My father-in-law is 88 and my son is without a car (or a license!) at 25.  Today Himself and I put on our gloves and masks and shopped for both of them.  I pushed one cart and pulled the other.  Himself did the shopping for us, so he only had one.  It took all the courage I had to walk through the doors of the store.  I want this to be the last big shop for weeks.  We felt as though we were landing on the moon. The next few weeks are supposed to be the peak of the virus, which is spreading faster than anything we have ever seen.  I want to be able to stay safe inside.  If even inside is safe.

The shortages aren't as bad as they have been for many things, although disinfectant wipes and sprays, toilet paper and paper towels might as well be fairy tales from a simpler time.  But there was meat and bread and pasta and cookies.  I wish we'd stopped for cookies. There isn't the selection we are used to, and for  many things we had to be more flexible than we usually are.   At least it's done, and we are very lucky, because we will eat well for the next two to three weeks. The third week might be beans and rice every night, but I'm not fussy.

Somewhere in aisle three I began to panic. It wasn't a full-blown anxiety attack, but it was enough to make me feel disoriented and not a little dizzy.  My nitrile gloves gripped the handle of the cart.  Like everyone else, the weirdness of the last few weeks and the thought of the weeks to come are shaking me. The whole world has changed in a wink and it's going to take some adjusting to the new one.  

On the bright side I'm getting better at the computer, especially at Zoom.  If that's what I have to do to see the faces of family and friends, then I will learn how to master it.  My Christmas tree is still up and still lit (and still baffling my neighbors, I'm sure).  Son Number One's teddy bear, along with a few other stuffed animals and dolls, are still in my front windows so the little kids on the block can go hunting for them on their walks with their parents.  I am trying to put on a happy face.  We have to be positive in spite of the newscasts.  We have to be hopeful in spite of the betrayal by the president in leaving us unprepared. We have to be grateful because of the amazing people who are out there in the front lines, risking their lives to keep us safe (if confused and annoyed) in our homes.  For the nurses and doctors, the cashiers and mail carriers, the small business owners and the teachers we have to be so very, very grateful.

I know the calendar says April.  I've seen daffodils and forsythia, robins and cardinals.  There is even a magnolia tree in blossom down the street.  But for some reason I cannot get over being cold clear through to the bone.  The trees haven't heard the news of Spring yet, and although some are struggling to put forth a leaf bud here and there, the overall impression I'm getting is November.  Now this could be related to what's going on around here.  No one is in a particularly cheery mood and we're all bracing for worse yet to come.  There is more to this, though.

Just as November is known for its lack of light and leaves and general grace, it is a dreary and depressing month because we know what's coming.  Maybe that's what this is.  We know what is coming too, and it's not Christmas.  In fact there is a feeling of mourning in the air, whether we have lost anyone or not.  It's a mourning for normality.  It's a mourning for habits and familiarity.  It's a  mourning for the luxury of being able to take everything we have for granted.  OK, the weather has been windy and cold and damp, which isn't helping much either.  I suppose the cold has kept some people at home who would normally be out there standing less than the advised six feet apart, so that's good at least.  I don't enjoy walking in this weather, although I've been forcing myself to do it.  To be honest, Himself has been more or less forcing me to do it for my own good.  I appreciate it but don't enjoy it.  It's too weird out there.  It's too quiet.  

As we "hibernate" to a degree in November, so we are "hibernating" now, each of us in our little lair, withdrawn and quiet and eating too much in preparation for the long stretch ahead.  I don't know what the bears eat, but for me it's usually cookies or chocolates and that will show up soon, and I don't care much about it at the moment.  We need comfort food, but Sara Lee doesn't make whatever it is that will make me feel cozy again.  No macaroni and cheese, or beef stew, or tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich is going to make me unclench my jaw or loosen my shoulders.

The only warmth I'm feeling lately comes from talking to people I have too long neglected.  I find myself picking up the telephone more often instead of sending e-mails.  I want to hear the voices of the people who know me, who care about me, who worry about me.  And I want them to hear my voice, too.  A friend of mine who was deported to China through no fault of his own, sent me a few masks to wear to the grocery store.  He is more worried about me than he is his own situation.  That's pretty heart warming stuff.  The girlfriend he was forced to leave behind drove half an hour to leave them on my front step and then drove away.   There are many stories of kindness out there.
I need to warm my chapped-from-too-much-washing hands over the embers of those acts of kindness.  That might warm the chill in the center of my soul and make a crocus pop through the hard soil of my fear.

I have been Susie Sunshine.   I have been the queen of lemonade out of lemons.  I have been sewing curtains out of the silver linings of all these clouds.  But today I hit the wall.  The thought of going to the supermarket to get food is freaking me out.  The last two trips were OK.  The stores were pretty empty at the hours we went.  We found plenty of food that we wanted.  We even found toilet paper last time.  But I don't want to go on Thursday.  Even during Senior Hours.  I want to hide in my house and come out sometime around Memorial Day.  

But my father-in-law needs food. So I'll go one more time.  Maybe it's because it's been two weeks since I've seen my friends or hugged my kid.  Maybe it's because Himself lost his job last week, like thousands of other people.  Maybe it's because of the number of people who still think Donald Trump is a genius.  The whole world feels fragile and I'm about to lose it.

I should be grateful that I have a home to quarantine in.  And I am.  I am aware of the wonderful people in the supermarkets, in the hospitals, in the gas stations, delivering mail.  They are heroes.  They are on the front lines.  I worry about the homeless, and the people who are jammed into tiny unsafe apartments. I haven't forgotten the children still in cages. I am lucky.  But I am having a really tough day today and I am afraid.

I will turn to prayer.  I will write some poetry and read some. I will shake this feeling of doom after a good night's sleep, at least for a while.  But tonight, just tonight, I am afraid.

I slept late.  The rain didn't invite me to go walking, so except for a quick trip to the pharmacy for medication (and chocolate bunnies at reduced price) I've been in the house.  It was kind of a do-nothing day and then Himself decided to start "tidying".  The challenge is to find twenty-five things each day to throw away.  I started with one of the three cabinets in the bathroom and filled a plastic trash bag in less than a half an hour.  What on earth is happening to me?

It would have been nice to read a book, but I'm actually spending so much time in the house that the dust bunnies (OK, dust dragons) have begun whispering to me.  This is an interesting turn of events!  If I stay stuck in here for as long as they are predicting I could eventually (I hope) invite people over for dinner!  Having this much time at home with no "escapes", i.e. movies, or restaurants, or visits with friends, is bringing out a domesticity I have never suspected lurked within me.  It started with my beautiful new fireplace which was finished two days after I started working from home and one day before life as we know it changed on this planet.  It used to be a blah yellow brick thing with a thin white marble mantel.  Now it's all rough-hewn wood and rounded stones, with a decidedly "Snow White" vibe.  I smile at it when I come through the door.  This is so not me.

That's one more positive thing I will notice about this enforced isolation.  Facets of my personality I either never knew I had, or which have evolved on their own when I wasn't looking, are showing up.  I don't believe I have turned into a "wisdom figure", but I've begun faking it, which apparently is bringing some people comfort, so that's almost as good.  In fact, all this baffles me as much as it does everyone else.  There's no telling when this will end.  There's no telling who will be a victim.  There's no telling if this period of solitude will change people for the better or the worse.  The only certainty is that there will be a change when this is over, because we're all in our cocoons right now.  I'm planning on coming out a butterfly, myself, but I wouldn't be surprised by a certain number of grumpy caterpillars who refused to evolve.  Well, we shall see.

We have many friends we hold dear.  Two sisters in particular, who share our political views and spoil us with fabulous dinners on an embarrassingly frequent schedule, have become a huge part of our social life.  And DAMN I miss seeing them.  We text.  We talk on the phone.  But it's not the same as sharing their wild stories over perfectly concocted martinis.  I am sad. :(
Tonight, however, we employed the technology of the 21st century (which I usually find overwhelming and extremely suspect) to have a "video visit".  They had their martinis.  We had our white wine.  Himself accidentally (it had better have been) put "bunny ears" and little pink noses on ourselves, which he later undid, but other than that it was a lovely "visit".  Which made me stop and think; what IS a "visit".  We could see them both.  We could hear them both.  We all had our little "drinkies" (Lent having been declared "over" by me when we went into isolation), so why didn't it scratch the itch?  It's not as if we touch them when we visit them.  OK, we are prone to the hello/goodbye hug and kiss on the cheek.  But during the evening we pretty much just chat.

There is something about breathing the same air as the people we care about that is pure magic.  There is a magic to being in the real presence of the people we love. This is why we're all going a little nuts these days. That hunger is not being fed.  I think this also ties into why I'm missing being able to go to Mass.  There is something about being in the Presence that feeds me.  We have a thousand hungers nowadays that are going unfed.  This "social distancing" is possibly the hardest and also the most interesting thing I've ever tried to do.

I know people are dying in droves due to this virus.  So are our mindless expectations of what our lives are supposed to be.  We are all taking an inventory of what is important to us, and some of the answers are surprising.  When there is no restaurant or movie theater or pub to escape to, where do we go when it all gets to be too much?  We are forced to endure our own company and to think about what we  are doing and why.  Whom do we love?  What is there about them that we miss?  Why is this panic rising at the thought that nothing we know will ever be the same again? We are all standing naked before ourselves and facing, often for the first time, who we really are, what we really care about, and (here's the kicker) that none of this will last forever, including us.

I have pretty much come to grips with the fact that I will never know what it's like to live in a really clean house.  I always think I'll have time to get to those tasks I keep putting off.  This virus has done me a favor by showing me that I do not have all the time in the world, and whatever it is that I feel is truly important had better be given attention right now.  It won't be the house.  But I ache for the presence of my children and my friends.

We all come to this mad tea party with different baggage.  What frightens me wouldn't cross your mind as a problem.  What keeps you up nights surprises and confuses me.  We are such complex people, and we are the products of all the experiences we have had and the choices we have made, both good and bad.  I will admit that the bad choices usually wind up being exponentially more educational, (and often more fun) but that's who we are.

We are each dealing with this very anxious time in the history of the world in the very best way we know how.  Some of us are afraid of our own death or illness.  Some fear the death or illness of the people we love.  All of us are suffering from being separated from our support system at the very time when we need it most.  We can't change the situation, but we can change our chances of surviving it, both physically and mentally.  From the physical point of view, it has been proven by scientists that we need sleep, good hygiene, healthy food, and a painful but necessary distance from almost everyone, including those dearest to us.  The mental and emotion survival is a little trickier.

I have a large number of friends, both male and female, who live alone. A couple are divorced, a few are widowed, some are celibate clergy, some just never found "the one" and some just prefer it that way.  I love them all, and sometimes I feel almost guilty for having a wonderful husband and sons I genuinely like and admire. I've always known I was lucky.  Until this enforced isolation I never realized how much.  It is so important to have someone to share the fear with, someone to listen to, someone who listens.  That's where we all come in.  

I use Face Book a lot.  In fact when I die I expect to be told the number of hours I wasted with my nose pointed at the screen.  That should be punishment enough to make up for some sins.  But it does have its uses, and this time is one of them.  Reach out to your friends who are on their own.  Let them know that they are thought of, that someone cares about their fears, even if they don't share them.  Confide your own fears and allow yourself to be comforted.  It is a gift to reveal our humanity to each other, to give a friend the privilege of bringing peace, if only for a few moments.  Allow those who love you to give you that gift. Allow those you love to give you that gift.

Take a break from the news.  You can't change it, and it's depressing at the moment.  Spend the time instead talking to a friend.  Listen to some beautiful music.  The Metropolitan Opera is streaming nightly gems for free to help us get through this. Read an amusing book.  Write something yourself, a poem, a story, a journal of how you feel.  It's empowering.  There are things we can do to survive this time spiritually intact.  And we don't have to do them alone.  No one should  have to.

Not that I'm a huge fan of Chinese food, but I should let you know that we had it at our wedding.  My tastes have evolved a bit over the years, but only to the extent that I don't do fried food (except for Peking Ravioli or "pot stickers" because, well, you just have to.  Steamed is NOT the same) and I have fallen under the luscious spell of meatless egg foo young.  Lots of it.  And chicken with broccoli, which is probably a health food.  And garlic eggplant.  That's a vegetable.  Spicy green beans?  Sigh.

This is the latest thing to drive me crazy.  Is it safe to pick up take-out at the local place where they know my name and try not to laugh at my pathetic attempts to speak Mandarin? (Not a lot.  Just useful phrases like, "How are you?" or "Thank you" or "Chill out, man!" or "Hot Guy!")  Or am I better off making dawn raids at the supermarket during the "gray hours" and I refer to hair, not the color of the sky.  They both seem pretty risky to me.  But one of them has my favorite feast at the end.  

Every decision we make must be weighed in the wake of this dangerous virus.  WW (formerly "Weight Watchers") talks about mindfulness while eating.  We are mindful when walking down the street, when getting the mail out of the letterbox, when dropping off a package to a friend's porch.  We are mindful of the news (OK, I'm listening a whole lot less lately and feeling a whole lot better).  We flood the internet with stories of kindness and generosity, or with funny memes, trying to lift our own and others' spirits, yet knowing there is nothing funny about any of this.  It is deadly.  And it's almost here for real. And we don't even know what "it" is yet. Not really.  

I think I could cope a lot better with some Kung Pao shrimp and a fortune cookie.

Being home is no problem.  I like home.  It's not knowing when I can get together with my friends that I have difficulty with.  The days are flying by, with work keeping me very busy.  I haven't done any game playing, book reading, or house cleaning. I do find that I'm looking forward to and feeling slightly guilty about the evening stroll after I've signed off the computer. It feels so daring to walk out into the fading spring sunlight.

The days are getting longer, the crocuses are up (and some gone by), the daffodils are doing their thing, and the forsythia is lovely.  This is my favorite time of year.  The birds, at least, are ignoring the whole Covid-19 debacle and just doing their birdie thing.  There's a lot to enjoy.

The uncertainty is disconcerting, though.  We've never been through anything like this.  Any of us.  It feels very much like being trapped in the pages of a Stephen King novel.  So far we have not much to complain about.  There's food, the house is warm, I have good company.  It is just the weirdness of the whole situation that gnaws at me.

If we had a date when it would be over and life would resume the way it used to be, we could "pace ourselves" if you know what I mean.  We'd have something to shoot for, the way we have just enough energy to get to the last day of work before a vacation, but not a day more.  But  we're in free fall and no one knows enough about anything to be a comfort.

