“It turns out that Americans were not lazy couch potatoes this whole time. All that sitting on our asses and watching T.V. was actually training to save the world.” –Stephen Colbert

Greetings My Dear Ones,

Well, I’m really having a ball running my own business! Guess who won the prize for “Employee of the Week” again? (hint: also the same silly arse as the “Boss from Hell”) Sadly, despite a mere three weeks of great success and hard work, I’ve had to lay myself off. You might not know this, perhaps you haven’t heard, but there’s a bit of a nasty virus going around…

I’m hearing tales of woe from would-be customers I have spoken to over the ‘phone. There’s the bride and groom who needed me to alter his suit and hem her dress. They have no idea when they can get married now. There’s an older gentleman who cannot pick up the trousers I patched and hemmed for him because he is terrified of infecting his wife who has cancer. Young girls who enquired about having prom dresses altered will now not be going to proms. It’s beyond disorienting for me to think of a Spring without proms and a St. Patrick’s Day without gigs in bars yet I walk outside and see the bulbs pushing their shoulders through the snow. Silently, without glitter or fizz, Spring is coming anyway.

Like many of you, I’ve also taken up new hobbies—like using my rudimentary math skills to interpret graphs that resemble dinosaurs with pancreatitis and watching Youtube videos showing how to make your own homemade bidet out of a soda bottle with a hole poked in it—for that ghastly moment we run short of loo roll.

An extremely Wicked part of me has been plotting, with all the self-serving avarice of those who seek to profit from disasters such as this—how to use my spare time and seamstress skills to come out with a specialty line of high-end, monogrammed re-usable Turd Rags. Each member of the family will get his/her own name and color, with the yellow ones for guests just emblazoned with a cheery, anonymous “Shit Happens.” (Offended, Prudence sniffs haughtily and wants this modified to say “Doo-doo Occurs.” She also wants them called “Botty Blotters.” She thinks “turd” is a vile word.) This venture will be so lucrative and people will enjoy using this line of “Bell Bottom” Products so much that One day, when you visit my mansion on a hill dotted with prized Highland cattle and heritage sheep, you will hear docents in Historic Clothing say in hushed tones, “here in her beloved Green Mountains is where she built her empire in the aftermath of the Covid-19 pandemic. She made her millions as the Benevolent Empress of Turd Rags and created trust funds for homeless Jack Russells and Scottish Fiddlers. Can you imagine? People used to wipe their arses on processed wood pulp? She changed all of that and she herself farted through up-cycled silk all the rest of her days…” (Sigh…) But I digress…

In between fantasizing about how I can make a swift fortune while all my gigs are cancelled and my shop is closed, I’ve been thinking of a night, approximately thirteen years ago: I was putting a small boy to bed when a newly-adopted Jack Russell (who had four legs then) jumped up on the quilt, wiggled all over, and then tucked himself into a tidy circle next to the boy’s chest, under his arm. The boy stroked him softly and asked me if the dog knew that this was his home yet. I answered with theatrical gravity: “Yes. This dog definitely has decided this is his Forever Home. He just told you he loves you. When you love the people you are with, that’s your home.” The boy was curious.

“How can you tell? I didn’t hear him say that!” he said.

I continued my air of grand importance. “Because I happen to be fluent in Dog, I understand ninety percent of what a dog has to say at any time of the day or night.” The boy’s eyes opened wide.

“You speak…DOGLISH?” he asked incredulously.

“Indeed I do,” I admitted lavishly, anxious to extend the mothering mystique that already included eyes in the back of the head and the ability to “see” lies as black spots on the tongue.

“But they don’t use words!” he insisted, “How can that be?”

“They don’t need to use words,” I said. “They use their whole bodies. Just watch them. Noses are for questions; tails are punctuation marks; it’s actually rather simple. After a while, you realize they don’t have more than five or six things to say anyway.” He laughed, delighted with the idea that an animal could communicate. I said, “If you pay attention, you’ll be fluent in Doglish in no time.” He paused. I thought that was the end of it but no, not for his clever little mind. He frowned.

“But that just means you understand them. How do they hear what we are saying? Do they learn our words? If I tell him I love him now, will he understand?” His seven-year-old mind had worked out the difference between receptive and generative language, though he did not have the vocabulary to discuss it in those terms.

“Dogs may learn a few of our words—like they usually learn words associated with food, going outside, going for a walk, potty time… We will certainly teach him those words but he’s more likely to be watching our bodies, feeling our touch, listening for tone and energy rather than our language. By the way, what language to we speak?” He looked confused. I tried to help him but couldn’t resist tricking him.

“If the people in Finland speak Finnish, and the people in Ireland speak Irish, and the people in Spain speak Spanish, what do you think the people of America speak?” He scrunched up his small face, rolled his eyes as if the answers were written on the upper shelf inside his forehead, and then smiled coyly.

“Selfish?” was his tentative response. My laugh exploded so hard it alarmed the little dog who was just drifting off to sleep. The boy had no idea why I thought this was so funny.

