Congregational singing

 Jim’s nephew, Caleb (David and Michelle’s oldest), flew in last Saturday night to spend the summer with us. He has an internship in Boston. The job is remote, but he is hoping to be able to go into the office at some point and see his co-workers. And I think he just wants to live in the Boston area (who wouldn’t?).

Sunday morning Caleb said he wanted to attend church with me. Attendance is capped, so I had to check with the executive secretary, who said there was a built-in cushion and it shouldn’t be a problem.

For the second week in a row, we were allowed to sing with the organ, albeit with masks on. Last week I could barely sing, a combination of a very rusty singing voice and the emotion of savoring an activity we haven’t been allowed to enjoy for fourteen months: congregational singing. This week my voice was a little stronger, but holding the cherished green hymnbook and singing still brought tears to my eyes.

Church attendance has been a constant in my life, my whole life. The first time I attended church in person during the pandemic, it felt strange and isolating. No hymnbooks and only every third pew occupied. Twenty-five people spread out in a seemingly cavernous chapel. Now every other pew is used and soon the attendance cap will be raised.

Asking permission for Caleb to attend highlighted the wonderful religious freedom I have enjoyed all my life and taken for granted until last year.

The weather was gorgeous, so we were able to meet outside and chat after sacrament meeting. I’m fully vaccinated, so I’m no longer worried about infection. The soul-numbing isolation is coming to an end. Hallelujah!

Dumb Thing with a Dumbbell

 Wednesday morning I did a dumb thing. I had just finished a bicep exercise with my 10-lb dumbbells and turned to look at my Nerd Fitness app to record my reps. I put the dumbbells on my straight-back chair and, you guessed it, one dumbbell came crashing down on my toe. It hurt! I squeezed the toe and after a few moments moved it gingerly, hoping no shooting pain would telegraph a report of broken bones. I was assured the damage was not great, but my workout was done for the day.

Replaying the event, I realized that my second thought (after the “This hurts a lot!”) was that I had put the dumbbell down carelessly (true) and that it had rolled off the chair. But that’s not possible: the dumbells have a hexagonal shape and can’t roll an inch. I had nearly missed the chair entirely in my thoughtless movement.

Rest assured the damage was minor. I cancelled my three-mile walk and didn’t even go out for a 5-minute one. I carefully arranged my feet as I got into bed.

The miracle occurred the next morning. Sleepy from the alarm interrupting my slumber, I walked into the bathroom and only later realized I hadn’t thought or needed to favor the foot. My body had started its natural healing process. I sport a lovely dusky bruise and the second joint is slightly swollen and tender. Yesterday I did a 3-mile walk.

The body’s healing doesn’t always prevail; David’s death is the most readily available example of that. But my dumb dumbbell incident highlights its wonder.

Grand Night for Singing (Notes from the Field)

 May 1st Jim and I headed out on the road. We drove straight through to Chicago, a thousand-mile drive. We spent four days with Jim’s nearly-ninety-two-year-old mother. Jim focused on helping her sort photos for inclusion in her life history. I made a delicious (and I do say so myself) carrot cake and took a walk around Hyde Park one day.

We’re both fully-vaccinated and today is Day Fourteen for me. I’m gradually getting used to the idea that I could be out in public without a mask and not inwardly cringe when someone invades my six-foot bubble. I still wear a mask when I see non-family members, to comply with regulations and show solidarity.

After enjoying a two-day ‘getaway’ to Antietam Battlefield and Harpers Ferry, where we walked a tiny bit of the Appalachian Trail across a railroad/pedestrian bridge, we came to southeast D.C. to spend time with our youngest son, Sam, his wife, Savannah, and dear little Eliza and Link.

I’m sitting out on their backyard deck, listening to a bird “who is bound he’ll be heard…throwing his heart at the sky!” The trees are in full leaf. The cherry blossoms are long gone and the last of the azaleas are browning while the roses open up. In the distance I hear the sounds of the highway, DC-295. Many years ago I was camping next to a rushing stream in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The water ran all night, of course, and sounded a lot like constant highway traffic. When I returned home the sound of Bedford St out my bedroom window took on a soothing character.

I’ve always been aware that Washington is at least a month ahead of Boston in spring. In the nineties, when our children were all at home, I would drive to suburban Maryland to visit my oldest brother, Steve, during April vacation. When we lived in New Hampshire, we would leave a landscape that had barely emerged from winter and as we drove south the signs of spring appeared along the roadside: yellow forsythia in Connecticut, flowering trees in New Jersey and a riot of azaleas, red, white, and pink, in Maryland. The reverse trip at the end of the week rolled the film backwards, but in New England once again, I had hope that spring was coming: I’d seen it in the south.

With vaccinations going apace, I have hope that things will be different this summer from last.

I remember my anxiety on March 12, 2020, wondering what a ‘lockdown’ would look like. Would we be required to stay inside? What about grocery shopping? As it turned out, we had it relatively easy. I could go on walks and hardly encounter anyone. My garden never looked so good: I hired a teenager and three of his younger sisters to work with me. And the lockdown was an opportunity to test our food storage. Based on counsel from our Church leaders, we’ve stored food since we were married. Our basement has a year's supply of calories: various dried beans, rice, wheat, flour, and canned goods. We lasted six weeks without a trip to the grocery store. I was pleased.

This afternoon on the deck is restorative. I don’t often make the effort to sit outside. I haven’t spent the time just sitting: I’m too restless for that. But I have looked up from my computer from time to time, soaking in the deep green foliage and the songbirds.

Early Rising

I’m a columnist for the Cannon Chronicle, a semi-annual newsletter of the descendants of Alan Munn and Mary Parkinson Cannon. I’m married to the editor of eight years, so I’ve got this plum job.

My recent column focused on meditation. Since the pandemic began I have attended a weekday meditation circle on Zoom, led by Khare, a dedicated DBSA Boston (Depression Bipolar Suport Alliance) facilitator and student of meditation. With few exceptions, I’ve been at my computer at 8:30 a.m. every weekday since April. I’ve seen great strides in my ability to sit still and be present.

In my column, I sheepishly admit that 8:15 a.m. is early to me these days. Then I defend myself: I’m retirement age, why not sleep in?

Early rising is a complicated issue for me. Much like my desire to take as few medications as possible, I’ve always seen it as a moral issue. “Early to bed and early to rise,” Benjamin Franklin wrote, extolling the virtues of early rising.

As a child, I loved to get up early. I remember in second grade getting up at 5:30 a.m. to go to morning Mass with my dad. Then I’d sit on a bench at the bottom of the stairs, navy-blue beret jammed on my white-blond head, and ferociously read Robinson Crusoe. (I was an aggressively good reader from a young age.)

When I was around 14, I would get up early on summer mornings and ride my bike all over the south side of Westfield, NJ. The smell of the fresh new day thrilled my heart and I reveled in enjoying a morning that everyone else was sleeping through.

Having manic depression (bipolar 1), I find myself always second guessing myself. Is my early rising virtuous or is it a harbinger of mania? Certainly a symptom of hypomania, that delicious state ‘below’ mania, is a lessened need for sleep. How does that work? Days and weeks of 6, 5, 4 hours of sleep with ever-increasing energy. A pretty stupendous crash at the end, but a crash of the mind, not the muscles and organs (aside from the brain).

So, there ‘tis, to quote the emperor in Amadeus. The virtue of my youth slams up against current medical advice. When I wake spontaneously at 5 a.m. these days, within seconds I have three thoughts: Did I take my meds? Do I need more? Can I handle this myself without meds?)