Tag: paradox

Pandemic postcard #51: Waiting my turn

Julie Fanselow

It’s sometime in April, and I’m in line outside the stadium field house that has recently opened as Seattle’s mass vaccination site. Nurses are standing by with tens of thousands of single-dose Johnson & Johnson shots newly arrived from the feds, and I hold a sliver of hope that my silver hair will confer an advantage in securing one of these coveted vaccines. I easily pass through the entrance, and my excitement builds as I near the station where volunteers are verifying eligibility.

The woman at the sign-in table glances at me, starts the paperwork and asks for my driver’s license. She frowns as she sees that, despite a mane of graying hair, I am a few months shy of my 60th birthday. A few more questions reveal that I live alone and do my non-essential work from the safety of my computer, that I am not a smoker, and that I have no serious health conditions.

Turns out I’m still not eligible for a vaccination, and it remains unclear when I will be. “Maybe by late May?” the volunteer muses. I stifle an urge to cry as I turn for the exit. I have plans to visit my daughter over Mother’s Day for only the second time in more than a year. Will I still be unable to hug her?

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I didn’t feel any vaccine envy until last Saturday, but it hit full force for me that day. First, I saw a friend’s Facebook story reveal that he’d secured a vaccine as a teacher. He’s in his 30s and teaches English as a foreign language — online. If anyone questions his eligibility, I guess he can argue that maybe he’ll get an in-person job soon. Later in the day, I learned that two family members had also received their first doses of the Moderna vaccine. Their situations merited legitimately getting the shots despite their tender ages (26 and 55), yet I still felt twinges of jealousy.

Then on Tuesday, the CDC announced that vaccinated people can now safely socialize together indoors without masks. I’ve signed up to write thank-you notes to people who take part in my church’s annual pledge drive, and within hours of the CDC announcement, the organizer sent an email inviting people to her home for an indoor note-writing party next week. As I sent my regrets, I felt another pang of loss and a preview of the limbo that we last-to-be-vaccinated folks will endure this spring as social gatherings ramp up among the protected.

It’s still the early days. As I write this, 19 percent of Americans have received at least one dose of the vaccine to fight COVID-19, and one in 10 are now fully vaccinated. I’m genuinely happy for people who are managing to get the shot, and it does look like the pace of vaccinations is quickening. But I also know that, due to my age, self employment, and lack of risk factors, I will likely be waiting a long time. It’s not always easy to make peace with that, but at least it’s a short-term situation, and certainly shorter than the year I’ve already endured.

Our priorities as a society seem clear and indisputable: vaccinate older folks and people of color, because they’ve been hit hardest by the coronavirus’s lethality. Beyond that, it gets a bit fuzzier. People under 65 with underlying health conditions need the vaccine, but that’s a wide category, subject to squishy interpretation and self identification. We need to give people the benefit of the doubt and honor those who feel they can’t wait, especially since a constellation of factors may be in play.

How about a 60-year-old with minor health issues who is caring for an aging parent? How about a 35-year-old who has been housebound for a year with an immune disorder? These seem like no-brainer situations. Get them their shots, stat. Then again, how about younger people who have mild health issues? And who is most essential in the vast category of essential workers? I’d put front-line healthcare personnel and grocery store workers at the front of the line, followed by teachers so we can open in-person learning. But hairstylists and health club employees? Maybe, but it gets murky.

I volunteer twice a week as an online English teacher, and there is no way I’d stretch that fact into a qualifying condition since I can’t catch COVID on Zoom. On the other hand, I also volunteer a few times a month at a food bank, and it was after such a stint that I received word in December that I may have been exposed to the virus. (I quarantined, and I tested negative.) I understand the food bank’s full-time staff may soon be eligible for vaccination, and they should be. But what about those of us who drop in on occasion? Although it doesn’t seem right to push us forward in the queue, I could reasonably argue that I might expect to earn a few bonus points toward eligibility via this moderately risky unpaid work. For now, though, I’d rather my shot go to the older woman volunteering beside me who hasn’t been able to get an appointment.

There are stand-by lists aimed at distributing unclaimed vaccinations so they don’t go to waste. People sign up and get alerted by text if a shot is available and they can immediately go get it. Intrigued, I checked to see if such a program is available in Seattle. It is, but only for people 65 and up. Then there’s the phenomenon of people traveling to places with fewer restrictions in order to get their shots. Alaska is one of the only four states I haven’t yet seen, and everyone 16 and older there is now eligible for the vaccine. Hmmmm … like many of us, I can work from anywhere these days … but I guess you actually need to prove that you live there. Go figure.

