Blooming in Chaos

Spring has come to Brooklyn in the midst of a pandemic. And I am left wondering what to do with it. It’s strange to enjoy such beauty, to soak up the warmth of the sun, and to smell the fragrance of blooming honeysuckle, jasmine, and magnolia, while ambulances zoom past and people suffer.

I am doing all that I can do. I rise and run my three miles every morning, fanatically maintaining the proper social distance. Then back inside. I walk Charlotte, only one long walk a day now to minimize our exposure. Then back inside. That’s the extent of my venturing out right now, except for a trip to my local co-op for food and supplies once a week, on Tuesdays.

It is that one walk a day with Charlotte that saves me. She has no idea the world is upside down. We take our time and we walk far, carefully picking a path with the least amount of contact. Today, we walk up Ocean Avenue, take a right on Avenue J, then up East 19th Street through an orthodox Jewish neighborhood. It’s the Sabbath, and approaching sunset. I hear prayers coming from open windows. It’s beautiful. And it makes me homesick for Texas. For something timeless, for something that came before me and for something that will remain after.

Every day, at the end of our walk, Charlotte and I make our way to my car parked on the street. We get in and sit there. She watches for squirrels while I treat myself to a phone call with my mother, losing all track of time.

Every day Mom asks me what I did today, and every day we bust out laughing because it doesn’t change. She had gotten used to answers like… “I spent the day in Chinatown with my laptop, then caught the train to Coney Island and swam.” Or… “I went thrifting in Park Slope, and wound up in Little Italy where I ate an entire Margherita pizza by myself.” But all of that ended with COVID-19’s appearance.

“Someone’s in my house,” Mom blurts on our call today. “Daddy!” “It’s Daddy.” “Oh my gosh, Nick, you should see him.” I hang up and Facetime her. This is what I see when the call picks up…

There he is. My Grandad. 88 years old, in the throes of a pandemic, with his little mask on his head, smiling at me. My heart leaps. He tells me everything that is going on there. I tell him everything that is going on here. He just got back from getting his chainsaw serviced. He says he needs to trim some limbs that are interfering with his television reception, because he needs to see the news. He says he is washing his hands. He tells me there are five cases of Coronavirus in Wise County. I tell him the latest stats on my zipcode here in Brooklyn… 848 positive cases out of the 1334 tested.

The three of us talk and laugh, with an unspoken agreement to keep it light, ultimately discussing how and where I will quarantine when I finally venture to Texas for summer. There is no fear. No anxiety. Only hope, and promise, and planning. Strength and purpose showing up in the midst of uncertainty, as the sounds of their voices anchor my gypsy soul. Me in my car in Brooklyn, New York. My mom sitting in her bed, in Boyd, Texas. My Grandad sitting there in the old rocking chair that he and my Nano bought my mom when I was born. Each of us making the best of the day, of the circumstances, of the moment we’ve been given. The three of us blooming in chaos…