#Isolationjournals

[rockisagirlsbestfriend]

The Isolation Journals: This Foreign Place

April 3, 2020

I arrived here March 12, a beautiful home near the ocean, where I can hear the birds chirping, and the occasional helicopter overhead. The sounds of things that fly dominate the mornings, before the neighbors begin to stir.

I was excited to arrive here, to run on the beach each day, people-watch at restaurants and cafes, explore the neighborhood, go to some concerts and connect with people. . .

We’ve since been told it’s not safe out there. We need to stay in and limit human contact, for our own well-being and that of humanity at large. My excitement about beginning each day with a run on the beach was squelched, first by the rare occurrence of consistent rain, and - when the weather cleared up - by the closure of beaches and parks, to keep us safe.

I’ve retreated inside as required and am settling in to a new rhythm. At first, the days felt long, and the nights longer. The plans I had to socialize in the evenings had all been cancelled. I was missing the sounds and energy of concerts, community, culture, and clanking utensils and glasses. I found myself growing tired at 8pm. Tired at 8pm! From doing…nothing!

One night, I considered the idea of “the old days”, when people would go to bed at nightfall and wake up with the sun. “Let’s give it a try. Maybe that’s our natural rhythm and we’re being directed to reexamine it.” That night, I went to bed at 8:30pm…

And woke up at 3:00am.

Wide-awake at 3:00am, mind racing, battling fits of restlessness and anxiety, I vowed not to go to bed so early again. So there I sat, in an even longer day, deciding the best thing I could do is to get comfortable here.

There’s no better way to get to know a place than to clean it!  I began a room-by-room cleaning quest, starting with the bathroom. It was chilly that first day, and the heat kicked on. “I’m so thankful to have heat,” I thought. Then, looking around that now sparkling clean bathroom, “I’m thankful to be here, safe, with shelter, clean running water… “

“I’m grateful to be alive. And healthy.”

Epiphanies often come to me in the shower, but this flood of gratitude for each healthy moment and breath may be the first that came to me while I was cleaning a toilet.

Day-by-day, room-by-room, I tackled a new cleaning adventure. While sweeping and then mopping the hardwood floors, I noticed where the gaps between wood panels were larger than others, some water damage from the rare rains past, patterns and patches, light and dark.

I enjoyed having the patio doors open, fresh air and mostly peaceful sounds filling the space. As the day progressed, the neighbors, also learning about their new surroundings, would rouse. The sound of a toddler’s footsteps running back and forth, initially, felt disruptive and distracting. But with each subsequent day that comes, I look forward to those running, pounding footsteps, and the occasional giggle that can be heard through the walls. I envision this energetic, excited, happy child, exploring his surroundings with wonder and inspiring fervor. I began to channel his approach to discovering this new place, tackling it with a renewed sense of adventure.

There are other neighbors, who I’m less enthusiastic about. Thankfully, they tend to sleep until noon. The man, in his mid-30s, has frequent temper tantrums, in contrast to the toddler next door who moves through life with grace. His twin sister doesn’t have an “inside voice”, her nonsensical screeches, yelling to her brother, make their way through the walls to interrupt any prior sense of peace. The brother has a motorcycle, which he can’t ride anywhere since he, too, is confined to his patch of habitat. He fancies sitting on the motorcycle, revving the engine for what feels like 20 minutes at a time, and filling the fresh air with the nauseous smell of gasoline and sound pollution. Neither of them knows how to close a door. The slams become more frequent as the day wears on.

When those neighbors rise and begin their clamoring, I struggle to find inner peace.

They’re here. I’m here. We’re here. . . For a while. I mean, that’s the best-case scenario: that we remain alive. And well. And here.

So when I hear the neighbors I’m not fond of, it’s a reminder – equal, though opposite in approach - to the joyful sounds of the toddler:

I’m alive. I’m well. This is good.

