Author: RevRita

I used to live in the foothills of Los Angeles, and from the playground of my elementary school, Thomas A. Edison, on a “clear” day we could see LA and the ocean beyond. On other days it was shrouded in a yellow-brown cloud of smog. I thought of those days when I read how clean and clear the air is in the USA today. I was amazed at how quickly the air cleaned itself up with a washcloth named pandemic. 

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The line “No purpose but what we make” hits home now because it is not the animals or the plants themselves that pollute, but humans. The cattle farts pollute, you say, yes true, but there would not be so many cattle if we didn’t need millions of them to feed our meat-hungry bellies.  The rest is mostly us – cars, planes, factories, power plants, fires, and the list goes on.  We know what we are doing. We have been told this for decades now. And our rivers, bays, and oceans are suffocating from our waste and dying. 
So what can I, one person, do to take our fragile earth off its respiratory and thrive? I can recycle as much as possible and not buy items that are not in recycled packages. I can cut down on my driving by doing my shopping and errands on one day, not four or five small trips. I can plant trees and shrubs. I can stop eating beef but I doubt I will ever become a vegetarian. I can take those plastic bags back to the grocery store and put them in the bin provided.  I can make my doctor’s appointments two a day, not on separate days. I can pray that if everyone did some of these things, and more I haven’t thought about, our earth might once again be clean, clear, crisp and celebrating that we humans are taking good care of her.

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For weeks now my spouse and I have been talking about what our “new normal” is going to be. Just today, I told him I was prepared to shelter-at-home until at least the end of summer. He reminded me that our economy would be in shambles, worst than the great depression if that was the case. Well, of course, everyone is so focused on the disease itself, I have put the economy on the back burner.

But it got me thinking about the new normal. We couldn’t keep our economy shut down forever. Even for more than a couple of months. Smart Governors are planning a slow phase-in of business openings. One has suggested opening barbershops and hair salons first. Yuck. Those places are rarely spanking clean. And who in their right mind wants to sit in perhaps a germ-infested chair for what, a half-hour, hour? Not this lady. Never. No. Restaurants maybe, but will seating a small number of patrons keep the business afloat? Perhaps. Theaters, concert halls, arenas, and stadiums should not be opened either – a real hot spot for the virus to spread to a multitude of people in a nano-second.

So, that got me thinking about how we could open businesses during a time of pandemic, or even a declining pandemic.

It boils down to each of us. Hospital personnel are donned in gowns, masks, goggles, and gloves (PPE) at work. If we go out shopping, at any store, or go to work, in any business, we will have to don the same PPE. It will become our personal responsibility to protect ourselves in the corona-ridden environment. Now, there will be some people who simply won’t do that and chance getting COVID19 or Influenza. There will be those who will don their PPE and go shopping or to work. And, many will still get infected. And, we will treat them at home or in hospitals. Hopefully, we will be better prepared for them. Hopefully, the numbers will be less because many of us protected ourselves. Hopefully, the economy will recover.

I have never ceased to be amazed at the miracle of the earth. It is no wonder that from time immemorial human beings have been awed at the magnificent crafting of our universe by a force that caused it all to happen, and named by some, “God.”

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Consider the ozone layer that protects us from terrestrial rays of harm. Consider the amazing propinquity between the plants and the human, each giving life to the other and without the other would not exist.

Consider the majesty of creating another life in the womb of a female through the union of egg and sperm, or the scattering of seeds upon the ground.

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Consider the vastness of the variety of animal, birds, fish, butterflies, insects, roaming this fragile planet giving all life food and natural fertilizer for our plants.

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Consider the dog and cat, our furry companions, ready to give us unconditional love so we know it and should model our life on that kind of love.

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Consider the transit of our rock around the scorching sun that gives all life its light and warmth that germinates and grows us into healthy forms, yet gives us night to restore and rejuvenate us.

Consider the moon that lights the darkest path when none else is there. Consider the north star that guides us when we are lost.

Consider the billions of stars revealed to us through the Hubbel telescope, the beauty of which our naked eye cannot even imagine.

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Consider the force that keeps all life from bursting apart until our time is done, our work accomplished, our body weary and worn, ready to become dust and rejoin our mystical, magical, place in the universe, perhaps as star, perhaps as soul, perhaps as angel, perhaps as some yet unknown form.

With my God, or with whatever your ancestors named your creator of the universe.

We moved into our rebuilt townhouse in January 2019 after a devastating fire on July 8th, 2018. I love the new place, I chose colors, rearranged the kitchen to my liking, bought all new furniture, applicances, linens, and basically started over. We kept a couple of dressers and a hutch, that while smoke damaged were ones we couldn’t find suitable replacements. So they are now what we call “distressed” pieces. I still have one spot in our West Wing that needs a piece or a chair to complete the room. We’ll find it someday. We settled in, hung our artwork, and thought we were done.

I however, was still not what you would call “comfortable” living there. I knew that it was fear that another fire would start, or that some other disaster like a flood or hurricane would consume us. It was an uneasy feeling rearing its ugly head sometimes stronger than others but always there. I new that it was a sense of spiritual well-being that was lacking. That I needed. That feeling that you have when you are safe, being held in some unseeable blanket of comfort and security.

