UNQUALIFIED JOY

 unqualified joy

The year 2020 started off differently than any other year. It was supposed to be the year of “unqualified joy”. I don't know what made it thus, other than I said so. I bought a new Moleskine year diary, something I do not usually do, and decided to keep a daily record of the new year of the new decade.

Maybe 2020 resonates numerically with me. It isn't the first time that I've assigned undue attributes to a number. It sounds good. It's repetitive. Twenty twenty represents perspicacious sight. That's a high score for forward looking. But the representation of being well into the 21^st century, having made it through the first decade, made me decide that this was The Year … 2020 would be a turning point for me, a year to remember. Hence, unqualified joy.

Little did I know.... Little did any of us know, even though as I wrote that on January 1, in my lovely-smelling, new leather Moleskine, somewhere in the vast world, a killer virus already invaded and exterminated the joy part for foreign families. They had dreams too. They celebrated a new year too. But they knew already what we wouldn't know for sure for months.... They knew that doom and gloom were dominating their streets and they knew that loved ones were dead or dying. They couldn't tell. It was secreted, the severity.

I knew that what happens there, happens everywhere.

It was only a flashing news item one day on the BBC that showed hazmat-suited Asians who looked like astronauts from a movie, rushing stretchers through the streets. Chinese subtitles ran underneath the pictures. Sheer panic on the few faces I saw alerted me to the fierceness and finality of what flashed before me on TV. Those were body bags. And then it flashed off.

Oddly, no more mention of the virus. Not then. Not in January. Not in America.

Other countries were talking about it. There were whispers, rumors, a few brief reports.

Something wasn't right. Something in the air blew in a different direction than any compass could explain. When I made plans to travel in early March, there remained a missing cog in the wheel of my wandering plans. I sat with it awhile. I often get anticipatory angst when going away for a long time, mostly because the checklist to leave is long and complicated. It combines business and beaches and my best attention to details. I know if an important task isn't resolved, it will bother me.

But I also know to pay attention to my contemplative pondering. No matter how weird (or wonderful), no matter how out there or silly, if I shut out all the distractions and tune in to a place (ineffable and impossible to describe), I already know that there will be a clear discussion within that I will be privy to eavesdrop into, as long as I don't interfere with the message or try to involve any present-moment logic.

Meditation and listening. Listening within. Yes, it can feel schizophrenic. I suppose it sounds that way to some people too, but it's not. It can be powerful.

I pushed through packing. I ticked off my list. Busying myself with the details of travel was enough to occupy my days, but not my dread. When it was all done, I sat and asked the hard questions: Was I sick? No. Would I be safe? Yes. Would I make it back OK without any travel issues? Yes. Then what was the trouble?

Something. Something was wrong, but not necessarily with me. Should I cancel my trip? No. But it was a 3-way trip – long, with 3 destinations and I did decide to shorten it. I don't know why.

That was March 1^st.

By March 13^th, the world was shutting down and I was racing home, confident I would get there, but not confident enough to eat or sleep anywhere; not confident enough to stop, not confident enough to understand at all what was really going on, because most of us had long since stopped believing in our media.

Every person had become a critter. People were to be avoided. No touching, no talking, no getting near anybody. No eating in restaurants, no sleeping in hotels (as if bedbugs weren't bad enough of a scare), no stopping for shopping, no easy or happy travel. Cracker Barrel candy and hash-brown souffle? Sorry. No.

Hurry home. Vending machines or drive-thru are the options. Of course, I felt sick. Or imagined I felt sick, because the stress of what I didn't know and the trip of unfinished business made me ill. Why didn't I listen to myself when I “knew” something was off? Because there was no finite “something” and now here I was rushing home in a mild panic because of no finite “anything”.

I made it home safely. That's the thing to be grateful for. No problems. No car issues. No people. No delicious food. No mail for another month, because I wasn't due back for six weeks. All Joy.

None of it, Unqualified.

just another lori story