April 3, 2020

I arrived here March 12, a beautiful home near the ocean, where I can hear the birds chirping, and the occasional helicopter overhead. The sounds of things that fly dominate the mornings, before the neighbors begin to stir.

I was excited to arrive here, to run on the beach each day, people-watch at restaurants and cafes, explore the neighborhood, go to some concerts and connect with people. . .

We’ve since been told it’s not safe out there. We need to stay in and limit human contact, for our own well-being and that of humanity at large. My excitement about beginning each day with a run on the beach was squelched, first by the rare occurrence of consistent rain, and - when the weather cleared up - by the closure of beaches and parks, to keep us safe.

I’ve retreated inside as required and am settling in to a new rhythm. At first, the days felt long, and the nights longer. The plans I had to socialize in the evenings had all been cancelled. I was missing the sounds and energy of concerts, community, culture, and clanking utensils and glasses. I found myself growing tired at 8pm. Tired at 8pm! From doing…nothing!

One night, I considered the idea of “the old days”, when people would go to bed at nightfall and wake up with the sun. “Let’s give it a try. Maybe that’s our natural rhythm and we’re being directed to reexamine it.” That night, I went to bed at 8:30pm…

And woke up at 3:00am.

Wide-awake at 3:00am, mind racing, battling fits of restlessness and anxiety, I vowed not to go to bed so early again. So there I sat, in an even longer day, deciding the best thing I could do is to get comfortable here.

There’s no better way to get to know a place than to clean it!  I began a room-by-room cleaning quest, starting with the bathroom. It was chilly that first day, and the heat kicked on. “I’m so thankful to have heat,” I thought. Then, looking around that now sparkling clean bathroom, “I’m thankful to be here, safe, with shelter, clean running water… “

“I’m grateful to be alive. And healthy.”

Epiphanies often come to me in the shower, but this flood of gratitude for each healthy moment and breath may be the first that came to me while I was cleaning a toilet.

Day-by-day, room-by-room, I tackled a new cleaning adventure. While sweeping and then mopping the hardwood floors, I noticed where the gaps between wood panels were larger than others, some water damage from the rare rains past, patterns and patches, light and dark.

I enjoyed having the patio doors open, fresh air and mostly peaceful sounds filling the space. As the day progressed, the neighbors, also learning about their new surroundings, would rouse. The sound of a toddler’s footsteps running back and forth, initially, felt disruptive and distracting. But with each subsequent day that comes, I look forward to those running, pounding footsteps, and the occasional giggle that can be heard through the walls. I envision this energetic, excited, happy child, exploring his surroundings with wonder and inspiring fervor. I began to channel his approach to discovering this new place, tackling it with a renewed sense of adventure.

There are other neighbors, who I’m less enthusiastic about. Thankfully, they tend to sleep until noon. The man, in his mid-30s, has frequent temper tantrums, in contrast to the toddler next door who moves through life with grace. His twin sister doesn’t have an “inside voice”, her nonsensical screeches, yelling to her brother, make their way through the walls to interrupt any prior sense of peace. The brother has a motorcycle, which he can’t ride anywhere since he, too, is confined to his patch of habitat. He fancies sitting on the motorcycle, revving the engine for what feels like 20 minutes at a time, and filling the fresh air with the nauseous smell of gasoline and sound pollution. Neither of them knows how to close a door. The slams become more frequent as the day wears on.

When those neighbors rise and begin their clamoring, I struggle to find inner peace.

They’re here. I’m here. We’re here. . . For a while. I mean, that’s the best-case scenario: that we remain alive. And well. And here.

So when I hear the neighbors I’m not fond of, it’s a reminder – equal, though opposite in approach - to the joyful sounds of the toddler:

I’m alive. I’m well. This is good.