In August of 2018 I wrote a piece for a book called “The Meaning of Life.” On January 29, 2020 the book was published by Jules Smith, just one day before the first US case of coronavirus was confirmed and ten days before the World Health Organization declared a global health emergency.
Since then I’ve been watching the whole thing go down on the telly and while driving through the stillness of my hometown and moving through the post office and grocery store with the mentality of a hazmat worker.
Now the isolation is getting to everyone, is even beginning to bother me, one who thrives on big patches of solitude.
In a Vermont small town paper, I read a right-on article by therapist Kate Donnally, LICSW. In brief, now off limits are all the places folks liked to gather to distract themselves from themselves. And until further notice, there’s nothing to do but endure and learn positively from the battery of emotions and realizations that seclusion gives rise to.
Stewing in my own overdone juices and looking at what coronavirus has changed globally, I wonder how we’ll re-emerge in our cities and towns once we’re cut loose, if/how it has affected the meaning we give to our lives, if/how it has changed how we see all of life in general.
More specifically I wonder if, like me, any of the ninety-nine others who contributed to “The Meaning of Life” book would have changed a fair amount of what they wrote. Perhaps Jules will produce a post-pandemic view of life.
And that brings me to ponder what coronavirus has not changed, the hardwired qualities of the human spirit being the best thing I’ve come up with thus far. But the days are young in this new world.
“The Meaning Of Life”: