interaction

Are there “bad” graces? I understand there are bad sides, temperaments, natures, but not graces. Grace is a beautiful word, in the singular or plural. I like to think of grace as an intensely wise and serene humility. A balanced equanimity that keeps one hovering in the middle; not too high above nor too far below the norm. Appreciating all for all’s sake, not for an ego’s hunger to be fed. When I hear the word “grace” I envisionBotticelli’s work: “Primavera”, and the Three Graces within it.

The three Graces are sisters, dancing together and named for Pleasure, Chastity and Beauty. When I visualize the Three Graces, I see women bathed in a surreal light, dancing in the arms of one another, clothed (barely) in diaphanous gowns. It’s a calming image for me and one that recalls Florence / Firenze and the first time I saw the work in the Uffizi. Breathtaking, beautiful, colorful and his good Graces dancing in the Springtime between Mars (March) blowing away the clouds of winter, and Venus (April) hearkening the light and rebirth of Spring.

I love seasonal change and feel most alive at the start of a new season. I love pondering the weather that it will bring and the changes that can or cannot be imagined. It’s challenging to see seasonal change in Texas. I’ve lived here for six years, but the subtlety of seasonal change here is is almost invisible.

The year kind of unfolds slowly and being outside doesn’t help determine if it’s Spring or Fall. Summer is easy: think three digit temperatures. There is no Winter. I have to work harder at figuring it out, if I was interested in figuring it out. I’m not.

I’d rather dance with the good Graces, without caring about anything more than dancing. Maybe this is graceful wisdom: to know that dancing is sometimes the only way to break the earthly bonds that tie us to too much detritus, and instead let us move with nature and our souls to experience a higher state of mind. Dancing with the Graces, moving to invisible music, watching the seasons proceed and proceed again.

gracwes

I thought I always understood the nature of time: its fluidity, swift passage, slow unfolding. For some reason, I am gifted with a curious or even useful talent or parlour trick. If someone asks me the time (or the temperature), at any time of day or night, I can guesstimate it within 5 to 10 minutes or degrees without consulting a timepiece or looking outside. I can’t explain it. It’s freaky but does come in handy.

When I’m at the beach or upon waking, I’m as reliable as a clock and can position myself in the temporal universe after day dreaming to the sound of waves or finishing a restorative slumber (or restless night). And in the morning, I can dress accordingly, although I will double check the official temperature on one of my i-somethings just to make sure my interaction with the elements regarding dress is comfortable.

The passage of time right now is very difficult for me to maneuver. The COVID-19 virus has (or should have) put the country’s and most of the world’s inhabitants indoors, to avoid direct contact with people outside your family of those with whom you live. With that isolation order came a blank calendar, removal of appointments and rendezvous and travel that formerly provided the syncopation of the day.

When I was working, I’d relish looking at my schedule first thing in the morning and having blank blocks of time with no meetings or conference calls. It was a time to get caught up, or think, or read. I feared retirement would be a long empty block of unclaimed time.

But as I adapted to a new type of employment, (as well as a new locale to call home), my calendar started for fill in with appointments, social events, exercise, meditation, house “work”, TV binging and some premium nap time. I luxuriated in the freedom to do what I wanted when I wanted. And looked forward to my outside interactions.

Now, those are gone: dinner with friends, home entertaining, spontaneous movie dates, grocery and other shopping, haircuts, bodywork, facials, church and classes. I sincerely miss them all.

Yes, there’s contact via the “interwebs”, but seeing one’s own face on the screen creates a distraction and the interactions have just a pinch of duality that that cheapens the electronic face-to-face interaction. I miss the true face-to-face conversation. The loss of it really disturbs me more than I’d imagined it would.

What underlies it all is anxiety knowing that there’s no estimate of how long it (the new normal) is going to last. My “short-term” is now undefinable except in 24 hour segments.

My sense of the long term is undefinable. It’s like being in an Escher drawing: going up stairs that lead to more stairs with no passage to a destination point.

When that destination of the virus going away arrives, (how, I can’t fathom) it will be staggered on a sliding scale, depending on one’s comfort level with safety not being in numbers, or one’s critical need to get back to a paying job or one’s addiction to travel.

I don’t believe my meanderings in time as I knew it pre-COVID-19 will ever be the same: carefree. I believe I’ll always be suspicious of being out of my home and coming in contact with a stubborn remnant of the virus. I’ll hug, or maybe shake hands with reservation, or maybe not.

Human interaction is going to be changed regrettably to one of distance for the long term. For the short-term it’s gone and its return will be shaky and sputtering with halting jerks and hesitation.

It will be colored with caution and longing. And framed by bittersweet comparisons to a time before all of this weirdness, when a hug or a group photo or unbridled laughter or a series of sneezes existed as its own glorious moment in time when the action was unencumbered by fear or distance or second guessing. When “being” in the present and in the presence of others was gloriously taken for granted.