It’s human nature to want to give ourselves the best shot at life. Eventually, there will be enough vaccine for everyone who wants it, and it sounds like that time is now mere months away. After a year without hugs and unmasked human contact, my vaccination can’t come soon enough. But I’ll wait my turn, hoping that the people who truly need this protection are getting it the soonest. I’ll also try to remember that my place near the end of the line is the result of my relative youth, reasonably good health and no small measure of privilege and good luck — and for all these things, I am grateful.

Thank you for reading Surely Joy. You can find the first Pandemic Postcards and my earlier writings here. If you’d like to get future posts via email, look for the link on the right side of this page (or maybe below this post, if you’re on a mobile device). I write for a living, so if you’d like to support my work, please hit the tip jar. Thank you.

Pandemic postcard #49: Reel life and real life

Julie Fanselow

Like most of you, I’m sure, it’s been nearly a year since I’ve been in a movie theater. Of all the activities I’ve missed most this past year, sitting in a big dark room with strangers ranks near the top. Here’s how I described the experience in a column I wrote many years ago:

Everyone knows why we go to the movies. To escape, right? And sometimes, there’s nothing like a few hours away from reality, bathed in darkness, completely consumed by a story that sweeps us far from our daily routines.

The last movie I watched in a theater was exactly like that. Portrait of a Lady on Fire took viewers to France in the late 18th century, immersing us in a forbidden romance. My act of seeing it in a theater on March 14, 2020, had a hint of danger, too, even with only a handful of people at the Saturday afternoon showing. Two days later, all theaters in Washington state shut down. Some are reopening now, but I’m not especially eager to go—except, perhaps, to a no-concession matinee where people need to stay masked the whole time, and that doesn’t sound like much fun.

Still, there’s a part of me that aches to see a film in a theater. That feeling was reawakened last weekend by Nomadland, a film currently in theaters and on Hulu that is about solitude and self-discovery amid community and hardship. I was captivated by its indelible characters, by its understated music and lovingly photographed scenes of the American West, and by its portrayal of resilience—so much so that I watched it again the next day.

From rom-coms to action epics, films sometimes serve as Rorschach tests, giving us a chance to see aspects of ourselves through the characters on the screen. We needn’t identify with a character to love a film: The weekend before last, I re-watched an old favorite, Harold & Maude. I thoroughly enjoyed it, yet I don’t see myself in either of its main characters. But I see much of myself in Fern, the central character in Nomadland, an uprooted woman in the residual stages of grief, a person near my age who enjoys the company of others yet is prone to wandering away from the pack. For that matter, I see myself in Dave, the other lead role, someone who is more of a people person than Fern.

Nomadland reminds us of what we are missing in 2021, as many of us who live alone mark the first anniversary of our last hugs. The film is a feast of human connection, from haircuts to campfires to stargazing parties, from breakroom conversations to Thanksgiving dinners. It made me deeply miss seeing people in person, but it was comforting to watch the people onscreen casually go about their lives, especially because—with the exception of lead actors Frances McDormand and David Straithairn—people in the film are playing themselves.

That’s yet another remarkable aspect of the film, how it blends real life with reel life. It shows that there is dignity in hard work, that 99 percent of people are essentially decent, and that everyone has a story. You only need to ask—and to listen. Nomadland also serves as a 108-minute meditation on why we decide to keep the things we hang onto, from homes to vehicles and jobs and relationships and stuff, and why we choose to let things go. It’s also about how people and things come back to us.

I could go on and on; Nomadland is a cinematic onion, revealing many layers and asking many questions without resorting to political debate or judgment. In the end, its central question seems to be: What makes a good life? If one version of the good life goes away, do we have the inner fortitude to make another one? Do we greet these changes as obstacles or opportunities? Can a restless and often difficult but ultimately free life be as satisfying as a settled one in a comfortable, well-furnished home? Is there a middle way?

We’re all living with versions of these questions in 2021, no matter what the past year—or decade—has thrown at us. I expect I’ll watch Nomadland many times over the coming years as I live into the answers.

Thank you for reading Surely Joy. If you enjoy my work, please consider sharing it with others.

Pandemic postcard #45: Screen saviors

Julie Fanselow

More than once since they began last spring, I’ve wanted to skip the Zoom vespers my church started amid the pandemic. “Screen fatigue is real,” we all say, and that’s true, but something keeps calling me back to this online congregation within a congregation, this constellation of kin who realize the value of a spiritual booster shot twice a month on Wednesday nights.

