Peaceable Kingdom.

06-02-2021

Yesterday, in a moment, after being pulled away from a morning Netflix binge by the whimpers of a dog in need, grumpily trying to embrace the calm of the land and the warmth of the sun, we looked up from our stumps and saw a convergence of sights perhaps never before witnessed by human eyes. Three deer were trotting across our yard within a stone's throw, a father house-finch was feeding his newly hatched babies in their chosen home on our porch, a Monarch Butterfly fluttered around the frost-bitten Lilac bush, a Hummingbird zipped bloom to bloom on the Buckeye tree, and edge to edge on a bowl beside us was a fresh, Spider-sewn tightrope of webbing. All of this happened amidst the buzzing of friendly and unfriendly bees investigating the bounty of nectar surrounding us, a cacophony of bird songs, and in the presence of a dog and cat who noticed but did not stir. All of this beauty in a single moment in a single place and time. 

This morning we took our cat, Buzz, to the vet. He'd not been eating much and suddenly seemed very bony to our touch. His spine and hips started to protrude seemingly overnight, while his belly, even surprising to those who've known him, was larger than ever. Buzz has had problems. Boy cats, from what I gather, often have problems. Many times over the years we've racked up debt on credit cards for urination complications or compacted bowel troubles made known after he peed or puked all over our wooden floors. On top of these, a few years ago we learned Buzz had a benign mass in his intestines that could pose a problem down the road. These complications, combined with his insatiable appetite, led to several emergency-ish vet runs. We took him in assuming this would be yet another IV juicing to flush a blockage and get his pipes flowing yet again. But upon returning to the car with the dog who joined us, our kiddo said "Buzz is getting put down." The shock and disbelief I felt was over-ridden by the tears I saw flowing down my wife's face as she talked with the vet who'd examined him. It seemed we were now 'down the road.' The benign mass had spread to multiple organs and she predicted his future would be filled with pain and suffering; a fate all of us wish to avoid. He was calm, and by my human perception, almost at peace with things. The three of us doted on him with wet cheeks and sweaty palms. Then we said 'goodbye' as he was given the final injection to relieve his pain permanently.

About a month ago I experienced what I can only liken to what others have described as a panic attack. Since turning forty last October I've been inundated with moments where death feels really close. Not close like soon, but close like real. Growing up I was gifted a tradition that espouses a very narrow view of what lies in the great beyond. In this tradition death is reason to celebrate if one believed the right things in life. Otherwise, dun . . . dun . . . duuuuunnnnn. This simpler story with its concrete answers about the afterlife crossed and dotted all holes in the mystery of death, for a time. With the unprovable all buttoned up in my mind and the pure, unadulterated luck of when, where, and to whom I was born, I've had a life largely absent of loss through death and relatively absent of the fear of death. Every day I feel lucky to know so little of death. But as time marches I know this loss is coming. I've shed my binary upbringing and have embraced more of what I admit feels a bit hippie-dippie. But as literally no one has any right to claim authority on this matter, these new notions feel right to me now, even if they're not original. I imagine a consciousness 'Ether' that every life passes into. Passing into the Ether we gain all the collected wisdom of why this last life was harder than it needed to be, why we were so limited in our ability to transcend our circumstances, why we couldn't find more peace or be more peaceable. Fantasies, I know, but as good as most, and better than many shared around the world. My view does not contain punishment, only wisdom. I choose to put aside post-life retribution, vengeance, bloodlust, whatever inclination we have as humans to make sense of bad behaviors. I'm hoping for a waterfall of wisdom and an avalanche of understanding.

As Buzz received the first injection to calm his body before the final jab, I told him to say 'hello' to Dezzy, our other cat we let go two years ago. I choose to believe Buzz and Dezzy are in the Ether, basking in the wisdom of what life is all about. As we wiped tear after tear looking at photos of our passed friends, we who witnessed the glimpse of the 'Peaceable Kingdom,' told of in the stories of my youth, reflected on the possibility that Yesterday's moment by the fire pit was a gift from the Universe, an echo of the Ether, and a reminder that maybe everything, however unlikely it feels most of the time, actually is working together and we are all connected. Sounds better than most versions I've heard over the years.