An amazing thing has begun to happen, and I’m not sure why or how. The days and nights are starting to go by quickly. I’m “running out of time” to accomplish all the things on my to-do list each day. I’m thankful there’s “tomorrow”, to continue to do the things - the necessary things as well as things I’ve often wished I had more time to do. This feeling of time moving quickly again makes me long for more time, a continued relaxed pace, the opportunity to continue exploring this place, one floorboard at a time.

[shelleythomas]

As we journey through this unprecedented time of change, uncertainty, and pause together We can reflect and ask ourselves: •Who am I really? When X and Y is taken away from me? •What is important to me? •What else am I willing to let go of that no longer reflects my values? •What am I afraid of that’s beyond my control? •Where can I find rest? •How can I take pressure off myself? •What am I hopeful for? And most importantly... •How can I help? We are all in this together. #coronatimes #quarantinelife #musicheals #reflection #philosophy #progressnotperfection #community #quarantine #nyc #growthmindset #singersofquarantine #musiciansofquarantine #isolationjournals #theartistsway #write #sing #shelleyvoice (at New York, New York) https://www.instagram.com/p/B-7YGjXgZZt/?igshid=1nsxm3dcpojqe

[sunshine-and-waffles]

Isolation Journals

Prompt for the day:

As a human being on Planet Earth I’ve experienced my fair share of awkwardness. (Maybe more than most). I have learned to love these moments for in discomfort, valuable epiphanies are often found. Also, in retrospect, they can generate great laughter. Ah, the Glorious Awkwardness!

Reflect on a particular moment in your past when you felt most in touch with your “Glorious Awkwardness.” It could be a cringe-worthy moment you’ve replayed a thousand times in your mind. Or something essential about who you are, something unchangeable. Go back there.

What did you learn from it? Can you laugh about it? And if not, why?

Response:

I feel particularly awkward in social situations at work. I typically keep it really professional when I’m working and it’s hard for me to know where that line is between friend and co-worker. I feel super awkward and uncomfortable in large work parties. I typically do better in small groups to begin with, and then add in a big crowd of people I don’t feel at ease with... Uhg. Last night we had a “virtual happy hour at work” which I attended because I’m trying to build community and be open, but I felt truly exhausted afterwards. Idk if I talked to much or too little, but I didn’t feel great afterwards. It wasn’t a hugely obvious awkward moment and I don’t think I did anything to embarrass myself, but I felt like an awkward teen in the lunch room.

[asydneynamedsydney]

Isolation Journals - Day 39

DAY 39 - ADRIENNE RAPHEL

Long before I started deep-diving into cruciverbalism (yup, that’s the technical term for crossword obsession), I always sought out constraints in writing: the more rules to follow, the more hurdles to put myself through, the better. As a poet, I love complicated forms, like abecedarians (where the first letter of each line goes down the alphabet). I suffered from a touch of perfectionism, and working inside a structure was comforting—it offered a blueprint for an ideal. But I remember vividly the first time a rule scared me. In a workshop, a professor told us: “Write a bad poem.” My initial reaction was fear. What did that mean? Wasn’t I supposed to be writing the best thing I could possibly write? Why would I want to go backward? What I was really afraid of, though, was the messiness of it—the unwieldiness, the ugliness, the full-scale indulgence of imperfection. Accepting that I was not only going to fail, but that I had to fail, was revolutionary for me. I’d learned how to get a gold star, but I also had to learn who I was when there was no “A” to earn, no rules to tell me what to do, and no one, not even myself, who would look at what I’d made and say: Good work. Your prompt for today: Write a bad poem. What does a “bad” poem mean to you? Interrogate that. Is it a poem that sounds like a sappy greeting card, starting with “Roses are red,” or “How do I love thee?” Maybe “bad” means something about form to you. A poem with too much rhyme in it, so every line is a singsong. Or maybe a bad poem has no form at all, so the lines wander across the page, maybe in your least favorite font (Comic Sans?), the tackiest color (neon purple?), or the worst pen (blunt Sharpie?). Or maybe “bad” isn’t about the shape or the quality of the writing at all, but about the content. A “bad” poem might mean saying the things you shouldn’t say, or feeling the things you’re not supposed to feel, or copping to your pettiest, dumbest, most embarrassing complaints. Let your “bad” self say the thing you don’t let yourself say. If you want to swear, swear. If you want to write the word “NO” over and over for twenty lines straight, then—yes. The badder the better. It might be so bad it’s good.

