On the Mountain during the Coronavirus

          Day is just dawning. A crescent moon has slipped over the mountain, shiny white in a pale blue sky just beginning to throw off the night. When I stepped outside for a piece of firewood from the front porch, I heard the twitter of spring birds. The songbirds haven't arrived yet, but the early twitterers lift my heart. Humpy Mountain, west-facing, is still dark. Left-over snow patches its facade here and there. The sky glows softly behind the mountain.

          Nothing in nature cares that the human world is in the clutches of a cruel virus. (What nature does care about is climate change, but that's another story.) Everything up here on the mountain is as usual. Even that I am here alone is not unusual. I am reminded of the days I lived in my little house, here on the mountain, for so many years without electricity. When a storm hurled its power over my house, I was fine. With my kerosene lamps and wood-burning stove, I never knew when there was a blackout down the road. Life was as usual up here on the mountain.

          The difference now is that I do know that the coronavirus is playing havoc with people's lives down in the valley and collectively with societies all over the world. Like everyone else, I have been affected, not directly by the disease but by its effects. Mike and I had to cancel a planned trip to New Orleans for a stove convention for him, which he was sorry to miss, and, for me, a chance to see what New Orleans is all about. We will cancel our late-April trip to New York, too, since even if we ourselves felt safe, what would we do there, with restaurants closed and events canceled? The New York Philharmonic, the Metropolitan Opera, the off-Broadway play—tickets bought and money down the drain. And I was so looking forward to being in New York City.

          In the face of things, it's not a big deal.

          One person says, "Why are we bothering with all these cautions? We're all going to get coronavirus, anyway." Another person buys fourteen loaves of bread and packages of meat that will last a year. 

          I am at neither extreme, taking precautions without panicking. I wash my hands. I have adequate supplies. I have no need to go into town or take public transportation or be in crowds, which, I understand, don't exist anyway.

          I held a teleconference for the board meeting I chaired yesterday. I talk twice a day with Mike, who is stuck at his house in town (for other reasons, but that, too, is another story). I have my usual work and activities here at my house. I walk up and down the mountain every day. I watch the grouse flowers come into bloom, listen for the birds, take solace and inspiration from the mountain. My family is safe. There is a lot to be grateful for.