2020
It sounded so illustrious on January 1, 2020. The year of clear
vision, we thought. The polarization of 2019 behind us and the age of
enlightenment ahead.
WHAM!
Now we have mud-splattered glasses. We’re breathing behind
masks, our hands are chaffed from frequent washings, we don’t touch a stranger
or a friend. Used to be, we shook hands. We thrilled at a touch. We patted each
other on the backs. Playmates intertwined fingers. Heck, when we were kids, we
shared chewing gum. Isn’t that gross?
I sneezed about 15 times, just thinking about a test my husband
had. He went into the hospital for a procedure they had postponed when the
virus struck. Now they have reopened their doors to selective treatment.
Because he was in the hospital, he had to have a virus test. They pushed a
probe up his nose and into the back of the throat (Achoo!).
Well, we know one person who DOES NOT HAVE THE VIRUS.
From this, I found that there are two texts for the
coronavirus.
One is the one my husband had, testing for a live virus.
The other is a blood draw that tests for antibodies. Somehow the
person had, does have, or sometime in the past had a similar coronavirus and
has built antibodies.
The trouble is the tests have sometimes been mixed, sometimes
not, and even the epidemiologists have trouble collecting data. So, here we
are, not knowing what is up, left, right, or sideways.
I had decided on the last blog, not to mention the virus, but
here it is again. It just keeps popping up.
I had a meltdown last week—everything bothered me. The dog must
have caught my energy and barked (brayed—he is a coon-hound) at every little
thing, the bikers on the street, the fly on the wall.
I’m more centered now—spent yesterday in my truck (my office on
wheels) reading and writing, punctuated only by a bathroom break.
I received a comment on my https://travelswithjo.com site where
the person commented on an old blog, (Bless them.). I wondered what I had said.
(“The Universe is Holding Its Breath,” May 4, 2019)
After checking, I found that I had talked about Jean Huston
using the word “Quantum Field” as a place to reside. She spoke of Margaret
Mead, the anthropologist who stayed with her for a time. As they walked, Mead
was railing on the fact that she had a paper due the following day, but
couldn’t find the material she needed.
Along came a former student, who stopped, and said,” Dr. Mead,
you probably don’t remember me…”
“Oh, I remember you. You didn’t complete your term paper.”
“Well,” said the student. I went on to graduate school anyway,
and I’m working on (whatever).
It was the very thing Mead needed.
Mead grabbed her by the arm and said, “You’re coming home with
me.”
After that experience, Huston asked Mead how she got to be so
lucky.
“Because I expect to be,” answered Mead.
“She was in the Quantum Field,” said Huston. She didn’t hold
back her anger (for enlightened people ought not to get mad), but she BELIEVED.
“Tell me,” wrote
the poet Mary Oliver*, “what is it you plan to do with your one
wild and precious life.”
Don’t wait for the next life, do it now.
It’s time we rise up as people. It’s time we stopped following
protocols that some say will help us, although we aren’t too sure. (If masks
help, why are we also distancing?) However, we follow. Instead, we should say
we aren’t going to hunker down and let fear control our lives. We aren’t going
to allow our entire world to come to a standstill, and our livelihood become
trashed because we fear of contracting the flu.
Yes, we’ll take precautions, but we will stop running
scared—making us afraid to look at each other for heaven’s sake. (Some data
says that our risk of contracting the disease is about the same as our risk of
an automobile accident driving to work. And then we see graves in Brazil. What
in the heck are we supposed to believe?) I don’t know, that’s the trouble, we
don’t know.
Aren’t you tired though, of companies warning us, “Stay Safe,”
“Be healthy. “Stay Home—save a life?”
Those, now cliché’s, are the thing to say—it’s nice. It’s saying
there are there for us. It’s treating us like children. It keeps fear,
contagion, and the possibility of death, constantly in our faces.
I guess I’ve reached the not-being-nice part of my life when I
realize I might be gone tomorrow, and I want to see the world flourish whether
I’m here to see it or not.
It’s hard to think we have anything to protect ourselves from
when I see the absolutely glorious green fields and flocks of birds. I hear the
flowers laughing—not at us, at the sheer joy of being alive. Those flowers will
wilt and die, but they are enjoying the moment.
But not us. We don’t know how to do that.
I don’t want to be foolhardy saying all this, but I worry about
how easily people are controlled. Wave a virus in front of them, and they all
scurry for cover.
I went into a bar to buy an iced tea yesterday. You had to go
inside to buy a drink, for the food trucks outside didn’t serve any. Inside on
the TV, I saw a jockey on a horse, on a track, wearing a mask. Really?
He was outside in the fresh air, no one was spitting on him, and
he needed to breathe unencumbered to make that run. (Maybe he hadn’t pulled his
mask down yet after being with the pit workers. And it would protect him from
the dust kicked up by the horses. There could be a reason.)
Did you know that the Native Americans used to set fires? (How
about that for a non sequitur?) I think of that as I look out over a flat green
field that lies in the Willamette Valley.
The Native Americans would burn areas to allow new
plants—eatable ones—a chance to grow. Up the I-5 freeway a bit, there is an
area called Camas Swale where the camas flowers grow.
The camas have an eatable bulb that the native Americans
collected for food. After a burn, the camas would come in, and the People would
mark the tiny plants for the next year when they could harvest them. Their
marks also showed other nomads coming through the location of eatable
plants.
Do we have an eye on the seventh generation, as did the Native
Americans?
What can we pass on?
We can mark a camas flower for others to find.
Yesterday another wonderful reader commented on a blog I had
written on October 10, 2017. Maybe you remember reading it, but I had to be reminded
of what I had said.
“Ever since I heard the writer/ researcher Michael Tellinger
say, “Our purpose is to raise the consciousness of the people,” I said, “Yes.
That’s it.”
“This is the top purpose, you might have sub-purposes, like
pursuing your dream of becoming an artist, or building a hospital in Africa,
but first and foremost, we ought to uplift the consciousness of the people that
populate this planet.
“We do not need to fix people; we need to assist them in fixing
themselves. One by one, if people popped out of their limitations, the world
would be transformed without us lifting a finger. And we could say that rarely do
we find a broken person, only people in want of something.
“Evidence of my claim is that hordes of people are seeking
healing experiences, joining consciousness-raising groups, and studying Quantum
physics to understand where they fit into the cosmos. People throng to Tony
Robbins events with the belief that their lives will improve because of it.
Millions follow the TED talks with presenters encouraging us to live our
dreams, follow our bliss, and live the life for which we were born.
“All this tells me people are hungry to know and to understand
where they fit into the cosmos. People throng together to bring fresh water to
Africa, to begin a peace movement, to stand up for green movements, promote
solar energy, animal rights, clean ocean, and healthy forests.”
See, people do care.
The Summer Day—Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Camas flower