I especially had to force myself this week. The good news is I have a lot of paid work for the first time in more than a year. My brain is happy and my bank account will soon be too, but my back and neck and butt are not pleased to be spending long days in front of my computer again. My computer, such as it is; my desktop more or less died a few months ago, so my formal work station is now an ancient MacBook propped on a pile of books. It’s probably not the best long-term ergonomic solution, but it’s OK for now, as so many things are “OK for now” in this state of suspended animation in which we’ve lived for nearly a year.

So, wary of yet more screen time after an especially long work day, I decide to join vespers via my iPad, a good option when I want to be present but a little less tethered to the technology. The service is heavy, centered on a January-through-December remembrance of all that we lost in 2020, with many reminders that the toll of COVID-19 has fallen disproportionately hard on people of color and poor folks. I get up several times to do a few stretches. I assume the corpse pose on my floor for a while.

At long last, the litany is done. Our minister lights candles in memory of family and friends we’ve lost to the virus. (By this point in the pandemic, many of us have had that happen. I ask for a candle for Kelly, my friend who died last April.) The service has gone on for an hour and we are finally winding down when one among us says she wants to read a poem. And these days, who can deny a poem? So we take another minute, because that’s all it takes, to hear “The Patience of Ordinary Things” by Pat Schneider. It is beautiful, and once again, I am happy to have tuned in, happy to have these people and this poetry in my life, even via a small screen.

As with so many things in life, our technology can be both a blessing and a curse. The key, as always, is balance. During my now-long-again workdays, I get up to stretch as often as I can. I take walks, as often as not in a Seattle drizzle, because it’s worth it to be outside and breathe fresh air, even behind a mask.

As work re-asserts itself into a life that felt perfectly full in its absence, I can go days without checking social media. I pare back some of my online social calendar, which has grown robust over the past many months, begging “bandwidth issues.” I will miss something, but that’s OK. Ten months into this new way of being, we are all doing the best we can, and whatever we are doing is good enough.

“The Patience of Ordinary Things” can be read here. It’s also in Poetry of Presence, a 2017 volume I found a year later, shortly after Tom died. It is a beautiful anthology, worth having if you are “hungry for poems,” as a friend recently said. This week’s video is “Sanctuary” by Carrie Newcomer, also featured at vespers this week. Thank you for reading–and for sharing a small sliver of your too-much-screen-time with me.

Pandemic postcard #42: Back from the brink

Julie Fanselow

They filed back into the House a little before midnight Eastern Time, the young pages bearing boxes of electoral vote certificates, Vice President Mike Pence and members of the Senate in their wake. It was a powerful scene of rebuke to the insurrectionists who, hours before, spurred on by a pathological president, had stormed the seat of our democracy.

January 6, 2021, has already been sealed and seared in our consciousness as one of the most surreal days in American history. The day began with news that Democrats would take control of the Senate, as the Rev. Raphael Warnock became the first Black man from the South elected to the Senate and Jon Ossoff, 33, became the youngest person to claim a Senate seat since Joe Biden won weeks before his 30th birthday in 1972. Together with a tie-breaking vote from Vice President-elect Kamala Harris, their victories mean an end to the gridlock that has plagued Washington for many years.

The woman Warnock had narrowly defeated, Sen. Kelly Loeffler, began the day intending to object to the certification of electoral votes—that is, to continue upholding the conspiracy theories that the election was stolen, the same web of fiction that Trump continued to spin as he urged his shock troops to march down Pennsylvania Avenue from a White House rally on Wednesday. But the day’s events had compelled her to reconsider, she said, “and I cannot in good conscience reject these votes.”

What I saw on my phone a few hours ago. I’d turned off the TV after debate began on the objection over Pennsylvania’s electoral votes, but I woke up in the middle of the night wondering where things stood.

Loeffler was joined by men who had been enabling Trump far longer than she had, including Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham. In the end, all but a handful of Republican senators decided they’d had enough, and enough Republican House members joined their Democratic colleagues in voting to overrule the objections and certify that Joe Biden and Kamala Harris had won the election.

I know that many people who share my progressive views want to blame everyone who voted for Trump for yesterday’s events. I don’t agree. But I do hope that after yesterday, everyone who has supported Trump can look into their hearts and see what most of the Republican senators and many Trump staffers were finally able to realize yesterday: that our nation has barely survived four years of this president and we will be better off when he is gone.

