I'm Running Out of Books

In his 1978 book, “The Road Less Traveled,” M. Scott Peck begins: “Life is difficult.” Depending on whether we are a ‘glass half full’ or ‘glass half empty’ kind of person, we may or may not have agreed with Peck’s perspective prior to Spring 2020. But under the shadow of the COVID-19 pandemic, we echo Peck’s sentiment: indeed, life is difficult these days.

As is true for the Olympic diver, the degree of difficulty for our plunge into the waves of the pandemic varies tremendously. Some of us are scoring “10s” at home-schooling, while others are awkwardly belly-flopping. Some of us are “furloughed” and welcoming the unemployment check, while others are part of the gig economy and scraping to pay the rent.  Some are trying to work from home with fluctuating success, while others are stocking shelves or staffing the drive-through at the local bank or McDonalds. Even in healthcare, the playing field is terribly uneven, with some immersed in the ER or ICU, while others fight to keep the lights on in a pediatric practice or are laid off from the hospital or dentist office.

One way or another, life is difficult for all of us just now. We can be tempted to compare the various degrees of difficulty that we’re facing, especially when a family is waiting to hear if a father is going to live through the night and we’re whining about not being able to find flour and yeast –or toilet paper. But anxiety and fear are real, and pretending these past few weeks haven’t been hard on us is a classic form of denial, just sayin’.

  

What’s been the hardest part for you? Beyond the fear, beyond the pain, beyond the loss? As I’ve heard from so many, it’s missing the grandkids. Namely, the lovely Madelyn Simone, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, the charming Henry Kyle, and the sweet Emma Belle. Yes, I’m extremely grateful for FaceTime, and I’ve caught glimpses of the kids while dropping off dinner or Easter treats on the porch. But I miss the hugs and the cuddles, the slumber parties and jaunts to Sam’s Club for free samples. Will the babies even remember their Nana when this is over – whatever “over” will look like?  

Here’s my other issue. I’m running out of books. The libraries have been closed for over a month. Getting groceries at Sam’s Club without my favorite helpers, I checked out the paperbacks, but nothing spoke to me. I have a couple of gift cards, but my stingy self cringes at the thought of spending $10+ on a mindless murder mystery to keep me company before I go to sleep. No, I’d rather spend that money on a book I want to keep rather than consign to the library book sale within days.

There are, however, two books I’d gladly pay full price for, but they aren’t out yet. Louise Penney has a new one, “All the Devils Are Here,” but the next chapter in Armand Gamache’s fascinating life won’t be published until September 1. I’m also waiting for columnist Connie Schultz’s first novel, “The Daughters of Erietown,” this one with a June 9^threlease date. Every time I see the opportunity to win an advanced copy, I quickly raise my hand and yell, “pick me, pick me,” but so far, no luck. How can I wait the thousand days between now and June?

So what are you missing? The crack of the bat at the corner of East 9^thand Carnegie? A playground visit with the kids? Church? Coffee with an old friend – or new? Your daughter’s senior prom? Slobbery baby kisses?

Life is difficult, and we’re facing that truth today under the curse of social distancing. Loss is cumulative, and the weight of loss, great and small, wears us down. We can – and will – seek alternatives, watching Major League (go Tribe!), worshipping on-line, blowing kisses through the window, and even buying a Kindle. But give yourself permission to acknowledge and grieve the losses. Anne Lamott understands, “The grief and tears didn’t wash me away. They gave me my life back! They cleansed me, baptized me, hydrated the earth at my feet.” Grace to you.