post-pandemic blues and tenderness...

Over this weekend I had what can only be called a post-pandemic bout of forgetfulness re: time: what day is it? can you tell me the actual date? So much so that this morning I misread the recycling calendar and put out cans and bottles instead of plastic. This used to happen on a regular basis during our sheltering in place days. And our lives since May 2021 continue to be quite solitary, so I'm not at all surprised I slipped into the covid "twilight zone." I wonder how many other ways I'll experience pandemic blues in this uneven recovery with yet another round of unchartered waters?

As we were driving home from Millerton, NY on Saturday (our wonderful children and grandchildren gave us birthday gift certificates to both the local tea shop AND a regional independent bookstore because what else does a person really need besides tea and books - except, perhaps, a garden?) the closing story on the radio show, "An American Life," had to do with the so-called summer of sex. The set up was simple: word on the street was that once the lockdown was over everyone who could get in the sack with a willing partner would do so over and over again. Part one of this story sounded like another salacious saga for hipster wannabes. The narrator was all about her mandatory 30 something vocal fry: as she first described rack after empty rack of condom dispensers in a variety of NYC pharmacies, and then shared the observations of bartenders at popular Brooklyn watering holes, her paradoxical titillation and ennui was palpable. Apparently the  restrooms at hot spots have been in constant need of cleansing every weekend of the summer with heavy duty couple traffic coming and going. And the lost and found departments of these establishments now have a growing set of discarded pants to contend with. Really!

When the hipster reporter actually interviewed young, hot adults, however, part two of the story took on a gravitas that betrayed the casual sex set up. What seems to be taking place in these early months after the lockdown and solitude is more deep conversations about loss and trust than coitus. Both women and men want to connect with one another about their grief. They want someone else to hear and validate their stories. And simply be held by another compassionate, safe soul who takes them seriously. Which strikes me as very healthy - not that I have anything at all against getting laid - but anonymous self-gratification is not the best way to sort our our lives and seems to be giving way (at least for now) to emotional and spiritual intimacy. 

North American politicians continue to carp about our divisions. Make no mistake about it: they are real and too many political conservatives are still ignoring the protocols of science when it comes to this pandemic. But at least some young American adults are looking to go deeper. The NY Times this morning wrote about the under 40 crowd resisting/rebelling against being forced back into the same old mold of work, too (see: https://www.nytimes.com/2021/07/26/business/economy/return-office-young-workers.html?) And I suspect a new commitment to compassion is in play as many of us return to wearing masks in public whenever we're inside various stores and buildings. 

I understand that it is my spiritual disposition to see signs of the sacred in my ordinary experiences. That's what mysticism is all about: discerning sacramental acts and insight within our everyday encounters. So, while there is still profound disfunction, there are also signs of tenderness, grieving, and consolation, too. And I believe that it is not only appropriate, but essential for living into the world we want to create.