irrelevant to the way time has blurred and relationships have shifted. I know where to find my peace. It is with nature, because nature is not trying to change its course and do anything different than it used to. The peace and joy that I try to create on my back patio is fleeting. I alone must solely sustain it while my heart pleas to hold my grandchildren. My faith melts for my nephew and neighbor who didn't have a full graduation ceremony, and my daughter's plans for a wedding next year are a labor of pride and panic combined. I imagine the people really working the system—medical, military, police, and wonder how they plan and organize a life full and sweet. I realize that they hold the key to sustainability and support, regardless of their color, race, religion, gender; and are the true backbone of the country.

The rest of us are the busy bees, the trail of ants making this world what it is. This habitable, human place teeters on the edge of becoming uninhabitable and inhumane and in fact has been in many places and times seemingly dire. In a blink we look back on a war, on Twin Tower terrorist attacks, religious and corporate sexual abuse, on water poisoning our children, on recessions and foreclosures. I am grateful for the leaders, activists, and protesters than I am not, the dedicated and knowledgeable people that lead us beyond these travesties. I forge a space in all of this that includes me; that I try and tell myself amounts to something that is a reason to feel worthy and not privileged. Staying in, caring for my spouse's health, preparing every meal in five months, recycling, calling the older relatives, checking in with neighbors, sewing masks, signing petitions, educating myself further on racism.

Then my body and then my thoughts, the smells and sounds of it all, go back to nature, to my gifted slice of green space. My desire of ever making it in a big city, my girlhood dream as a kid on Long Island, suddenly sinks into the depths and hollows of the trees behind my property in Florida. I am able to take a breath. I think about my grandparents who thrived on the pastures, hills, and valleys of Pennsylvania. I yearn for the tethered connection of my parents and my brother, all checking out of life too soon. Bird sounds soothe me as I am pulled back to this one solid and consistent companion. I wish for green space and nature sounds, real ones, authentic ones, for the hospital staff and the oppressed individuals and populace in the cities.

Today I am reminded of life by the three baby cardinals that are being coaxed from their nest. Several weeks prior, the mother bird was building the nest next to my screen door in a bottleneck brush tree. She had brought a piece of plastic to her hideaway and spent some time tamping it down into the twigs. It may have been a great idea, especially with the amount of rain and storms that we had been having. I just couldn't think about this new piece of nature being wrapped in plastic. I retrieved it from the nest with a long pair of barbecue tongs. I didn't see the cardinal pair for a day or two and felt that I had spoiled the nest. I was thankful when the male and female cardinals returned and she promptly laid eggs. I kept my distance, observed their amazing connection to each other and their teamwork of monitoring the nest and flying back and forth to the larger trees at the end of the yard. Soon I heard tweeting and saw a tiny beak reach out from the top of the nest. If I opened the back door and stood directly under the tree, I could make out the brown nest against the brown branches. A few photos with a phone camera proved unclear since the nest was pretty well hidden and blended into its tree that stood about fourteen feet. I would not be able to capture the joy and fury of this organic cycle, much like it will be difficult to express the unique feelings and distress of living and breathing through a pandemic. The mother and father bird began flying excessively between the tree and another bush, ruffling noisily within its branches. The birdlings had grown and sat perched on the edge of the nest. The family seemed rowdy and active and maybe upset that I was there. They had seemed to cope with me up to that point. The parent cardinals even accepted bird seed placed on the ground. I decided to go inside for a while and let the birds continue their process. It seemed time for the babies to leave the nest. There was so much chirping and moving about. The mother cardinal liked the seeds from the blooms of the tree and the father cardinal perched himself up on top of the screen, keeping watch when I came near. This went on for an hour and soon quieted down with a chirp or two and the mother cardinal revisiting the tree. The nest seemed empty, but I couldn't tell. I looked on the ground and in the nearby lower bush the children had spread their wings.

That feeling still consumes me daily. I can't imagine dealing with an empty nest now in the middle of sheltering in place. Yet, the thought of parents working from home and educating their children as my daughter was doing made my difficult parenting memories seem easy. This was a new dawn and the young families would hopefully take flight with new strengths and revelations. My age of too young, too old would have to regroup and reinvent itself again, as had before, many times in life. I doubt that I will grow new wings or make new best friends, have a post go viral, or acquire the additional income to feel as secure as the birds in their nest, but at least I sat still long enough to know that my purpose had already been filled multiple times. Last year the birds made a nest and I saw it, and I enjoyed it for a moment, but I couldn't stop to admire it. Now I must appreciate through the loss of so many around me, that where I sit, I am, and where I am, I sit.

Tracy writes poetry that reveals the essence of her female life through career, marriage and motherhood while using firsthand life experience and observation as an art of expression, published in Changes, the Magazine for Personal Growth; Bacopa Literary Review; Panku, and Tiny Seed Literary Journal. Living in Ocala, Florida, Tracy holds a BS in Organizational Management and Licenses in Cosmetology and Esthetics.