#coronavirusdiary

Tonight the smell of lilacs, backyard campfires, and freshly-mown grass hangs in the early summer air, nudged only by the quiet assistance of the wind. If time were suspended, one might believe it was a normal Saturday in late May. It is not, however, anywhere close to normal.

It's once again silent, yet the last week has been anything but silent. The racial wounds of our nation have once again been laid bare by acts of brutality. The voices of power have incited not patience and empathy but more violence and hatred. I do not pretend to understand the pain of the marginalized in our country, but I want to listen respectfully. I want to empathize with them and lend them my hand if they require it. I have purposely stopped forwarding or sharing pictures or videos of these heinous incidents because their deaths are not for our collective comment or amusement. 

So many are in pain, and it eats at me. I feel powerless to help them. 

Meanwhile, one might forget there is an ongoing pandemic raging through our world. Viruses are beautifully simple in their purpose. They replicate regardless of political ideologies or geography. I find myself jealous of other parts of the world that have embraced science and reason over anti-intellectualism and vitriol. When I stood on my porch at 3:00pm on Monday to play taps, something stirred in me. I was playing not only for our brave men and women in uniform who sacrificed themselves for our country but for our country itself. I fear we have lost our way, and worse have not learned anything from the lessons of the past.

The outpouring of support given to educators across the world at the beginning of the pandemic seems to have been forgotten as my friends and colleagues await their fates. Students who have been deprived of the invaluable experiences of learning together but also playing, creating, and experiencing together will now face a hollow shell of school when they return. I fear a generation raised without the ability to process emotion; to feel and express themselves through the arts. How will the come to grips with the substantial trauma this crisis has thrust upon them? 

Graduating Law School From Home

In a recent phone call with my cousin Sarah, I told her a big “congratulations!” She is now part of a New York law school’s class of 2020 and is blessed to already have a job lined up once she passes the bar this fall. But like many graduates this year, Sarah doesn’t get to have the big university celebration she deserves.

“In the beginning when school shut down I was like, oh it’s okay, it…

In light of all that is happening today–and a lot is happening, much of it beyond my control or ability to comprehend it–I want to focus on one area of my life that is overwhelmingly positive: my relationship with Maegan.

Today is our fifteenth anniversary, but we have been best friends for far longer. We were music kids together; NHS kids together...classmates with a few bumps along the way. We eventually found a deeper romantic relationship and never looked back. I'll never forget how she looked at Senior prom or on our wedding day, or the days Adam and Elliot were born. There are millions of small moments too, each of them part of this life we have crafted together.

Here we are today, in the midst of unprecedented times in our world, and I am so thankful to have her support and love each and every day. She has been working so incredibly hard, often staying up until the wee small hours of the morning pouring over data and communicating with doctors and colleagues. She's been a compassionate and empathetic mom to the boys through it all too, and that is no small feat.

When this is all over, I think what I will remember most is how close our family has become and how, after twenty-four years of a relationship you can still find a deeper love and connection when the world around you changes. In the end, love is a powerful antidote to the penetrating hopelessness and anxiety that creeps in sometimes. I can never thank her and the boys enough for their love and support.

It’s so quiet outside in the evenings during this “great pause” we find ourselves living through.

There are no jets or helicopters above.

The sounds of cars driving on the streets is distant and infrequent. There are images of entire cities seemingly deserted, the animals restaking their claim to the lands of their ancestors.

The dogs of the world are so content with their humans being home all day even they are silent.

It reminds me of the silence after a new snowfall—the world muffled and still. It’s beautiful and melancholy all at once, like a piano being played in the bombed out wreckage of a war-ravaged city.

The crash. The inevitable crushing and squeezing feeling. I can feel it in my shoulders, in the back of my throat, in the depths of my soul.

I have been so busy over the past week managing projects and distracting myself from the sobering reality that my whole world has changed along with everyone else’s. In my case, it’s the loss of my classroom and it’s inhabitants for the rest of this year—and likely into the next year.

What I feel I am best at in the world — building a community through the vehicle of a musical ensemble — likely will not be an option, at least not in the way I recognize it now.

I have written before about the importance of purpose, and I am heartbroken about the loss of mine.

I will still be teaching.

I will still be teaching music.

I will still be teaching love, acceptance, and human beings.

I will do all of this online or in some new paradigm...

But it will be so much harder knowing what used to be. My optimistic self and my realist self are locked in a death match day to day.

The optimist believes that it will all make for a better future and there will be an incredible payoff when we are all together again.

The realist looks at the situation and sees the monumental task of maintaining connection without all of the traditional human means...

Band camp. Rehearsals. Concerts. The millions of daily interactions we have together.

We could have none of that for a while.