Sunday, Sunday, so good to me…

Ok, I know those are not the lyrics of the song by the Mamas and the Papas.  It is supposed to be Monday, Monday, etc.  I exercised license to substitute Sunday for the purposes of my reflection, my need to look back in order to compose a narrative of my life lived yesterday.

Sunday is traditionally a day set aside for reflection.  Going to a house of worship, church can be a good means to reflection.  I do not do that anymore.  I take time to contemplate the small circle of my own life, what I have some control over, and naturally I do think about the wider circle of my country, and other nations.  To quote a line for John Donne’s Meditation 17.. 

No man is an island,  entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main…

I do feel a connection with other parts of this country, with Americans in Seattle, New York City, Florida and my home state of North Carolina.  The deadly virus which we are in the beginning stages of combating is the backdrop of every thing that I do, and everything that I think.

One week of self-quarantine has passed.  No trip to Menards or the local Jewel store; several bike rides along side the river passing pedestrians also on the pathway.  That is as close as I have come to other people.  The virus is a dimension of nature, analogous to cholera, to small pox that brought much loss and grief to our ancestors.  We have an idea of what must be done to minimize our losses,  — but we have no treatment, and no vaccine.  This experience prompts me to reflection,  contemplation of life & death, of the sort that traditionally takes place under the auspices of religion.  As a family member said to me a number of days ago, — there are people walking around today that will not be here when this is over.  Yes, and I could be counted among them.

I subscribe to a Morning Briefing email from the New York Times.  A graphic was offered this morning showing the rhizomatic spread of the virus from Wuhan to other cities in China.  Without doubt this picture could be generalized to the entire world.  It is a matter of population density and ease of airline travel.

Another Times picture struck me as symbolic of the West, of what should be our response at this point.  The Place de la Concorde in Paris at rush hour is empty of traffic.

Yesterday among the things I did, read more in The Plague by Albert Camus, take a nap, and walk into the back yard to admire the result of my preparations there for the riot of new life, which will come with Spring.

I am not one to nap.  However to pitch in to help care for my grand daughter, I offered to hold her for a while, to see if I could calm her fretfulness.  She fell asleep in my arms to my delight.  I cannot remember holding my three children for any extended period.  At that stage in my life the press of academics, and the need to stay focused on a business which supported us meant that I almost never gave myself permission to relax.  So yesterdays experience of Finlea and I napping in the chair was probably a first for both of us.  What a privilege.

As to the yard, I now learn skills of gardening, by trial and error, that my parents knew before they reached adulthood.  Better late than never.  I find a satisfaction in watching things emerge from the dark soil, reaching for light and warmth.  I seem to be doing what I am supposed to do when I am cultivating the ground to assist  growing things, fulfilling some kind of purpose.

It snowed later in the day, a final snow of the cold season.  I took a photo of the Buddha statue, sitting impassively, laced with white snow.  This statue sits on the raised berm overlooking the yard, in all seasons, quietly observing, without opinion.

I thought of Kenny Rogers again yesterday.  I read the piece printed in the New York Times about his life.  Farewell to a man who was a vehicle of meaning and delight to those of us too many to count.

This is a song that he wrote: Sweet Music Man.