A pause to look deep

By JoAnne Young

Being at home for weeks, without the constant demands of work or regimen, can allow a person a deeper look at the world, even while that world’s inhabitants are being stalked by a confounding illness. 

I have always been attracted to those things that don’t dwell habitually on the surface: hidden meanings, rangy conversations, dusky colors, and people who rank lower on life’s depth chart.

But in the pace that is our more common routine, there’s not always time for the weightier. 

You know how it goes -- get in, get it done, get out. 

It feeds the beast, but not the soul.  

Two years ago, in my effort to reach at least a part of that soul, I joined a photography class at Southeast Community College. In that class, and others I continued to take, the unexpected happened. I learned to look at things in a different way, those things that lie silent while many of us tramp past, ignoring all but our own thoughts. 

I began to see the beauty that is not so obvious in our quick looks. Those things that with a different perspective give us access to the unexpected. Like knowing the path you start out on will not be the one on which you will complete the journey. 

We can stop for a moment and turn the camera to the view behind us.

I don’t know what your slow turn and different picture might show. Mine allowed me to sit for an hour last fall and watch striped shore crabs in a La Jolla tide pool, as they warily looked back at me, ready at a barely discernible move on my part to dive and hide in the crevice of wet rocks. 

It showed me the reflection closer to home of bare trees rippling in silvery first-light water. And the beauty of flowers, past their soft blooms, now wilted, drying and faded. 

A single leaf hit by the sun in just the right way became a work of art. A paw print sunk deep into the edge of a muddy trail told a story of night wanderings I could not witness. 

There were times I was lucky to have the last light of an evening guide my way home, with a cast of colors only seen between the sunlit afternoon and the ink of night. 

Those moments only speak to us when they are coaxed out by quiet watching, something that doesn’t happen in crowds of people, or even the six feet of social distancing. 

This pause gives us permission to take a short walk beyond this fear of the unknown, and see how those in the natural world – and now we – can accept living every day in a state of alertness to anything that might happen. 

We can be easily fooled, usually because we are willing to be. And we definitely are being tested as we hold the world more than at arm’s length. 

But that has given us a little time to see past the usual, to pause for those meanings and conversations, and to gaze at that last light of evening that will never look the same tomorrow.  

Why Is This So Hard?

by Marilyn Moore

“Why can’t I get anything done?”  “I’m not feeling very productive.”  “I used to be really efficient, but not now….”  “I thought I’d have all this extra time, but somehow or other, it’s not working for me.”  I have read these words, heard these words, and said these words, over the past five weeks.  From people at all ages and stages of life, from those who are parents, those who are empty-nesters, those who are single, from women and from men (well, mostly women….), from introverts and extroverts and those who are a little of both.   And I’ve thought about why it is….how did all these accomplished, organized, high-achieving folks come to these words?

I think that before The Great Upheaval, which is my label for the time in which we are living, we had figured out how to live our current life as best it could be lived.  Whatever the routine was, we had one.  However many activities in the day, from one to thirteen, we had a plan that worked.  It might have been a plan that was exhausting, or stressful, but it was a plan….we knew what to expect, we knew how to organize time and resources for it, and we were doing it at the highest level we could do it.

And then, within a few days, almost everything changed.  Work changed: many people started to work from home; some people continued to work at the same job in the same place, but with dramatic differences in the work site; some people were out of work altogether.  Child care and school changed, and parents who were trying to work from home, or still trying to go to work, were also trying to supervise children who were trying to learn online, or whose child care site had closed.  Grocery shopping changed.  Social destinations were shut down.  More meals were eaten at home.  Medical appointments morphed to telehealth.  And Zoom meetings/gatherings became a thing, followed shortly by Zoom bombing….and further Zoom security.  And every single one of you could add to this list, in fact, you’re probably doing so right now.

