On tempests and transitions

my father-in-law has the right idea

“I just feel low,” says my spouse Janyce, her nose peeking out from the comforter.

I’m standing at the closet on Saturday morning trying to get my balance as I hobble around the bedroom. I have been telling myself that the mild plantar fasciitis I’ve had for weeks will work itself out in time. It hasn’t. And now I’ve done something more to my foot, which has done something more to my hip.

“Oh no, I don’t like it when you feel low.” I say, limping to the window to open the curtains.

It’s true. I always look to Janyce to keep us both balanced. Because she is mostly always happy.

“Do you need a heating pad?” she says, watching me wince as I gingerly climb back in on my side of the bed.

Earlier in the week, I met a friend for a picnic and Shakespeare’s “The Tempest” in the Boston Common. This particular play opens with a violent storm and prophetically many of the performances this summer have been interrupted or cancelled outright on the rainiest July I can remember. I was lucky this time around. The night was a summer gem—without a rain cloud in sight— just a small crowd of us picnickers communing together under a blood orange sunset painting the sky.

“The coffee is good this morning,” I say, taking a sip and adjusting the heating pad on my lower back.

“I know,” says Janyce, “Thank god, it had to be.” We both laugh.

I read something this week about Mark Zuckerberg’s future plans to shift his Facebook empire from the realm of social media into the realm of the “metaverse.” The writer of the article described it this way:

“You might gather with friends in the virtual landscape and all watch a movie in the same virtual theatre.” 

I'm trying to imagine the virtual iterations of our lives over the next couple of decades and I’m resisting the idea. All week I’ve been climbing into bed at the end of the day with my computer and my headphones watching reruns of Downton Abbey. I feel like the Dowager Countess, physically and emotionally, walking with my cane and dubious of modernity. Janyce has been doing the same thing this week, sitting beside me in bed with her own set of earphones and chuckling out loud at the ridiculous plot line of her mindless crime drama—the one with the gorgeous camera pans of the Scottish countryside. We’re both escaping into art and entertainment.

A vaccinated friend of mine texted me late at night a few days ago. “It never ends” she said. “Just got back from the doctor with my son and he has tested positive for Covid. We are all in quarantine and getting tested in the next few days.”

And then my massage therapist surprised me by casually admitting that she is sick of hearing about the virus, she isn’t vaccinated and has no intentions of getting vaccinated. “I think we all need to put our trust in God again,” she said, as I tightened the mask around my nose.

The country is divided, the pandemic rages on, and life feels uncertain. It really seems like the whole world is on the verge of a major shift of some kind.

“Oh, my dad has decided not to go to the Masons’ picnic because he can only bring one guest” says Janyce, reading from her gmail on her laptop.

“How Shakespearian,” I say. “He isn’t going to choose between his two daughters?”

“He’s so cute,” she says. “At 89, he just wants to get out there and live his life.”

“Your dad is putting me to shame,” I say. “Speaking of living life, how are you feeling?”

“I’m better, just needed that coffee I think.” she says.