On the collective good
maybe we start by watching the wildlife
“The collective threat is substantially greater than the individual one.” — Ed Yong
“Do you hear the woodpecker?” I say to my spouse Janyce who is sitting beside me.
“I think that’s coming from the video,” she says.
“It is?” I say, “Wow, that’s weird, it sounds like it’s coming from outside.”
We’re both in front of our living room double window drinking coffee and looking out at the bird feeder filled with chirping and swooping tiny birds. I also have my laptop open, reading through the last of the work email from the day before. There’s still a little more work to do this morning, even though it’s the weekend. My boss has sent a thank you email to all of us and he included a few of his little sayings, the same ones that he reads at the end of every staff meeting. I read one of them to myself silently: “When you are sad or depressed, find something bigger than yourself to think about.”
“Hey, my dad sent me a video last week,” I say. “Let’s watch it.”
I let the video run in the background, stopping it every so often to marvel at one of the camera pans from the nature photographers as they film the beauty of the vast wildlife corridor that cuts through the middle of Florida.
“Maybe this means my parents are reconsidering leaving Florida right now,” I say.
Janyce nods. We drink coffee. We watch the video. We watch the birds. The juncos are back, because it’s winter now, and because the sky is white today, forecasting snow. The little black-headed birds hop and scratch around on the ground mostly, while the hanging feeders rock back and forth, clustered with flittering house and purple finches.
It’s Saturday morning and we woke up at home, deciding at the last minute not to drive to our Cape Cod house for the weekend. It’s supposedly going to snow today in this part of the state and we need the woods and the snow. I know I do. I’ve been reading too much news, worrying over the new variant, trying to figure out how to safely host a small Christmas gathering with some of my family. I’m tired of reading.
One of my friends was chatting with me in text while he sat in the airport waiting for his flight to Miami. “Don’t read the news,” he said. “We’re in a much better place than we were last Christmas.”
Well, we are. I guess. Individually we are. Those of us with the means to be vaccinated and boosted and who can afford to buy a stack of at-home tests for everybody to use the day before the holiday. But what about the world? I’m worried about the world. I’m worried about the places where people are not vaccinated. About the people in this country who still are not vaccinated for all kinds of reasons. I read an Ed Yong article a day ago that is still with me this morning:
“Here, then, is the problem: People who are unlikely to be hospitalized by Omicron might still feel reasonably protected, but they can spread the virus to those who are more vulnerable, quickly enough to seriously batter an already collapsing health-care system that will then struggle to care for anyone—vaccinated, boosted, or otherwise. The collective threat is substantially greater than the individual one.”
I look over at Janyce who now has her laptop open, too. “I have a little work to do this morning,” she says. “But just a couple of hours and then we’ll go on a hike.”
She hands me her cellphone so I can look at the National Geographic “photo of the day” she has pulled up on her Instagram feed. It’s one single snowflake that has landed on the dark jacket of someone, taken with a macro lens. Perspective is everything.
I like Ed Yong’s articles. And I think he’s right about this. But I have to stop reading right now. I need to meditate on the perfectly symmetrical outline of a snowflake. I need to feel them hit my face as we walk silently through the Upton State Forest near our house. We’re lucky to be stewards of some beautiful natural habitats. The state forest is one of them. Our own backyard is another.
“Hey, take a look at chief,” says Janyce.
I look up from my computer to stare out the window. There he goes, sprinting across the yard, a red blur, just inches away from the tail of the grey squirrel.
“It’s like a cartoon,” she says, “A Saturday morning cartoon. You want some more coffee?”