So for the first couple of weeks, we all lived on adrenaline, that rush that says, “I can do this!”  We thought to ourselves, this is only for a short time, and I can do anything for a couple of weeks.  And then, when it became clear it’s not for a short time, and the adrenaline levels returned to a more normal level, because you can’t live on adrenaline forever, those articles and advice columns that said we could use this time to write, to compose, to create a new brand, to start a new fitness plan, to clean out 30 years of accumulated books and photos, and for our own personal to-do list of projects we always wanted to do if we just had the time….that all just seemed like a really diabolical practical joke.  Not only could I not do all, or any, of that, I couldn’t figure out what day of the week it was, and where I’d filed the last Zoom meeting invitation.

And then I remembered, the implementation dip.  Those of you in LPS will remember that Michael Fullan, who I believe is the best researcher on change theory and leading change, described a very real part of change in any organization, or any person’s life, and that is the implementation dip.  Simply said, when any change is undertaken, performance immediately following the implementation of that change will be less than performance right before the change.  That’s because the system before change is functioning as well as it can in the current system.  And as people learn new skills, new habits, new ways of acting and being, they won’t be as effective immediately as they were with the old habits and skills.  (And cheers here to the doctors and nurses and respiratory therapists who are learning new practices every day, practices that have been revised from the day before; their learning is literally a matter of life and death for their patients, and for all of us.) 

Fullan’s research is in schools and hospitals and businesses, and he studied those big changes that were carefully planned, that included significant training before implementation, that were based on field tests and pilot studies – and even with all that in place, there would still be a time period when performance would dip.  We, of course, had none of the advance work….we didn’t have months or weeks to plan our new lives, we didn’t have training for this, there were no field tests or pilot studies, except for what was happening in other parts of the world, which we tended to ignore, because we thought it couldn’t possibly happen here.  

But it did…and here we are, in the midst of The Great Upheaval and a subsequent implementation dip.  And in addition to not having time to prepare, nor a map of what this new normal might look like, we’re also always aware of the lurking danger of this disease, worried that it will strike ourselves or those we love.  And the rules keep changing....groups of 250 to 50, to 10.  Masks aren't necessary; everybody wear a mask.  That's because new information is being discovered practically every day about this new disease.  So of course we’re not as productive, nor efficient, nor is it likely I will complete my own early-on list of projects; for the moment, I’m proud of having cleaned out the pantry.  Hardly something to put in the Christmas letter, but it may be the best I’ll have….

There aren’t any do-overs on this.  We can’t go back to January and say to ourselves,  “I think life is really going to change in a few weeks, and I’ll start now to be ready.”  So we have what we have.  I’m beginning to re-define what “good” looks like for this time in The Great Upheaval, and it’s not checking off projects.  It’s staying healthy, staying in touch with those I love, and supporting people and organizations that are filling in the many huge cracks in society, building safety nets as they go.

Another key part of Fullan’s research speaks to what leaders do when people are in the implementation dip; they constantly remind people of the why.  Why are we doing this?  What’s the reason for this?  What will be the outcome?  How will life be better?  And the why for this is pretty is simple.  We are in the midst of a pandemic, of a disease that is highly contagious, with a high mortality rate, and with no vaccine and no therapeutic treatment.  We can hope, we can pray, and we can take action….and most of us are probably doing all three.

When I wrote five weeks ago, there had been 58 deaths in the United States from Covid-19.  Tonight, there have been 35,443.  In five weeks time.  We are staying home, figuring out new ways to meet basic needs, to contribute our efforts to keep that number from growing exponentially higher in the next five weeks.  We can view that act of staying home as an act of fear, fear that we will get sick, or an act of faith, faith that we’re part of an effort that’s bigger than any single person or institution.  I choose to see it as an act of faith, faith in scientists, in health care providers, in those essential workers that make staying home possible for so many, and in our collected, connected community.

And when this is over, and someday it will be over, my hope is best expressed in what I heard Mary Pipher, one of the world’s wise women, say she told her ten-year-old grandson.  She told him that when he remembered these days in the future, she wanted him to remember how strong he was.  That’s what I want us to remember, too….how strong we were.