A bad poem. 

A bad poem is a poem that tries too hard. 

Going over the top to sound exactly how it should. 

Paints a picture, 

writes a song, 

tells a story. 

Sometimes they rhyme, 

sometimes they don’t.

Either way, you can tell there’s an extra level of stress. 

They’re often too long, 

sometimes too short. 

          Disjointed

     but constantly trying 

                         to pull things together. 

Are any poems even “good” poems?

What makes one of those?

I don’t really like poetry overall if I’m being honest. 

Maybe all poems are bad. 

[efabuloushb]

My contribution to the ISOLATION JOURNALS

My contribution to the ISOLATION JOURNALS .... #MommyFab

I decided to participate in day 7 of the #IsolationJournals. I came across a post on Instagram and it inspired me to write.

View this post on Instagram

Thank you @suleikajaouad for having me🙏🏾 ・・・ To round out our first week of #theisolationjournals, I’m honored and delighted to introduce my friend @rachel.cargle. Her explorations of race and womanhood have ignited…

[rockisagirlsbestfriend]

The Isolation Journals: Glorious Awkwardness

April 4, 2020

Today’s writing prompt proved a challenge because what was once my most glorious awkward intrinsic trait is currently a way of life for a vast number of people globally. I agonized over the topic longer than I should have.

It felt “too easy” – choosing to write about a “glorious awkward trait” that is so widely accepted now.

It felt “too hard” – would people relate to this as “awkward” now? Could anyone imagine the feeling of hundreds of people staring at them as if they were a freak when they walked down the aisle of an airplane? Would people be able to relate to the experience of returning to the box office, 10 minutes into a movie, to request a new seat assignment; or asking the manager at the gym if they could move to a different cross-training workout station? As many people embrace this trait now, would they be able to imagine their co-workers and friends repeatedly teasing them about this awkwardness and questioning their sanity?

On the idea of it being “too easy”: I thought about some of our most brilliant artists, inventors, designers, musicians, and filmmakers. Stories of being “misunderstood”, “an outcast”, or feeling “different” are commonly shared in interviews. However, once a certain level of fame or recognition is achieved, people celebrate and often emulate their “glorious awkward traits”. But it wasn’t easy. Sometimes that recognition came after decades of taunting by peers, sometimes after death.

On the idea of it being “too hard”: Just this morning, I opened the front door, and saw the grocery delivery driver, in his N95 mask and latex gloves, jump back to the required social distance of 6 feet. Yes, even though this trait is now widely accepted, it still feels awkward. Each of us shrouded in masks as a way to protect each other and ourselves from a dangerous virus. While we both understood it as a necessity, it felt surreal, removed from humanity.

The delivery driver was visibly nervous and anxious to leave. I’d ordered some wine so he needed to scan my ID. With our feet firmly planted on their 6’ marks, our bodies stiffly upright to remain out of the no-fly zone, we extended our arms just far enough that his scanner could read my driver’s license, and retreated as soon as we heard the confirming “beep”.

The writing prompt Jon Batiste offered this morning asked us to describe our “glorious awkwardness”. Well, my glorious awkwardness is: early onset Germaphobia.

I first remember consciously being disgusted by people’s hands in middle school. It wasn’t about the person. I simply saw all the things they touched, could envision dirt and bacteria piling up each time they picked up a pencil, touched the desk, tied their shoe, or twirled their hair. I hid it well (I think), but inside I cringed seeing them raise their unwashed hand to their mouth to eat a sandwich, a healthy snack, or a cookie.