“Can you just tell him I love him?” he asked, when my giggles subsided.

“Well, I can teach you how,” I said. “First, stroke his ears very gently. Animals rely on their keen hearing to alert them to danger. An animal that allows you to touch his ears feels safe enough to let that go for a minute. Then put your head on his head and rest it there without pressing. Send the energy of loving him through your body and just breathe next to him. He will feel safe and loved.” He did as I said and the puppy cuddled closer, closing its eyes and sighing.

“Can you say you love me in Doglish too?” He asked. I lay down next to him and put my head on his head and rubbed his ears gently between my thumb and forefingers, while he licked his chops and pawed and pretended he was a dog. “This feels amazing,” he growled, “How many other animals can you speak?”

“I’m pretty fluent in horse, sheep, and goats; I speak a little bit of cow and a smattering of chicken. I have enough rabbit and cat to get by in a pinch.”

“How about Boy?” he asked. “Do you speak Boy?”

“Not so much,” I admitted. “But you are teaching me every day.”

_____________

I think about the innocence of that time, years ago, as I worry now about that Boy, whom I love so very much. Will he speak enough “Self-ish” to wash his hands, stockpile enough beans, keep himself isolated and safe? How will we (all) say we love each other now? Love, as the animals teach us, is very little about what we Say and everything about what we Do. I marvel at how circumstances always seem to place us at the crossroads of Changes that inspire either our growth or resistance. What will we DO? Can we trust that others will do it too?

The most selfish thing we can do is try to be with those we love when it is not safe for them. The most loving thing we can do for others is keep ourselves to ourselves. The ironies (as well as the wrinklies) are convoluted and intense but boil themselves down to the most interesting interpretation of the Golden Rule that I have ever witnessed.

Basically, we must treat ourselves Well (quite literally) in order to save “others.” We must give up our nasty habits of sneezing and coughing into our hands and then using those same hands to pick our noses and extend friendship greetings to our friends. (Prudence gags) Hugging our family members close, inhaling their familiar scents, while breathing moist garlic breath down their necks and cheeks is now frowned upon. “It should be anyway,” mutters Prudence, who views garlic breath as an act of aggression. “No more “farmer’s hanky” for the farmers either!” she adds shrilly.

The facts, as I understand them, are that many hundreds of thousands of people, OUR people, in our beloved country, in our beloved world, on our precious planet, have just received a death sentence. We know not who and we know not when. We must stay in our homes, anxiously washing everything from hands to doorknobs, so that people can get sick (and die) at a pace convenient for our medical establishment whose personnel, in the face of regrettable shortages, is going to have to be more heroic and self-sacrificing than usual. We need to sicken slowly so that we can share limited resources and let those who must die do so with dignity and the best care they can get, given the circumstances.

For those suffering from survivor guilt, the good news is that taking time off, meditating, spending time alone, taking walks, reading, having leisure time to rest, create, or play is nolonger considered Slacking. It’s now a Patriotic Duty. Unlike previous generations, we are not being asked to die for our fellow men and women, we are being asked to LIVE--to eat mindfully, build our immunity, minimize our own risk. No trudging through Valley Forge with bloody rags for shoes for this generation! No… Our cruel fate involves watching “The Great British Bake-Off” while stuck at home in small groups of humans we either chose for ourselves as eternal companions or created one night after a few too many Margheritas…

Now, more than ever, we must be the guardians of each other’s light. There is a big difference between living in Fear and being wisely Careful—i.e. full of Care for others. We must be Clear and On Purpose. Courage is not the opposite of fear; Love is. When we make Love (not fear) our guiding principle, we pave the way for miracles.

This crisis, like any, is bringing out both the best and the worst in us. Some use their gift of Free Will to choose to stampede shops, pawing the earth with their hooves and harrumphing because there is no more tofu (just kidding, I mean guns and toilet paper). Bless these frantic souls. They think this is only about them. They are like my dear sheep, running in circles, bleating and butting when they discover I don’t have an endless supply of oatcakes in my pockets. Others among us rise higher. I am in awe of the musicians I know who are organizing online concerts and ceilidhs and sharing music from their homes. A wonderful storyteller I know is putting out a table of free books in front of his home and organizing conference calls to tell children stories over the phone. Artists, writers, poets, and crafters are using this time to channel exquisite creativity and beauty as a balm. We have Choices. Share your Loveliness, not your fear.

Look on the bright side, My Darlings, now is a great time to practice social-distancing instruments like Bagpipes and Accordions and to wear all those clothes you really shouldn’t be seen wearing in public! Enjoy those unitards, lederhosen, leather hot pants, and corduroy pinafores. If they don’t fit after stress-eating buckets of hoarded beans and rice, I’ll be open for business as soon as it’s safe. That is, if I still have to work after making my millions in Botty Blotters…

You may not be within the reach of my arms any time soon but you are ever within the reach of my heart and prayers. I love you so much. Wash your hands; clean your house; give yourself the great big hug I wish I could.

Yours aye,

Nancy