Imagine having this entire library – the entire building – all to yourself, except for two friendly librarians. For anyone like me who loves to read and write, it's heaven! 

Hendrix College in Conway, Arkansas, a 10-minute walk from our house, is closed to in-person classes for the fall semester due to Covid-19. The students who would be walking between buildings, stretched out in grassy spaces, sitting around tables sipping coffee and discussing the meaning of life, are virtually absent. They zoom in and out without leaving a trace.

Desperately needing a place to write that is not our dining table, kitchen island or bed, I emailed Britt Murphy, the head librarian, on the off chance that she or her colleagues might be working in the actual library. If so, could I possibly come twice a week, sit in a quiet corner – with my mask on – and write? She wrote back, "We are open! Monday–Friday, 8-5. We'd love to have you." I literally jumped for joy. 

I dusted off my computer bag, filled it with laptop, journal, favorite pink gel pen, water bottle and reading glasses. I laid out clothes, which were not my regular "pandemic inspired" jogging pants or leggings.  At 9:00 o'clock the next morning, I walked to the library with purpose in my steps, like it was my first day on a new job.

I sit here today in the philopshy section writing my blog, not another person on the second floor. I can barely hear Britt and fellow librarian Amy talking downstairs. If not for their voices, I would think that thousands of books and I were totally alone.

Another day I choose to sit in the sunshine, allowing its warmth to transport me to another sunny day almost 60 years in the past. I write about helping my grandmother pin sheets and pillowcases to her backyard clothesline – a book of memories in the making.

When I need a break, I wander through the shelves until l arrive at my favorite spot in the library, the Juvenile Fiction section. I select the same book I've been reading for several days, a few chapters at a time – Autumn Street by Lois Lowry.

I return to my spot for a final edit when I see two masked young women coming up the staircase. We wave. I notice their backpacks and a thick, textbookish tome one of them is carrying. REAL students! As appreciative as I am for the library's solitude, I'm more pleased with the company. LIbraries are meant to be shared, and hopefully soon, Bailey Library will welcome us all.  

Three weeks ago I took a big step, one I was still questioning the wisdom of, as I packed my suitcase the night before. I got on an airplane and flew to Portland, Maine, where our daughter and her family live and where Drew and I own a condo.

Let me repeat the first part of that sentence more slowly  I.got.on.an.airplane. 

Like many (all?) of you, I was tired of staying primarily in place – seeing the same sights, doing the same things, missing the part of our family I had not seen in six months and wondering when I would ever see them again. I had grown fearful of living my life.... to the point of stagnation. I no longer felt like myself.

My "Should I go to Portland?" pro/con list was top-heavy with one item – I want to go, or more accurately, I NEED to go. 

Obviously, and gratefully, I survived and have shown no symptoms of Covid, to which I credit good fortune and my bordering-on-compulsive safety precautions. For a complete list, leave a message in the Comments section. (Just kidding, kind of.)  But this blog post is not so much about getting here as it is being here.

After another set of precautions, I joined Katherine's family pod, meaning I could be in the same space with them, which for someone who has been at a 6 ft. physical distance from almost everyone for 6 months, feels like a reawakening.​ 

I find myself outdoors at every possible opportunity. My senses are on high alert to even the most delicate blossom, the whiff of an unfamiliar fragrance, sights in tucked-in places, as well as broad, inspiring vistas. I may have seen them before, but never appreciated being able to see them, as deeply as I am during this visit.

 














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I recently texted a friend as I was watching the last glows of a sunset, "A change of scenery is good for the soul." In reflecting on that comment, I've come to realize that the key word is change. For me, change has translated into a literal journey of new sights, sounds and reconnections. But in a broader sense, I changed the rhythm of my life, an action I can take no matter where I am.  

When I return to Arkansas, I will look for the same sun to set; but I will need to venture out of my neighborhood, maybe even the city, to see it clearly – a new, and welcome rhythm.

As the pandemic stretches on, my days flow into each other with little to differentiate them. A trip to the grocery store or post office feels like an event to put on the calendar. I needed something to shake things up a bit, something FUN; but I needed help. I needed children! And the lucky grandmother that I am, I have five of them just 25 minutes away.

What could we do that would be outdoors, socially distanced (two families plus me) on a 95-degree, 98% humidity-drenching day in Arkansas?
ART!
I could resurrect my elementary school teacher creativity and plan a variety of activities to enjoy in one of their front yards. YARD ART, or as one of the grandchildren later renamed it... an ART PARTY.

I borrowed ideas from the internet (credited below), ordered materials, then let the Fun begin when the Amazon box arrived.   