Just as the last few years of being constantly angry has left us weary, we cannot continue to lead our lives in a state of panic.  We have to take a step back at some point and try to relax a bit.  Ironically, we have to "breathe through this" one day at a time. So I'll continue to sing in the shower, and find silly memes to share,and spend too much time on Face Book. And to practice social distancing until it's safe to stop, because this bad boy is not kidding around.

It's been one of those days again.  Apparently England and Wales are closed.  Their clown said so.  It's snowing here and my poor, trusting crocuses wouldn't take my word for it and now they've probably had it. And somehow my office finds so much to keep me busy at home that my head is spinning, in spite of the fact that I'm the receptionist. THE RECEPTIONIST! I need Fred Rogers.  I need comfort.  A fuzzy robe.  A dessert that's really bad for me.  Possibly a glass of some adult beverage.  I'd throw a pity party, but there's that social distancing thing and no one would come.  So let's channel Fred.  He always knew what to do!

I never met him, unfortunately.  I did watch his show faithfully every afternoon in the commuter lounge when I was in college.  The world is, and always has been, desperately in need of a warm fuzzy father figure just like him, particularly when things get scary. Who else is always kind, always loving, always telling us he likes us just as we are?  OK, Jesus, but besides Him?  I am not despairing.  I don't "do" despair.  But I would dearly like to have a hand-knit-sweater-encased shoulder to rest my weary head on for a bit. Then I realize that I'm the grownup and it's my turn to be that to everyone else.  Nuts.

But if there's one Fred Rogers possible, there must be others out there in training to take his place.  Unflappable, dependable, steady, wise, and caring people.  That's what we should all aspire to be.  Little Freds.  Meanwhile I shall take solace in a glass of sherry (don't knock it until you've tried it), and my fuzzy robe (a present from my younger son this past Christmas ...and doesn't THAT seem like twelve centuries ago?), and the fact that Sir Patrick Stewart is reading a Shakespearean sonnet every day on Face Book.  Even taken all together it's not Fred Rogers, but for now it will have to do.

Every morning (except when I'm working from home for unspecified periods of time due to the end of the world) my alarm goes off at 5AM.  Well, it's not REALLY 5AM because I have every clock in the house set ahead by anywhere from ten to twenty minutes.  The one next to the bed is fifteen minutes  or so.  After 29 years of marriage Himself doesn't look at the clocks. He only trusts his watch.  Who could blame him?

I don't fall back asleep once it goes off.  I lie in bed, turn on my brain, and begin my morning prayers.  You might think that I should be kneeling next to the bed, or at least sitting reverently, but the Deity knows the conditions of my knees and His/Her hearing is pretty good.  S/He seems willing to indulge me.  

There is a very precise order.  I bless the immediate family and ask for their health and happiness and protection.  This covers my husband, my kids, my father-in-law, my siblings and their kids, all mentioned by name.  Then I move on to my litany of friends, first male, then female in a specific order so I don't forget anyone.  Then it gets tricky.  There are the prayers I promised for anyone with a problem or an illness.  That takes a while.  Then comes the list of relatives and friends who have passed away, and in addition to the usual crowd one would expect at my age,  I have a depressingly long list of very young to youngish friends who have slipped away to the other side when I wasn't looking.  And every so often someone gets moved from the living friends to the non-living friends and it takes weeks to get that memorized because it's a new order.  Then there's the state of the world, the children in the cages, the poor, the immigrants.  Well you can see this goes on for a while.

Without this routine in the morning, though, I feel as though I am not doing my part.  That if anything horrible happens it's probably because I took a short cut. Because I really do believe in the power of prayer.  In addition, it is a wonderful way to touch base with all the wonderful people I know.  As their name comes up I will realize it's been a while since I've reached out, so I make a mental note to call or write.  And for the ones who aren't here to write to anymore, it's a chance to spend a minute holding their face in my mind and feeling their love in my heart again.  You wouldn't want to start a day without doing that.

It is not terribly fashionable to admit to  an active prayer life, I suppose, but just as I don't think about re-charging my cell phone, this practice has become how I charge myself.  It's a scary world these days (OK, it always has been) but there are also so many things for which I am grateful, and I take time to list those things, too.  So by the time my feet hit the floor it's probably closer to 5:20 in the real world (or "Atomic Time" as Himself likes to say) but I feel a little less worried about many things.  So what's an extra twenty minutes?  Or thirty-five if you want to get technical about it?

I've had enough of the Not So Great Depression.  I'm tired of worrying, of being afraid, of eating legumes and rice.  I'm tired of it all.  So today Himself and I put the Christmas tree back up.  At least the neighbors will have something different to talk about. It will be lit every night until this is over.  Then I put on my Mrs. Claus outfit and face-timed a 4 and 7 year old who were driving their mother the tiniest bit closer to distraction. They were relieved when I told them the reindeer were in no danger of catching the virus.  Then I told them to read, read, read, and keep up their school work.  I'm pretty sure her husband was a little taken aback, but hey, it was a break in their day.