Counting gowns, memories, promises: Getting through the night with COVID-19

By Mary Kay Roth

At first the bed sheets came from my own cupboards, then from Amazon.  Now they are quiet donations from friends, neighbors, people I don’t even know, leaving brown paper bags on my porch. I take one sheet at a time and carefully cover it with a paper pattern crafted from holiday gift wrap. Pins were a challenge, but fortuitously I had stashed away my mother’s old sewing kit – and sure enough, nestled inside was a clear plastic box of pins. So I fasten a pattern to each sheet, cut along the edges – and another nursing gown is ready to sew.

I am no seamstress, but many a morning after my sunrise walk, I delivery my cutouts to our growing circle of Breaking Thread – wonder women who are also cutting patterns, as well as stitching patterns together. Each Friday I collect finished gowns and deliver them to the local health care facility where my daughter works as a nurse.

The horror over conditions our health care workers face in this insidious pandemic – across the world and country – hit close to home and heart this month with confirmation there clearly may not be enough protective gear in Lincoln. Though local health officials are doing valiant work to find all possible supplies, they are running into national shortages everywhere.  So, as the virus smolders, my daughter and her co-workers have one disposable surgical mask each – and not nearly enough of anything. 

I keep myself busy during daylight hours, but around 3 a.m. the walls come tumbling down and I find myself in the dark abyss of COVID-19. I am scared for the entire planet, but of course especially for my sweet, compassionate grown-up child who has spirit and fire, and who will – in all probability – do her best to make sure people don't die alone.

So instead of counting sheep, I count gowns.  I picture Anna in the middle of an impossible day at work, grabbing the sky-blue gown – sprinkled with stars – that seamstress Nancy created from my son’s childhood sheets … or the gown swimming with comical sharks that Mary stitched from my neighbor’s linens.

Gowns have worked up to now.  Tonight, I need more. In reverence for this profound season of rebirth, I pause to count a few scattered memories I want to hold close – to count a few promises I want to keep.   

I start by counting up the world’s health care workers and their soulful eyes, weary and sad, yet ever caring and fiercely resilient – the touching, committed smiles of teachers, reinventing education overnight – employees who continue to show up, at grocery stores, child care centers, police and fire departments.  And I need to remember the tireless staff at our amazing non-profits, doling out food, diapers, hope – understanding this is a marathon and they will need our support in the many difficult months ahead.  

I also count the magical moments of these solitary days: the glory of dawn, dazzling daffodils, the sound of cricket frogs, the surprise of bouquets and homemade bread at my door. 

At the same time, strange as it sounds, I want to count and hang onto my anger, so fierce and furious it surprises even me.  But as election season approaches, I vow to remember the incompetent narcissist in charge of our country – a man who silences truth-tellers, ignores experts and continues to kill thousands of our most fragile citizens. I pledge to campaign this season as never before.

Moreover, I need to acknowledge and measure my good fortune and middle-class privilege. I am warm and safe with well-stocked cupboards and a steady budget, while this pandemic shines a cruel light on glaring inequities that have long plagued our country. My son works in a high-poverty school in Kansas City and worries less about daily lessons – and much more about children living in unsettled homes with empty refrigerators and inevitable eviction notices. Eventually the pandemic will ease, while poverty will not.  I need to hit the pause button for some hard-hitting self-examination.  

I am lucky.  These are difficult times, but I hope to remember all the friends and family who Zoomed at the exact right moment, kisses blown from afar, dogs who rested their head on my lap when I cried – and intrepid seamstresses who sewed gowns and masks into the night.

Finally, in the light of Easter morning – snow or not – I pledge to never again take for granted our precious gift of touch … as I count down the weeks, days, minutes before I can take my grandchildren in my arms once again. When I can hug the stuffing out of Ace. When I can inhale the sweet scent of Everlyn and Scout, hold them close and whisper in their ear … Yes, GrandMary was really scared. But she kept getting up every morning to watch the sunrise, and she kept cutting patterns, the only way she knew to keep their mommy safe from harm.