It has been over a week since I journaled, reflecting the fact that I've learned to insulate myself from the COVID-19 situation. I've been spending less time following the numbers. You know what numbers I'm talking about: Confirmed cases in the world, in the US, in my state, in my county--and the corresponding numbers of deaths. The morbidity rates from country to country and state to state.
The 20 million people abruptly out of work, filing for unemployment, waiting to receive their first checks (an unemployment check, or the promised support from the federal relief bill).
I'm not watching Trump's daily variety shows.
I'm not watching Cuomo, either, though many find his leadership comforting.
For weeks, I had been laboring under a sustained flight-or-fight response--the brain's normal response to danger.
Concentration was often impossible.
The projects, people, schedules, and action items that comprise my work, normally arrayed in my imagination and memory like CIA agent Carrie Matheson's walls that visually depict targets, assets, subjects, relationships, hierarchies, and the directions in which money flows; as indicated by photographs, a color-coded cat's cradle of yarn; heavily inked arrows, circles, Xs; and scrawled names and designations, like "Bambi: Cleaner."
The logic and order of my mind-wall had been steam-cleaned by my flight-or-fight mode of brain.
This forced me to rely only on my notebook, an endless list of memory clues, with asterisks to demarcate action words (something that needs to be done).
I'd stare, shell-shocked, at the list in my notebook, desperately working to connect a few words to their larger context. Each notation was a key to one of many doors, to one of many rabbit holes that pepper the landscape of my work life.
Over 20 years ago, a publisher told me that what he liked best about our market was the fact that it was a small and finite universe, one that he could know it in its entirety. He could hold it cradled in his mind.
My uncle describes this phenomenon as "surrounding the subject."
I never thought, back then, that I would absorb that same universe in anything approximating the measure to which the publisher had absorbed that universe. But, over 20 years, quite a bit of that finite world gradually crowded onto my radar.
But the fight-or-flight (or flight-or-fight) response devours the familiar landscape like a storm.
I tried to refocus my mind by attempting to tackle some of my own small problems: A raccoon taking up residence in the loft, and a fat pony that could wriggle out of a grazing muzzle like Houdini could wriggle out of fifty yards of nautical chains in handcuffs.
By Sunday, the result of my quest to relocate a raccoon was that I had managed to live-trap a cat.
All problem-solving efforts ended in defeat.
On Tuesday, the vet came to vaccinate the horses (this is done every spring).
As part of the service, the vet scores each horse's body condition on a scale from one to nine: One is starvation-skinny, and 9 is morosely obese.
The two big horses got 5s, which is good.
Cooper, the pony(slash)mini-horse, got a NINE. (9.)
Frankly, I think that's a little unfair. I mean, it really depends on whether you view Cooper as a mini-horse or a Shetland Pony.
I view him as a Shetland Pony, which ponies have pot-bellies and weigh significantly more than mini-horses.
For a Shetland, Cooper is not unreasonably chubby.
For a mini, okay, he's a 9.
Anyway. The new grazing muzzle arrived yesterday. It is supposed to be the very last word on grazing muzzles: Pony-proof.
I spent an hour yesterday adjusting it to his face and making various alterations.
Finally, he would tolerate it.
Finally, it stayed on his face.
They say it is comfortable and light.
But he looks like Hannibal Lecter.
I discovered another small problem this week: While I was not paying attention, my son's online education ran off the rails.
My 16-yr-old son's productivity these past several weeks approximated my own dysfunction and incapacity. He had gotten absolutely nothing done. Nada.
It was these personal challenges that refocused my attention: away from the numbers, the stories, the unfolding tragedies, the lives set adrift, any imminent danger....
I am vaguely aware of what's going on in the world, but I am not following it as closely as I was.
I am not following it, but I know where it is. I take a quick peek, occasionally.
This is how I am acclimating to the weird new world: by looking at it through half-closed eyes--by squinting, shielding my view as if reality were a disturbing, gross, or violent scene in a movie I'm watching on Netflix.
I am proactively parenting.
I am checking on the pony to make sure that his muzzle is properly on, has not become wedged between his jaw and his mouth.
During my evening barn chores, I listen for any tell-tale signs that the raccoon is still in residence, or has packed up and moved out. With the scrambling of small claws, a fluffy tail disappears into the hollow of a corner of the barn's sloped roof.
A squirrel? I'm hoping it's a squirrel.
It would be nice for it to be a squirrel.
I make up my mind that it's a squirrel. Another problem solved.
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