Until one minute ago, I had no ideas for a blog posting. But within that 60 seconds when I was looking down at my blank computer screen, my neighbor put up a flag. You might think it would be an American flag to celebrate July 4th, but it's not.
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Rather than ennumerating almost 4 years of specifics about why the sight of that flag causes me such distress, I'll instead show you the sign on our front window, directly opposite.

While I sit here wishing that the winds from the impending thunderstorm would dislodge the flag and send it sailing into the murky waters of the nearby Nature Preserve, something tells me to stop and  breathe. Deep, calming breaths. So I do. (And that something also reminds me that a flag of any kind would not be environmentally friendly to the a–political turtles, snakes, ducks and fish who call the Preserve their home.)  
 
As almost impossible as it is for me to fathom that my sign might be equally distressing to the neighbors, I suppose it is a possibility. Yet we each have the right to display flag and sign, and to allow the other to be displayed.

In one of my favorite movies, The American President, Michael Douglas who plays President Andrew Shepherd, delivers an impassioned speech. The screenwriter, Aaron Sorkin (The West Wing) penned the words, which have remained with me since I first watched the movie in 1995 and several times since. 

"America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You've gotta want it bad 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say, 'You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours.' You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country cannot just be a flag. The symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Now show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then you can stand up and sing about the land of the free."

He's right, it isn't easy. Freedom never is.  

One day when I was feeling particularly discouraged, a rock greeted me with the word, Strong. Another day, Courage.. 
I placed the Gratitude rock in the center early one morning, and it had vanished by the afternoon. I like to think it's a word someone needed at just the right moment, and that it's now perched on her window sill.

We can be present to those we know, and don't know, in endless and creative ways. We are limited only when we forget to try. May we move forward with increased compassion, perhaps leaving painted rocks along the way. 
  

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Front Street, in downtown Conway (Arkansas), was deserted as I fast-walked along the sidewalk. Not surprising since it was 8:30 on a Sunday morning; but you could pick any time and day of the week – for the past 10 weeks – and the street would look the same. The Mexican restaurant on the corner moved the week before COVID-19 became a household word. The New Orleans style restaurant closed until June 1. The jewelry store and clothing boutique closed until further notice. What remains is the glass storefront display by the Conway League of Artists.

 


​I slowed down to browse the watercolors, oils, glass sculptures and photographs; then stopped in front of a colorful scene, which I couldn't distinguish between painting or photograph. Touching my nose to the glass and squinting as closely as possible, I decided it was a painting. The artist's name was taped to the glass. I was in the process of snapping a photo when the front door of the gallery opened.

"Need some help?" a man asked.

"Well...sure." I said, looking around to see if anyone else noticed a man pop out of nowhere. But the street was as empty as ever.

"I was just looking at this painting." I commented, tapping my finger on the glass.

"Oh, the cardinals? That's not a painting. It's my photograph."

As we stood at a social distance on the sidewalk, Don Byram explained that he was working on the display windows when he saw me stop.

"It's got a story behind it," he laughed. "I call it Decisions because it looks like the female cardinal in the middle is trying to decide which of those males she finds the most attractive. The joke is that there was a bird feeder a couple of feet off camera to the right, and they were intently waiting for me to get out of the way."

On that drizzly, gray morning, I needed those splashes of red in my life.

"How much are you selling it for?" I asked.

He quoted me a price. I accepted, but then realized I had no money with me. 

"Just take it with you," he said. "Drop me a check in the mail."

Only in a small town, I smiled to myself.

"Or better yet, I can drop it off on your porch later this morning so you don't have to carry it,"
he offered.

I smiled, again, and thanked him.















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Don arrived two hours later and we exchanged art and check.

The cardinals have found a home above the bed in the guest room. Each time I pass by, I half expect them to start singing. But they remain silent, allowing me to quietly ponder the opportunities presented by doors, which open unexpectedly.     


   

I joyfully left my wipes, gloves and hand sanitizer in the front seat of the car. The sign in the parking lot said, "Lock up your valuables." That directive used to refer to my wallet.

For the next hour or so, I wouldn't need them. I could touch anything I wanted and never have to protect or sanitize. It was a new definition of freedom in a world that feels like one big germ.  

​ I stepped onto Huckleberry Trail and breathed deeply of freshness. This 3.5 mile hiking trail begins 30 minutes from our home at one of my favorite Arkansas state parks, Woolly Hollow. The name and place sound backwoodsy, in the best possible sense, where Nature immerses the visitor in her peacefulness.