And so I decided that what I needed was a blessing of our home. A deliberate, vocal, water sprinkling, covering every nook and cranny house blessing. I asked my good friend and priest The Rev. Dr. Elizabeth Kaeton to preside at the blessing. Here is what she says about house blessings:

In Christianity, blessing a home is an ancient tradition that can be found in Anglicanism, Protestantism, Orthodox Christianity, and Roman Catholicism. House Blessings are usually performed by a priest who sprinkles holy water as s/he walks through every room of the house, accompanied by the occupants of the house and their family and friends. There is a great tradition in the Anglican church to bless homes during The Season of Epiphany. Many Christians when moving into a new home, or after renovating an old one, like to offer the house to God, and ask for a blessing on those who live within it, or might visit.

Perfect. Just what I wanted, no needed. I needed the invocation of God to come into my home and make it holy. I needed God to make me safe. I needed God to be in my head and heart to feel God’s presence and security. And so, on a devilishly hot Saturday afternoon, forty folks came to witness and participate in our blessings. These were folks who had shared their love, help, and generosity with us during the darkest days after the fire. Who provided us with love, clothing, food, love, meals, items to help with daily living, supportive visits, and did I mention love? They sustained as did the other 70 some folks who couldn’t make the blessings.

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It was an afternoon full of the Holy Spirit, full of love, and just the thing I needed to relax, feel safe, and enjoy our new home to the fullest.

It started at home but morphed into a ride on an ambulance gurney rushing an almost comatose me into the hospital.

An antiseptic scent wafted all around me and a dozen hands grabbed at the sheets under the gurney that had brought me to this place and in one swift tug pulled me from the gurney to the waiting white plastic bed replete with pictures of two supine bodies with little arrows over them, one up, one down and a round red picture of a nurse. Then it happened.  One, two, three, and before I knew it I was entangled in a

hospital cage.  The cage bars were all flexible, colored, and connected to several monitors that each had its own distinctive beep, buzz, or hum. Each monitor displaying colorful numbers one on top of the other and others that all flashed around on the monitors. 75/45, 37, 93, 15. Stretchy cloth tubes hugged around my calves and ankles then inflated and deflated with regimental regularity.  My current condition on display in orange, pink,and  blue, neon. A slender white stick was inserted under my tongue and a cheerful young girl called out 97.4. 

A tall handsome man with a manicured mustache held up a bag of clear liquid that he put on a stainless steel rod which contained several hooks, Then taking my left arm slowly, painlessly inserted a needle into a vein and said to the nurse next to him, “the I.V. is in,” Then the clear liquid bag began to dribble its saline contents into my body. Without missing a beat, a short, stocky nurse with a ring in her nose, started slapping nippled discs all over my body and then attaching leads to them to another machine next to my bed.  This machine produced a ribbon of tiny squares scratched with lines spiking up and down is a crazed, jagged pattern trying to find its way home. 

This was my home for the next four days while doctors, nurses, my worried Ralph, and super worried Kristen all tried to determine why I tanked with low blood sugar, very low blood pulse, and too low blood pressure.  After almost every test known to man the mystery was slowly untangled, the machines disappeared, the bars of the cages curled up and put on hooks, the lights dimmed, the people left, and I was discharged. Diagnosis: Too much metoprolol for my heart. Don’t’ know how, don’t know why, but I got sprung from my medical cage and was sent home clutching a $15,000 bill.

It occurred to me last year that at any time I could become a widow.   What triggered this thought was the fact that my spouse had broken his hip and was confined to walking with a walker. Overnight I found myself in the position of having to do everything in and out of the house.  My spouse used to run a lot of errands, do most of the driving, and help me with many of those everyday mundane things we do. He’d make my coffee in the morning, get the paper in the driveway, and help with the laundry. He’d hop in the car and run to the store for a quart of milk or pick up the cleaning. He’d be sure my gas tank was full and drive to anywhere I wanted to go.

I now had to do all those things and drive him everywhere which really cut into my schedule. As the weeks dragged on, I got angrier and angrier at the inconvenience this life hoisted on me but I knew I had to find a way to cope. The first thing I did was realize that some of the things I had to do were just for me and I was already doing some of them albeit with help. Things like washing and folding my own laundry, driving to my writing classes, doctor’s appointments, making my side of the bed, etc. You get the idea.  None of them had to involve my spouse.   Once I took those items off my “gripe” list, things eased up a bit.

Then it occurred to me that I had started preparing myself for widowhood.  I began to preface every task with, “If Ralph wasn’t here…”  And then making my coffee and breakfast every morning was added to the list as well as getting the dog clean water and his breakfast. As time wore on I added clearing the table, going outside to pick up the paper, loading the dishwasher, emptying the dishwasher, making out my weekly grocery list, grocery shopping, doing the laundry, pumping my own gas, oh my the list kept growing.  I never realized how many things we shared together.

This morning I was up before my spouse and adult child who lives with us. The house was quiet. I scrambled two eggs, added a bit of shredded cheese, made my coffee, fed the dog and sat down to read the paper. It was quiet. Widowhood I thought is going to be like this.  Later, as I made the bed after my spouse got up, I realized I no longer felt bothered by the additional work of doing the things he could no longer do. If he predeceases me I will be forever doing everything myself but I’ll be ready for it because I am practicing being a widow.  It helps. And, thanks be to God, while he isn’t driving any longer, he now makes coffee in the morning, feeds the dog, clears the table, and helps whenever he can. I am grateful for those things he does.  They help too.