Thanks for reading Surely Joy. I write for a living, so if you enjoy my work, feel free to hit the tip jar.

Pandemic postcard #40: Quarantine holiday jukebox

Julie Fanselow

The snow started falling in Seattle on Monday evening, just as the shortest day of the year came to an end. I took a little video that wound up having a bit of “Christmas in Jail” in the background (more on this later), but the song in my head at that moment was “I Believe in Father Christmas” by Greg Lake and Peter Sinfield. “They said there’d be snow at Christmas,” Lake sang in the 1970s. But in 2020, the snow fell on the solstice instead, and somehow that seemed more fitting in a year when we’ve learned how closely we are connected, to each other and to the Earth.

I looked to the sky with excited eyes ...

Holiday music is a deeply personal matter. Most of us have seasonal songs we cherish and others we’d be fine with never hearing or singing again, as well as songs that have gained shades of complexity as our lives unfold and our spiritual views evolve. I still enjoy singing Angels We Have Heard on High, Oh Little Town of Bethlehem, and other tunes that evoke happy memories of times spent caroling with my childhood church choir, even as I’ve come to love a wider palette of music that reflects the many ways people celebrate light coming amid the deepest darkness.

In that spirit, the rest of this week’s post is the Surely Joy 2020 holiday jukebox, with a selection of songs that may not immediately come to mind when you consider the sounds of the season. It’s accompanied by a longer playlist on Spotify, including many songs nominated by my friends when I solicited suggestions on Facebook this week. Enjoy and be well, and I’ll see you here next week with some final thoughts on what I’ve learned in 2020.

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Pandemic postcard #38: Simplicity made easy

Julie Fanselow

Item 1: The Minimalists have a new documentary on Netflix. Actually, you need to wait until Jan. 1 to watch it, but the trailer is out now.

Item 2: Netflix likes minimalism. The streaming service already showcased the work of Marie Kondo, whose tidying-up tips made her a star.

I’ll get back to those thoughts. First, though, welcome to Surely Joy’s new home! I had to make a quick move this week. Here’s how that happened:

Not my license plate, but I love it.

Last Saturday morning, I woke up and realized that my latest post hadn’t gone out to email subscribers. I’ve been blogging in various places since 2003, always favoring the simplest possible platforms, and my low-tech approach has served me well. Lately, though, I’d been frustrated with some typographical glitches in Google Blogspot—so when the email feed failed my readers and me last week, I decided to build a new website. “What the heck,” I thought. “I don’t have anything better to do today.”

So that’s what I did, and here we are. I’ve thought about moving all my Surely Joy content—or at least the first 37 pandemic postcards—over here, and I may eventually get around to that. But what I really want to talk about today is that word: content.

Content, noun. Stuff that people produce and buy to fill the insatiable demands of our consumerist culture. All the stuff clogging our online feeds and our homes.

Content, adjective. A state of being satisfied. I am enough. I have enough. You are enough. You have enough.

I think The Minimalists, Josh and Ryan, are basically good guys with genuinely helpful advice on paring down the possessions you already have. They refuse to sell ads on their website and their podcast, and that’s admirable. But they sure do sell themselves and their philosophy.

More power to them, but can you truly have a simple life with millions of followers, bestselling books, speaking tours (when those were a thing), and two Netflix documentaries? And if a key principle of minimalism is buying less stuff, why not release the documentary before the holiday shopping season rather than on New Year’s Day, to give people plenty of time to practice the idea of “enough” before adopting minimalism as a 2021 resolution?

As for Ms. Kondo, I haven’t read any of her books and I didn’t watch her Netflix series, but I know she’s all about sparking joy—a word I obviously cherish. So I will admit to having been a little bit appalled when I heard last year that she’d launched her own line of … stuff. I just took my first-ever peek at her website and, amid the gift guides, I see she is also offering a 10-lesson, 75-minute course in mastering her method. Just $39.99.

I get it. Everyone needs to make and spend some money in our world. But know this: You have everything you need to live a simpler life. You don’t need any more content to be content. You don’t need a guru, a method, or a teacher. And you don’t need this blog, though I am grateful you’ve spent a few minutes reading this, and that you’ve found Surely Joy in this new space.

We’ll meet again here next week. In the meantime, be content—the adjective, not the noun.

Thanks for reading Surely Joy. I write for a living, so if you enjoy my work, feel free to hit the tip jar.