Anchored
Tags: Coronavirus, Prompt, Healing, Creativity, Feelings

Part Two — The Hard Stuff

Life for me and everyone else has changed due to the pandemic but, at this moment, mine has changed less than most. I am still working. I have an income. My bills are paid. My pantry is full. I know how fortunate I am, but still, my everyday life is not the same, and that is unsettling — and, scary.

Working but working less is the norm for me. I’ve put several of my clients on hold until the shelter-in-place rules ease. Other clients are deemed “essential” and their work continues with precautions and adjustments. One client wants no more than 50% of the staff present at any given time. That includes me. Adjusting to working remotely was a stressful challenge that I conquered. The transporting of work to and from the office is time-consuming and often annoying, but it’s accomplishing what my client and our county want — fewer people in the same workspace.

The other two clients I’m still working for are barely keeping their businesses afloat. My services are needed less and less each week. I wonder and worry about how long they will last.

Still, I am fortunate. I could, if necessary, live entirely off income from my largest client. And, Social Security is an option later in the year.

Health is steady for Ben and me, although staying healthy is a daily chore. With me still, to some degree, in the public, I take extreme caution not to bring the virus home to Ben and his immune-compromised body. Arriving home from work, I shed shoes and clothes and shower immediately. I scrub my shoes and wash my clothes daily. Trips to the grocery or pharmacy are well-planned to be as quick as possible, and I wear a mask and gloves. Ben isn’t allowed to touch anything I bring in the house until I wipe each item with a bleach solution. Packages that can be discarded are taken to the outdoors garbage receptacle by me. Every surface I touched is bleached and the floor is scrubbed. Then, I strip and take a long shower. The activity to stay healthy in this new world is constant and exhausting.

Nature is a bigger part of our lives. We spend more time in the sun, hoping that the heat will compromise the virus, as some claim. We walk more often and longer. We breathe deeply, testing our lungs and welcoming the oxygen. I garden more.

Anger has been an issue for me recently. Anger at how our government is so ineptly handling this health disaster. Anger that early warnings were ignored. Anger that our states and our medical facilities are not sufficiently supported by the feds. Anger that more isn’t being done to help average Americans who are suffering so deeply. Anger that the small business stimulus loan program is a disaster. Most of my clients are applying for the forgivable loan. I see brilliant attorneys with CPAs and bankers at their elbows trying to navigate the requirements for the loan application. The instructions are nonsensical in places. The documentation required is daunting. At a time of shelter-in-place orders, I should not have to go to storage to pull records from two years ago! There was one application and then another, after everyone completed the first. The banks brokering the loans interpret the requirements differently, so I produce one set of documents for one client/bank and a different set for a different client/bank. I wonder how small business owners with less education and fewer connections and staff can navigate the loan process. The fact is that they can’t and that fact means they are unlikely to survive these dire economic times.

Economic disaster relief should not be more stressful than the disaster it’s meant to relieve.

Guilt also dances on my shoulder — guilt that we are better off than many. But, I use that guilt as motivation to help others — by shopping for those who can’t risk going out, by providing financially for those with no income, by contributing to food banks, and by being there to listen when someone needs to talk and vent.

Fear is the cloud that follows me everywhere. Fear that I could catch the virus and bring it home. Fear that my daughter, who works in a doctor’s office, could catch the virus and transmit it to my grandchildren and her husband. Fear that it will be months and months before anything is even close to what normal used to be.

Fear that normal may never happen again. Fear of the unknown is the worst. It’s the wolf at the door.

Anchored — oddly, through it all, I have felt an anchoring, as though I am rooted in this place and time, as though I have reconnected with nature, as though the tango music that permeates our house is my tether in turbulent times. I am anchored to a sense of appreciation that was dim before and bright now. I am anchored to my home, my property, my family, and my community.

Anchored in calm waters. How can that be? These times are turbulent, fear-filled, uncertain. And, yet, I feel like a ship that left the wicked waves of the sea and am now moored in still waters. I can’t explain this. It just is.