Yet, as I strode farther into the woods, I found myself dragging along worries and concerns of the day, at a pace that felt more like a workout than a saunter (one of my favorite Thoreau words.) Finally a robin caught my attention with its rebuke, "Slow down; take notice."

I stopped. The silence caught me off guard like suddenly closing the door on a noisy party. I looked for the nearest place to sit down.      

At the end of the trail, I reached out my hand and touched a tree, a parting connection to a place which felt like the normal I miss more every day.   

Its texture, smell and calming spirit were still present when I returned to the car.
I did not wipe them off. 

I'm on overload. TV news at home, radio news in the car, New York Times Morning Briefing on my phone, social media news via computer. . .  the latest number of cases, possible cases, deaths, closings, government actions/inactions, tests/not enough tests, quarantines, handwashing, more handwashing, social distancing, stock market plummets and toilet paper lines.

I tell myself – that's enough! Get up off the couch. Turn off the TV. But I linger, absorbed in the real life drama of how the coronavirus is changing our lives by the minute. My chest tightens, and I can't recall when I last took a deep breath.

It's time to move. No, not sell my house and relocate to a place where COVID-19 sounds like unintelligible gibberish, but simply put on my shoes, jacket, hat and walk into fresh air.




Ten minutes away is one of my favorite places, a labyrinth, on the campus of Hendrix College in our hometown of Conway, Arkansas.



​Anyone who knows me, knows that labyrinths are a central part of my life. Walking their ancient, circular design is a meditation for me – a calming experience from entrance, to center, and back. No way to get lost, but rather a single path to follow, one step in front of the next.

The labyrinth can be a metaphor for what we may be experiencing in our lives, particularly in these unsettling times, when life feels more circular than linear... and change is a constant. And in times of change, walking the labyrinth reminds me to take my time, to pay attention to the journey along the way.

....which is just what I did as I walked through my neighborhood, across the pedestrian bridge, through the Hendrix campus to the labyrinth. 

Ten minutes turned into thirty as I allowed the emerging signs of spring to determine my pace. By the time I reached the labyrinth, my body and breathing had relaxed and thoughts of the coronavirus felt like yesterday's news. 

Labyrinths, nature and communication with family and friends are my principle ways of coping with a landscape that appears less familiar every day. They are constants that ground me, despite the upheaval, as do my morning cup of coffee, fresh flowers on the dining table, and gratitude journal on my nightstand. 

May you find nourishment in your own heathy practices..... and peace on your path during these challenging times.  

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​To locate a labyrinth in your area, refer to the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator where almost 6000 labyrinths are listed globally. If none exists, you can print a finger labyrinth and trace the design in a slow, meditative manner. (If no printer is available, trace the finger labyrinth design as it appears on your computer screen.)
To learn more about labyrinths, visit The Labyrinth Society and/or Veriditas website, a nonprofit located in Petaluma, California, which provides information, labyrinth experiences and facilitator training.

For the past thirty or so years, an early morning walk has been part of my routine, except for Wednesdays and Sundays when I take a break. In retirement, I at least wait until the sun comes up to head outside. Not to rub it in too much for family and friends waking up to snow, ice or rain, but the sun has actually been in glorious view for the last two weeks I've been in California.

I finish my coffee after Drew leaves for his job in Menlo Park, and wait for the sun to edge its way onto the wetlands outside our apartment windows.
Not for too long, though. I do have friends expecting me.

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​A  wetlands trail winds its way just a stone's throw from our apartment, past waters and grassland, to an overlook 1.7 miles in the distance.
About five minutes down the gravel path, my walking partners appear. 


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​Canandian geese, vacationing in the Bay area, greet me and pick up the pace. I can't tell whether they're chastising me for keeping them waiting or complaining about the rush hour traffic on nearby Highway 101, but they seem to be in a constant state of annoyance. Of course, since I don't speak "goose," I could have it all wrong.   ​

Tired of too much walking and chatter, they stop for breakfast, allowing me time to catch my breath and take in the view. Seagulls, ducks and sandpipers gather on still waters, yards beyond a protective boundary. Their collective voices triumphantly rise above the continuous din of engines behind me. 

​With the sun warming my back, I arrive at the lookout and gaze out on the natural beauty that surrounds me. Were it not for the vision and hard work of people I'll never know, these wetlands would be overgrown with buildings.
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And the inhabitants ? Who knows. 

 I turn to retrace my steps and see a graceful reminder of why this wildlife refuge is more than a place of beauty. It is a home.

*For additional information:  Don Edwards National Wildlife Refuge, Bair Island
​                                                  Redwood City, California