So here is an attempt to find anything positive about the current Covid19 Craziness.  For one thing, I get to sleep later.  I like that.  I like not having to wear a bra to work.  I like taking a walk at noon with Himself.  I like video-chatting with friends.  I never did much of that before. The home made meals are nice, too, although we usually do that anyway.  I like having Himself around all the time to talk to.  It's like a rehearsal for retirement, and so far we're doing pretty well.  I am having fun writing my blog again for the first time in a long time.  I didn't touch it at all last year.  I was too depressed about the political scene.  I've never had a company laptop before.  This means more actual "working from home" but I'm getting pretty good at figuring out how to split the screen and enter data and all sorts of nerdy things.

It's a wonderful opportunity to take stock.  What really IS important in our lives?  WHO is really important?  How little can we live on?  How strong is our faith? What can we do to lighten the load everyone is carrying? These are all questions I should ask myself more often.  The answers change as we get older, and I like my current answers more than I liked the old ones.  For the past...oh let's call it three and a half years....there has been so much nastiness in the air.  Now we are all fighting the same enemy. Well, more or less.  But the Governors of several states have been doing a very fine job of sounding like sensible, trustworthy, and informed grownups.  It's a comfort.  Shout out to Cuomo and Baker! :)

So go for a walk.  Breathe deeply.  Calm down.  Stop having those "driveway parties" with your neighbors.  (We can all see you are not six feet apart!!) and if the spirit moves you, deck your own halls.  

This whole ride is not unlike a roller coaster.  At the moment things are moving slowly, and one of the problems many of us are facing is boredom.  We are inching ever so tediously to the zenith, chugging along over each bumpy rail.  The office is closed.  The church is closed.  The stores are closed. The schools are closed. The moment of stomach churning terror, however, is not very far away if we can judge by what has gone on in China and Italy and England and elsewhere.  It's coming, and there's no jumping off the car now. We are firmly buckled in.  I have never really been a fan of coasters.  I've never seen the point of putting one's life in danger for pure entertainment.  You won't find me in line for hang-gliding, bungee jumping, or shooting the rapids either.  This time we don't get to choose.

In spite of the never-ending reports on the news, I cannot imagine what it's going to be like when it really hits.  I'm doing all the sensible things.  I wash my hands thoroughly and often.  I avoid going to the store unless it's absolutely necessary.  I'd like to say I avoid touching my face, but that's so automatic I don't even know if I do or I don't.  But there are people out there who are not being as "sensible" and they scare me.  My octogenarian father-in-law is one of the most sociable people I know, and he does not seem to be taking this as seriously as I wish he would.  He goes to the store just to "see what's going on" and to talk to complete strangers about how they are all dealing with the novelty of social distancing. He drives twice a week to play Scrabble with his friend.  Is he going to pick up the bug that kills him or us?  There's no way to know, but I wish he would knock it off. 

We are not a nation of "loners" generally speaking.  For those who do live alone, by choice or by chance, this separation has been a frightening eye opener.  We can't go for "retail therapy" if all the stores are closed.  We can't tell our news to the hair-dresser or the barber if they've been forced to shut their doors. We can't stop by the local pub and talk to the bartender when we are not allowed inside a restaurant or a bar until this is over.  At least this is the age of the internet.  Neither of my sons lives at home now, but I do get to see my elder son in San Franciso,  attempting to grow a beard as he works from home, and to see my younger son pace like a caged tiger when  we video-call his off campus house, a mere thirty minute drive away, but it might as well be on the dark side of the Moon. 

To my comfort and relief there are people out there trying to talk us off the ledge with poetry and common sense and humor and faith.  Much of it helps.  Some of it makes me laugh.  I love them all for trying. Because these are scary times.  Don't throw your hands up in the air as we take the top and just scream. That won't help. Hold the crossbar for dear life, take a deep breath, and pray as though your life depended upon it.

The picture is of Anne Frank's hiding place, and the feeling, for me at least, is not dissimilar.  I know this disease is out there crawling the streets and the markets and the gas stations like some biblical monster, but I haven't seen it yet.  It is getting closer. I can sense it. Last night my younger son told me there is a case at his university.

The good news is that a friend gave me some wrong information this morning that turned out to be a large blessing.  She told me a local market was opening to "seniors" at 7AM, and Himself and I threw our clothes on at 6:35AM, grabbed a cart in the parking lot and went through the "Exit Only" door which was the only one that seemed to be open.  No one was there except the staff stocking the shelves who explained that they didn't open until 8.  I apologized and continued shopping, perfectly happy to wait an hour until someone would be on the register to ring up the order.  Then a few other confused souls wandered in and some poor lady had to start her shift early to get us all out of there. I was home before 8:00.  My Guardian Angel continues to get combat pay.

It feels like war time out there.  Everyone is a little suspicious and very wary.  I bumped a collaborative elbow of a woman in the market and then we realized what we had done and looked at each other in shock. In the middle of celebrating our good luck and fortuitous ignorance we scared each other by touching elbows through two down coats.  The cashier had a tiny cough.  I held my breath as she rang me up.  The new normal.