My friends would get sick and brush it off. Their congested nasal passages trying to intake air as they argued, “Agh, izzz jus uh hedddd cold” when I’d decline their request to “try a sip” of my soda. I didn’t want a cold, a head cold, the flu, their mouth on my straw, their breath droplets on the lid.

And it never went away. I thought about it during sex (this was after middle school, for those tracking chronologically). “He didn’t wash his hands when we got home and now they’re where. . . and then. . . ?”

The 3-second rule… or 10 second rule… I don’t remember how many seconds it was, but if a thing fell on a table, the floor, a counter, my shirt, it was not going in my mouth.

In order to have any semblance of a social life, I did the best I could to hide it. Unlike the arbitrary “x-second rule” which never worked for me, I tried to appease my anxiety with “the alcohol will kill it”, which worked for me if I’d consumed enough alcohol.

I’m active, physically and socially. I like to run half marathons, am competitive in a circuit training class, go to rock concerts surrounded by thousands of sweaty people, eat meals out, bump elbows at a crowded bar, travel. The longer I was out in the world, the more I witnessed the repulsive and inconsiderate trait many people - adult people - had of not covering their faces when they sneezed or coughed.

As recently as February – when we were well aware of COVID19, but before we were ordered to stay home – I saw a man sneeze all over the self-service ticket kiosk at the movie theater, as he retrieved his tickets. It was a busy Saturday night. I envisioned all the people who would touch that kiosk after him, print their tickets, go buy popcorn, and put that popcorn directly in their mouth to determine whether it would be salty enough a third of the way through the bucket, before leaving the concession stand to take their seat and perhaps wash their hands on the way. Perhaps.

I alerted an employee, who politely responded, “Thanks for letting us know!” As he continued to address the needs of people in line, the thought of a deadly virus on a high-touch public surface was now trailing off in the distance, unattended.

I’ve been wearing a mask on airplanes, trains, and in all forms of public transport, for more than a decade. The most accessible photo of it I have (meaning I don’t have to sift through 8 hard drives to find an older one) is from 2018 and is posted at the end of this story.

First, it was the looks on the faces of the gate agents, followed by the flight attendants who strained to hear my replies, muffled by the mask. Then, of course, there are the looks other passengers give you, followed by their sighs of relief that you’re not sitting next to them, until you do. Sit. Down. Next. To. Them.

At dinners, my friends would sit waiting around the table, while I washed my hands for well over 20 seconds. Often, depending how long we’d been friends, people would say, “C’mon. It’s ok. The alcohol will kill it!”

Their children would ask, “Can we just start eating?” Sometimes, they could.

Business meals were equally complicated. A coworker once wiped her nose on her napkin, put her napkin on the table, and it touched my fork. I tried to hold it together, to not request new utensils, which would likely be uncomfortable for at least two of us during this business lunch. But I was eating chopped salad. I needed a fork. And I could not use that one. I tried to flag down the server as inconspicuously as possible.

“M’am?” he said.

Fuck. I’m a “M’am” already. Fuck. “Could you please bring me another fork?”

The server picked up the fork, raised it toward his eyes, and twirled it around until nearly every part of it had been touched by his fingers, and declared, “This fork is clean!”

To which my colleague added, “It’s fine. It’s just my allergies.”

Allergies… COVID-19…. the mucus oozing from your nose… whatever hepatitis may now be smeared all over that fork… I’m not using it to place things in my mouth.

This text message regarding COVID-19 is from that co-worker:

To me, for as long as I can remember, this trait wasn’t awkward. It was sensible. I could see how we moved through the world - and we weren’t clean about it. How many things do you do, and surfaces do you touch, between using the ATM and washing your hands? Even if you wanted to, there’s no mechanism for hand washing directly adjacent to the ATM (yet). How many other people pressed those buttons with their dirty hands? Those of us who carry hand sanitizer still have to reach into a pocket or a purse to get it out, mash our dirty ATM hands all over the lid to get it open, splatter it on a hand, close the bottle, brace it between our non-dominant forearm and our ribs, and then rub our hands together vigorously without having it splash in our eyes. 

