A fragile state

Heading out for my beach walk at dawn this morning, I noticed that the flag near the Lido Beach Pavilion was at half mast, honoring the loss of the police officers involved in the siege on the Capitol building in Washington, D.C. last week.

Actually, to be more accurate, the flag was at quarter mast, it’s bottom edges dipping so low as to brush the head of anyone who might pass beneath it.

That extra foot or two of descent was probably just due to a miscalculation by the employee charged with raising and lowering it rather than executed intentionally, as a dark commentary on the state of our national anomie. But it seemed like a pretty apt metaphor. It’s hard to approach a lot of things right now with a sunny “glass (or mast) half full” attitude.

Last week’s challenge to the strength of our democratic principles and our commitment to preserving them comes at a time when we are reeling from the impact of an historic year that has strained most of us in one way or another — be it our health, finances, work, relationships or emotional well being. Like a cancer patient facing radiation treatments just after finishing chemotherapy, the shock felt like a swift kick to the solar plexus when we were already finding it difficult to stand up straight. What we’re craving most is stability and familiarity. What we got instead was yet another test of our strength and sense of serenity.

I’ve been noticing the impact of this year of unmagical thinking even within my own family. My siblings and I have done our best to keep in touch through the wonders of technology, despite the miles between us and travel restrictions that have prevented any rendezvous. But the other day, after my nephew in London circulated the latest video of his two young daughters gleefully dancing around and singing in their childish yet aristocratic-sounding British accents, instead of responding with her usual enthusiastic cheerleading, my sister (the grandma) instead wrote: “Weepy this a.m. These videos are a godsend, but I want so much to be nearer by.”

Nor have I escaped the doldrums myself. The combination of the tense Presidential election buildup and its hostile aftermath, the botched COVID vaccine rollout. and my coinciding departure from daily newspaper journalism after more than 40 years, pitched me into the kind of depression I haven’t experienced for many years. As is my inclination, I started withdrawing — not answering the phone, pushing away all offers of solace or encouragement, taking long solitary walks where I could blame the cold for the tears on my cheeks. The burden of my life transition felt heavier because I had arrived at it already depleted and disheartened.

Starting this newsletter and seeing the response to it has helped lift the cloud and given me direction and inspiration. But I’m still walking around a bit like someone playing that childhood game of carrying an egg balanced on a spoon. Don’t touch me! When someone asked me how I felt yesterday, the word I finally came up with was “wobbly.”

And when so many of us are already feeling wobbly, it’s important to keep in mind that it doesn’t take much to turn the wobble into a crash and burn. A sharp word, an angry grimace, a sarcastic remark on social media, a political tirade…when you’re already close to breaking, sometimes that’s all it takes. It would behoove us all to remember that in the inscrutable days ahead.

At the end of my walk, I came upon a mother and her young daughter, who admiringly eyed my Ziplock baggie of sand dollars. (This sand dollar collecting has become somewhat of an obsession for me during the pandemic; on my “wealthiest” day I found over 200, and I rarely leave the beach without at least a few. My latest idea is to paint my bathroom the color of sand and cover the walls with them.)

“Are those sand dollars?” asked the girl, who looked to be about 5. “You’re so lucky! I’ve never found one!”

“Would you like one?” I asked, carefully fishing out the largest from my bag. I put it on her open palm, adding, “you have to be careful with them, they break really easily.”

As I gave her Mom suggestions on the best areas of the beach to hunt, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the shell fall from the little girl’s hand and instantly break into a dozen pieces on the hard sand.

She looked stricken, so I quickly pulled out another one and said again:

“See what I mean? You have to be extra gentle with them. You might not think so since from the outside they’re whole, but they’re actually very fragile inside.”

I watched them walk away, the girl taking small careful steps, as if to isolate the impact of her feet from her upper body, never taking her eyes off the shell in her hand.

That’s kind of how I picture all of us walking around right now, after this year that has so tested our human fiber. Like so many sand dollars tossed in the surf that somehow managed to make it to the shoreline intact, but are still so fragile that even the slightest jostle threatens to shatter us into a million shards.