I'm keeping the radio off except for music, because bathing in hysteria is not good for my spirits.  I check the news once in the evening and then grab a book or turn on something silly and soothing to watch on TV.  At the moment it's "Last Tango in Halifax".  Shakespeare it ain't, but it gets the job done.  I have to pace my nerves.  This is going to be a long haul. 

While the office kept me hopping long distance yesterday, answering frightened employees and forwarding phone calls, and paying bills, it is much quieter today.  I have a chance to sit and think about how good we've had it for so long.  About how much a hug means.  How precious a glass of wine is when shared with friends. The joy of stocked shelves and overwhelming choices. The peace of sitting quietly in church, waiting for Mass to start.  There are so many things for which I have forgotten to be grateful.  I am not fool enough to think that I won't take all these things for granted again.  I will.  It's human nature.  But I have a new insight into why during the 1950's and 60's, long after the Depression and WWII, my parents were still careful not to waste anything, and were never quite comfortable and snug in the world again.

These are scary times.  When the news of the Corona Virus in China first broke, I would listen absent-mindedly to NPR as I ironed my clothes for the day.  I felt bad for them, but I wasn't afraid.  It never occurred to me that this would become our problem, too.

Last week we were told we would be working remotely "as a test of our preparedness".  No big deal. One day.  Then we got an e-mail saying it would be the next day, too.  And now we enter the first full week of working from home (those lucky enough to be able to do that) and there is no real end in sight.  We are told to keep at least six feet away from anyone with whom we do not live.  That's a very hard thing to do, especially for a "hugger" like me. The stores and restaurants are closed.  The Catholic Church is not offering public Mass until further notice.  People are panicking and stripping bare the shelves of grocery stores, but instead of the "milk and bread" frenzy so familiar to those of us who regularly weather snow storms, it is now a rush on "toilet paper and hand sanitizer".

Luckily, my husband is working from home, too, so at least I have company.  He works upstairs on his computer and I work downstairs in the living room on mine.  Occasionally we break for a cup of tea and once a day we take a walk together.  He still does his 7 mile run (on his own).  We speak to our children every day, but it's on the telephone or by video call when we're lucky.  They're bored and invulnerable.  They are worried about their "elderly parents" (I guess that's us, although it doesn't feel like it).  Meanwhile my father-in-law is 88 and it took all the courage I had to invite him to share a shepherds' pie with us last Sunday.  I don't know if I was more afraid that I would infect him or he would infect us.  The trip we had planned to bring him to his father's birthplace in Ireland has been indefinitely postponed.

Today, for the first time in a week, we went to a store.  I needed blood pressure medication.  And cookies.  And a couple of bars of really decent chocolate as long as we were there.  We are planning a quick run to the supermarket tomorrow.  We will divide the list in two and attack like Ninjas, quick in, quick out.  I assume that the earlier in the progression of this disease we go, the fewer infected people we might encounter.  That's the theory anyway.

So for the next little bit at least, we will cross the street when we see our neighbors walking our way. We will bow our heads to nod hello and maybe give a wave.  But we have become afraid of each other.  Not everyone is taking this as seriously as they should.  Saint Patrick's Day was proof positive of that, not to mention spring break photos from Florida. Not our kids.  Others'.

I'm not sleeping well, and in spite of a faith which has always been rock solid, I have to remind myself constantly that we're not alone in this; that He hasn't forgotten us.  I lie awake some nights thinking that someone I know will be snatched from my life by this disease in the not too distant future.  I lie awake wondering who it will be.

I'm beginning to think about retiring.  Not that I'm ready yet.  There has to be a reason to get out of bed and shower and put on clothes and talk to people.  The house haunts me when it is empty, and I would chase away ghosts with too much food (or wine, depending on the time of day) and count the minutes until Himself got home.  That much is certain.  At some point, however, it becomes obvious that the bloom is off the rose.  By the time I get home from work I need twenty minutes worshiping the Goddess of Horizontality before I can deal with the thought of cooking or eating or talking or pretty much anything.  In church I notice that genuflecting has become a challenge.  I can get down, but one of these days I wonder if I'll get back up.  I'm OK with that.

Someone wrote on Facebook a while back, "Don't let the old lady in!" and I think that's excellent advice.  We are not a number.  My super-abundance of experience would be considered an asset by many.  So what if it comes with wrinkles and a couple of creaks here and there?  There is a reason that amazing older women like Maggie Smith and Judi Dench and Helen Mirren drop the "F bomb" so often.  Living without filters is rather fun, and one of the consolations of turning invisible to much of the world. If you don't believe me go out for a drink after work where the 20-somethings gather.  I remember these assemblies as being much different. Now it's more like watching a movie than it is a participatory sport.

Talking to strangers has become one of my favorite pastimes.  I stop total strangers in the street and offer to take a picture of the two (or three) of them together.  I'll take a stab at speaking their language, and I usually learn something, about them, but also about myself.  Everyone has such an interesting story.  Some of them are sad or even tragic.  Many of them lift my spirits and make me believe in the basic goodness of people and that anything is possible.