Put the bottle of sanitizer away.  Feel victorious. And then hear the parking lot attendant decree, “You’re safe!”

One of my favorite observations came from my friend’s son. He was only 5 at the time, but he’d been witness to my glorious awkwardness for most of his life.

“Colette? What happens if you run out of hand-sanitizer?”

“I have more hand-sanitizer.”

“No, but say you’re out - like now -  and that bottle is empty… “

“I’ve got a backup bottle in my purse,” I responded, waving the evidence before him.

“Ok, but what about if you’re in the car. . .  and you run out of hand-sanitizer in the car??”

“I have a backup bottle in the car too…”

“Can we get ice cream?”

In January and February, people freshly returned from their global voyages and large family dinners, would come to circuit training class sick. Coughing, sneezing, sick. “After this workout, I’m going to urgent care,” one member told her friend as we waited in the lobby for class to begin. “I haven’t been able to get rid of this cough for weeks!”

I’d speak with the manager or guest services (they have a fancier name for it, but whatever) people at the front desk. “I come here to be healthy, to stay healthy, to keep my immune system strong. There are visibly sick people about to get on the treadmill adjacent to - and touching - my treadmill, while we breathe heavily, running 8 miles per hour, for 23 minutes, in a steamy enclosed studio. Do you think you could send out an email alerting members that if they’re sick, they should stay home?”

“No, we can’t ask our members to stay home,” they’d respond, while simultaneously – and at my request - reassigning me to a station further away from said sick people. By the way, it wasn’t up to the lovely people at the front desk. They had been told or, at minimum, believed it to be a corporate policy that sick people could workout there.

Fast forward to April 2020: my glorious awkwardness is your glorious awkwardness.

My friends now call me for advice. Colleagues ask where I got my reusable mask (the one pictured below in 2018). “Where did you get that bottle of hand sanitizer?” someone will ask, unaware there’s backup.

But it’s still awkward, isn’t it? Not being able to see the smile of a stranger, clutching the wall as your neighbors cross paths in the narrow walkway, flinching anytime someone sneezes during a ZOOM call. It was one thing when a handful of us felt this way. We understood it to be odd, but we couldn’t escape it, and everyone else seemed to balance it out with their carefree spirits. But now we’re all fumbling through space, with as few points of contact as possible.

Back on the subjects of “easy” and “hard”: in many ways, the new CDC guidelines and local safety mandates have been exceptionally easy for me. It’s my “glorious awkward” moment in the spotlight. I haven’t had to change my behavior at all. I didn’t have to rush to the store (though, on the subject of toilet paper, I am living roll-to-roll).

I have had to change my activities. I miss going to the gym, the crowded bars, the packed arena concerts. I miss running on the beach. I miss traveling. I’ve become numb to the notices of concert cancellations and postponements. Are the days of being at a music festival, with 100,000 people, crammed into sweaty tents, over?

The active part of my life coming to a standstill is hard. But that, I’m still hopeful, is temporary. The hardest part, for me, now that everyone shares this glorious awkwardness, is wondering how we regain that sense of safety in physical space. Will we become afraid to do the things that used to make us feel so alive? Hopefully, we’ll remind each other, “The alcohol will kill it!”

TODAY:

[rockisagirlsbestfriend]

The Isolation Journals: My Window To The World

April 5, 2020

My window to the world faces east and is bathed in sunlight much of the day. The early mornings are typically peaceful, with birds chirping, a light wind rustling among the trees.

I awake without the news, resist the temptation to read headlines on Twitter, brew a pot of coffee, open the window, and allow my understanding of the world to unfold each day, through this singular open frame. Though I’ve lived here more than a decade and have traveled to every continent, this new daily ritual of exploring the world through this single window feels vast and expansive. I’m a trailblazer in my own home.