(Image above: Edward Hicks' The Peaceable Kingdom)

Part one of two, hopefully.

 The wait is over.

After signing up for several lists, strategically showing up at several Meijers with fingers crossed, and seeing the myriad posts from friends across the social media sphere who seemed to just outflank me in their vaccine treasure hunting missions . . . last week I got my first dose of the Pfizer Covid-19 vaccine. The lines were long at the DeVoss Center, but the operation was flawless, if not a bit dystopian. I couldn't help but envy these vaccine line workers directing us to and fro because it seemed they had perhaps the best possible job in this pandemic, they got to celebrate with us as we participated in the best solution humans have come up with to beat killer viruses. I made darn sure they knew I was happy to be there, with smiling eyes and specific words of gratitude, I thanked everyone I could. From Angie at the kiosk, who had to update my profile that was still showing an address from 2002, to the final greeter who was thanking participants for 'being a part of the solution' before we left the building, I did my best to glow for everyone involved.

I know their work is hard, but I envy their role because I've been in a different spot in this pandemic journey. I work for everyone's favorite 'neighborhood' grocery store that rhymes with, um, Greater Flows. Those grocery 'essentials' who've been through all of it since the beginning, oh the stories we have. $600 carts, bare shelves, toilet paper limitations, slow safety measures, resistance to masking, lines, protests, politicization, the “nosers” who can't seem to wear their masks correctly, not to mention the fear of bringing home this virus to our households and loved ones . . . every . . . fucking . . . day. Two nights ago, 383 days since this virus came to Michigan, I was told of a man who scorned our safety measures before standing in line, even lobbing the word 'sheeple' at my two coworkers. Fortunately, those waiting in line essentially 'boo'd' him into submission. I was lucky enough to have him in my line, unaware of what had taken place. He was cordial with me but surely felt the eye-daggers shot his way from all others who knew better.

This is what we've been dealing with for over a year now. I have coworkers whose smiles I've never seen.

Yesterday a friend and I wondered how long until our store culture could return to pre-virus status, with all its warms and fuzzies. She could barely imagine a day when we get comfortable all over again with miniature cups of coffee pumped from the same public carafe and small paper plate samples picked over by children who’ve returned for their third helping. We still get new customers all the time and I used to try to explain that had they come at a different time I'd explain all of the great things that make our grocery chain special: new food samples and recipes shared every day, fresh coffee always brewed and ready, the ability to try a product before you buy it, the general sense of being at a party you didn't know you were invited to, and of course, the no-hassle return policy. That is until I realized most people only make out a small percentage of what I say and nod to be polite. So I don't explain any of this. Communicating through masks, social distancing, and plastic barriers makes everything hard to say and hear, so I keep it short and work quickly because there are people outside waiting for their turn.

Michigan is in bad shape. “For the seventh week in a row, the state of Michigan is the worst in the nation in terms of coronavirus cases” says Victor Williams writing for Click On Detroit. Quoting Detroit Chief Health Officer, Denise Fair, in the same article: “We are right back where we were a year ago.” But it feels different out in the wild. It feels like people have moved on. I feel like moving on. We're all so tired. Every time I watch someone tear their mask off the moment they walk out the door I have to resist the urge to look them in the eye and say “forty fucking hours a week,” pointing at my mask.

But it is better with part one of two in my arm. I'm getting comfortable day-dreaming about social gatherings. Oh how I long for house warming parties, hugs, and seeing smiles on mouths not just eyes. One foot is stepping confidently in that direction while the other drags a cement block stuck in the past and present of this virus's wrath which I keep hearing is far from over. Wild times we're living in.