An essential

I am not the most organized grocery shopper.

Sometimes I forget to buy things on the list … sometimes I just forget the list. 

(Am I the only one who texts home to ask for a photo of the list on the refrigerator?)

It seems necessity is the mother of organization. I live within walking distance of a wonderful family grocery store. If I forget something, it’s not much trouble to go back. Little necessity, little organization.

(My record, I believe, is going back three times in one day. Not a record I’m proud of, but so be it.)

Then came the pandemic, and with it the shutdown of shopping as we knew it. Suddenly, organization became a skill that I envied.

During my first attempt last week in one of the larger stores, I overheard an exchange that summed up my mindset perfectly:

Man: What are you looking for?

Woman (looking a bit lost): I don’t know.

My husband and I did take inventory before the next trip, and I carefully crossed things off the list as I made my way up and down the aisles. Not full-blown organization, but baby steps. (In my case, necessity is a very new mother.)

Today I made what I hope to be my last trek out for a while. The store limited the number of shoppers: When one left, another was allowed in, and the line stretched out for yards outside, especially given our six feet of separation. 

As we all waited, a woman who had just exited pushed her cart past the line, a colorful bouquet poking up from her bags. 

When someone admired the flowers, she replied: “You have to have them!” 

I added them to my list — and I was not alone. More than one shopping cart carried that touch of spring out into the world.

We humans do not live on bread alone.

Can you see the bee?

My husband and I took a walk today after lunch.

(Does that make us … co-walkers?)

How wonderfully commonplace it is these days, to be out and about — on foot! — and greeting neighbors, known and unknown, doing the same.

Since he had to get back to work-from-home sooner than I did, my husband went ahead while I lingered in the sun. 

Our street was quiet, only birds chirping and the occasional car whooshing past in the distance.

Then, an unusual sound caught my ear.

A hum.

A loud hum.

Bees!

I am not an entomologist, but they looked like honeybees, swarming a neighbor’s cherry tree. 

OK, I’m not a botanist either, but I think it’s a type of cherry. And, to be honest, I first wrote “etymologist” in that sentence.

But back to those bees.

I stood and watched them buzzing from blossom to blossom. Their sheer number gave me such joy.

In the midst of this human pandemic, the natural world lives, and grows, on.

For that I give thanks.

A new perspective

This is April, taking in the view of the vet's office from the dashboard of our car.

Today marked her third visit in three days for fluids treatment (old cat syndrome). She is, in a word, miffed.

The wonderful vet staff has come up with an efficient system of parking lot drop-offs and pickups. 

Efficient from my perspective, yes. Not so much by cat standards.

April lost patience in her carrier, and I let her out -- the first time she ever roamed free in the car. She seemed grateful.

When they called to let me know April was next, I gently corralled her back in her box.

She wasn't the happiest of campers.

I can relate.

May we all be let out of our boxes soon.

For years now, my Facebook profile picture has been a closeup of a T-shirt I bought in 2016. 

 The white letters against a black background spell a single word: 

Resist

 These days that word has become more than a political mantra.

 In these weird, surreal and frightening times:

 May our miraculous immune systems resist this virus.

 May we resist the pull of panic.

 May we resist the tendency to focus on the future, rather than the present moment. 

That last one is especially helpful for me. Today I found myself wandering up and down the grocery store aisles, wondering what to buy, when the shelves would be restocked, whether things would ever go back to “normal.”

Many of my fellow shoppers looked worried, even pained, and I realized my face must be showing those feelings, too.

I decided to resist. I made eye contact with people as we passed each other. I smiled. Most of them smiled back, and we shared stories and small jokes about life as we know it now. The pull of panic receded.

Turns out human contact (albeit at a distance) is good medicine.