Sometimes I can hear the faint laughter, squeal, or cry of a nearby child. I am familiar with the sounds of the toddler next door, and with deep gratitude can share that he rarely cries. So when I hear a child wailing in the distance, it’s someone I don’t know. I begin to think about that family. It’s likely breakfast time. Perhaps the child wants an iPad instead of French toast. He’s pleading for Max & Ruby, whom he’s come to rely on as friends during his new isolated reality. He doesn’t understand why he can’t go to the playground today. He misses his music class. Max & Ruby is his window to the world. French toast can suck it.

As the minutes pass, the variety of sounds increases exponentially. Sirens zoom by. I hope they’re able to get there in time. I envision the streets, free of traffic, with most people under stay-at-home orders, and hope this makes the job of first responders a bit easier.

A washing machine whirrs on spin cycle. Did I transfer my washed clothes to the dryer last night? I’m comfortable seated by my window and enjoying the experience of the world expanding outside, so I convince myself that I did indeed transfer that load of laundry last night.

The sounds of the toddler next door begin to mesh with the sounds of his parents. With my window open, his little feet pattering on the hardwood floors reverberates through the living room. His footsteps as he runs back and forth are among the first sounds I hear each morning. Sometimes, I’m not yet at my window to the world, and I listen to his footsteps from the comfort of my bed. I imagine he’s alerting his parents that he’s awake. After 2-3 pitter-patters up and down the hall between his bedroom and theirs, it’s momentarily quiet. They’ve acknowledged he’s awake and coaxed him into bed with them for “a few more minutes of sleep.”

Pitter-patter-thump-thump-thump-giggle. The rhythm gets faster. His time in bed expired 15 minutes ago and now so has his parent’s. Little footsteps, followed by louder footsteps, make their way down the stairs. Their sound library expands to include the rousing of their little dog who’s also ready to play, and a few plinks and plunks on the piano that sound too composed to be those of a 3-year-old.

A motorcycle passes by and reminds me to be grateful the raucous neighbors behind our building are still sleeping. The 32ish year-old man also has a motorcycle, which he likes to rev in the driveway, while his twin sister shouts to him through their kitchen window, which sits directly beneath our bedroom windows. When their noises and his motorcycle fumes fill the air, it’s my reminder that it’s likely time for lunch. As the days go on, I learn to tell time simply from the sights and sounds emanating through my window to the world. 

I close the window to muffle their sounds, and my experience of the world grows more visually acute. With the window closed and the addition of some rock music beamed through my Sonos, I can almost pretend those neighbors aren’t there. Almost. The neighboring twins have a large open patio, which isn’t visible from the street, but is unfortunately, directly under my window to the world. It doesn’t happen every day, but several times during any given week, the man - who’s unkempt even when there’s no pandemic - stands on the patio, marveling at his motorcycle, sans pants.

Thankfully, they’re still asleep this morning and I can continue to explore the world through my open window. The sounds and sights build as other neighbors – those I’ve never met – embark on morning walks. It’s mostly couples walking side-by-side. Occasionally, people I imagine are friends pass by, perfectly spaced 6 feet apart, as if following invisible markers on the ground. Who are they, these neighbors I haven’t previously crossed paths with (or at least not that I’m aware of)? Have they always walked the neighborhood or is this a substitute for their now shuddered gym?

As I grow more familiar with the stranger-neighbors who stroll by, I consider the paradox of having not physically seen my adjacent-neighbors – those I know and am friends with – in over a month. When my window to the world was simply a window, and the world was something I could explore through doors, trains, planes, bars, and restaurants, I’d see my neighbor friends frequently. We’d pass one another, without masks and fear, while getting the mail. We’d stop to catch up before going for a run on the beach. We’d gather in the shared courtyard – or as my toddler neighbor calls it, “the forest”. The productivity of our HOA meetings was measured in bottles of wine consumed.

Though we all live in the same small building, we’ve truly been self-isolating among our individual units. I don’t see my adjacent-neighbors through my window to the world, because between us there are walls. Perhaps we’ll come out of this with more windows, a broader world-view, a deeper feeling of connection to those we may not know, and fewer walls.