It's time to get rid of the clutter.  At some point that will include my job, I suppose.  I'm learning to let go of things that won't bring me back to days long dead and friends long vanished.  Somewhere along the way I have acquired the talent of keeping those precious memories filed away in my heart and I can trot them out whenever I want.  I want to spend more time singing and watching the spring come (I still love my birdsong, even when it wakes me up at 4 in the morning in June) and listening to what the ocean waves are saying and crunching through autumn leaves.  I need less and less but I see more and more.  For now it's enough to stop and watch the world and appreciate its sights and sounds every so often.  I look forward to what comes next. I'm guessing it's going to be epic.

For all my admiration of the kids from Parkland, Florida, I found myself reluctant to join the march yesterday.  I had it on my calendar, and I had every intention of going, but when Saturday dawned I found the thought of being in a huge press of people frightening on many levels.  I was depressed and anxious and I wanted to curl up in the fetal position and take a nap.  I was surprised at myself, and disappointed.

Himself, who had no plans of going in the first place, suggested that I go to the rally on the Boston Common if not to the March itself.  Still I wouldn't budge.  Then he announced that HE was going and I could either come with him or pick him up at the subway station when he returned.  So I went.

It was not, as I feared, a violent crowd confronting the NRA supporters. It was energized, but peaceful.  There were young children carrying signs which I would probably not have let my children carry, but these kids are facing threats which were rare when my sons were their age.  Still I was shaken, clutching his arm, and panicking at not being able to see anything from my towering height of five-feet-nothing and shrinking.  Then I saw her, the woman in her mid to late seventies sitting in a wheelchair in the midst of that throng, and I was so ashamed.

The people there had no fear, or if they did they pushed it down.  It was a very different feeling from the Women's March the day after the Inauguration of "He Who Shall Not Be Named".  It was more focused and a little more frantic.  The energy was palpable.

A few days ago I was listening to the news and thought, "Thank God my kids are safely out of high school," and I was horrified when I stopped to realize the actual meaning of that thought.  Adults should not be safer than children.  That's just wrong.

On Facebook last night I watched the speech given by Emma Gonzalez and I was floored.  After her impassioned words came six minutes and twenty uncomfortable seconds.  We wondered whether she was overcome by emotion, or suddenly paralyzed by stage fright.  But she looked so calm.  Supporters in the crowd started chanting and applauding to encourage her, yet there she stood, perfectly still for what seemed like an eternity.  The crowd was more silent than I could have imagined any collection of that size being.  At the end of the six minutes and twenty seconds she announced that that was the amount of time it took the shooter to kill seventeen people.  It seemed like such a horrendously long time, just waiting for her to speak again.  I wonder how long it felt to teenagers and teachers who were listening to gunfire and thinking they could be next to die.

My hopes for the future had been flickering for the last year of this despicable administration's display of disdain and disrespect for humanity.  Thank you, Emma, and all your friends, and all the people who showed up all over the world to shout "ENOUGH!"  Next time I promise I will slay my demons and march with you.  And someday I hope to be able to vote for you.

Most people hate to iron, but it's my quiet time to think every morning.  Himself comes up with a cup of tea for me and then goes off to perform his ablutions while I let my mind wander.  Yesterday I had a very startling thought; "Thank God my boys are out of high school so they're safe."  Let that sink in for a minute.  

This country is sacrificing its children to the gun lobby and the insanity has to stop.  While proponents of the NRA argue with members of the "Left" over verbiage, parents are standing in frighteningly quiet bedrooms, looking at piles of socks on the floor that will never make to the hamper because the occupant is dead.  That is just wrong on so many levels.  Politicians are accepting exorbitant contributions from the NRA who are (there is no other way to phrase it) buying their votes.  And children who can't buy cigarettes are buying semi-automatic weapons and with their hormones and undeveloped front lobes are taking young lives.

I would despair, but I don't do that.  And one of the reasons I have hope is that this group of teenagers is not waiting for a political caucus to save them.  They are taking matters into their own hands.  They are speaking frightening truths, their faces contorted with pain and tears and terror.  They are finding a way to make the grown ups listen.  They have provided more leadership in the last seven days than we've seen come out of Washington in a year.  They are cutting through the sugar coated niceties.  They don't have time for those.  Their friends are dying.

I am so proud of these young people.  I am inspired by them.  There will be threats and repercussions, undoubtedly, but they seem willing to sign on for that. They are willing to be on the front line for the battle of their lives.  The battle for their lives.  I believe in the power of prayer.  But at some point prayer has to evolve into action or it has little meaning.  Let us protect our children, and let us treasure and praise and yes, pray for, these teenagers who are marching out of classrooms around the country, and let us stand next to them in the fight. 

This picture was posted by Treva Muhammad, and the message is powerful.  I'm not sure if she is the artist, but it stopped me in my tracks.


Note from the author:  I apparently wrote this in February.  I thought I had posted it.  Maybe I was too depressed by the subject matter.  Maybe I was afraid of the reactions it would get.  I found this in my pile of "drafts".  Re-reading it I find my opinion hasn't changed, but perhaps I have, because here it is.  Be shocked.  Be horrified.  Then vote and make sure you do everything you can to have everyone you know vote, too.

I will acknowledge that Catholics have some interesting customs.  Celibate clergy.  Handing out dead leaves once a year. And let's not forget smearing one's forehead with ashes to wear all day to announce the start of Lent.  My Protestant friends don't get it.  I have a small pool with friends to see how long it will take before someone calls to one's attention the embarrassing "dirt" which we must have missed in our ablutions.  How, exactly, do they figure that one happened?  Fell face first into the fireplace on the way out and forgot to check the mirror afterwards?

Anyway, although Lent is not as trendy as it used to be, it's still another chance to reflect and renew for those of us who have already blown our New Year's Resolutions.  It's supposedly the 40 days leading up to Easter during which one makes sacrifices, large or small.  Giving up something like wine or candy or desserts or swearing are popular disciplines.  I like a positive spin, myself.  More Masses during the week.  More spiritual reading.  More quiet time without cell phones or laptops, to just sit quietly and hear what's really going on.  Now for those of you who can count, you will soon figure out that Lent is NOT 40 days.  It's 47 days, and although Easter falls on April Fool's Day this year, that is not a joke.  Here's the secret that many Catholics don't figure out unless they have a friend who happens to be a Canon Lawyer....Sundays don't count.  The Resurrection is such a really big deal, that one celebrates Sundays no matter what.  Which is as it should be, of course.  It's the ultimate trump card (Please pardon that expression.  I'm trying to eradicate it from my vocabulary.)

In all seriousness, we all need a Lent.  We need a reminder that there is more to life than Words With Friends or Godiva Chocolates.  Or even political affiliations.  There is compassion and forgiveness.  There is grace.  And there is love.  Above all there is love.  And that's our job.  To stop and feel the love God sends to us and to turn it around and love others.  So maybe it's very appropriate that Ash Wednesday coincides with  Saint Valentine's Day this year.  And I'm tickled by the fact that Easter will be on April Fool's Day, because Jesus pulled off the biggest joke of all in proving that death is not the end after all, in spite of what people might think!

Enjoy your thoughtful journey.

November has Thanksgiving.  December has Christmas.  January has the odd left-over winter party and a holiday celebrating Doctor King right in the middle.   And then there's February.

I once heard it defined as "The six-month long depression between January and March. Suicide month."  I get it.  February makes my soul weary and my heart stop believing that spring will ever get here.  I am having crocus-envy.  The weather has been mindbogglingly cold and disgustingly gray, but not really sufficiently miserable to justify my complete disgust with this stupid month.  It's just old.  Gloves and hats are becoming pilled and annoying.  Scarves are a pain.  And I know there are people who would be very grateful to have warm hats and gloves and scarves, and I do my best to share.  But I'm still sick of needing them.  I need more sunlight than I am getting.  A lot more.  Coming home in the dark makes me feel I have missed the whole day.

Valentine's Day is a Hallmark holiday at best, even though I've had the same fabulous Valentine for over a quarter of a century.  If I were a teacher I'm sure I'd be counting the moments until the vacation week.  But I'm not a teacher.  And I'm counting the moments until March.

On the banks of the Fort Point Channel in Boston there is a row of benches.  I've mentioned them before and made friends with a few people who either start their days there after the Pine Street Inn sends them out the door, or who call those benches home.  The faces have changed over time.  Valerie is no longer there.  We used to greet each other with a hug and an occasional sandwich or a couple of bucks passed from me to her.  Then one day she wasn't there.  There is no one to ask what happened, and if there were, I'm not sure I'd want to know.

Now there is a man who has apparently been living on the same bench for over a month.  He sleeps in a sleeping bag on the edge of the waterside, the railing keeping him from falling into the cold and murky water below, sort of like a baby's crib, but a whole lot less cozy.  He is surrounded by bags of trash containing empty food boxes, empty bottles, bits of paper, and I don't know what else because I try not to look too closely, partly out of respect for his privacy, and partly because of my squeamishness.  Sometimes he is out of his bag and shaking his head endlessly from side to side.  He has a white beard and the remains of his long white hair are pulled back from his balding brown  forehead into a ponytail.  We've never exchanged a word.  I've never seen him talk to anyone except possibly to the people only he can see.  Seeing him makes me sad, so sometimes I confess I will walk the other way.

But winter is coming, and today there are torrential rains pouring down at the end of a ridiculously warm October.  I tried calling him to the attention of the Mayor's Office last week. I was told to call 911.  So I did.  Other cardboard beds and cushions from discarded lawn furniture disappeared, but my bearded friend and his bags remained untouched.  

I guess my next move is to bring a breakfast sandwich once in a while and leave it on his bench.  But what kind of society have we become when this is not a shocking situation?  When after a month (or is it two?) nothing has been done and people are so used to seeing him that they don't really see him any more?  And this is just on my little walk to the office.  Whom do you see on yours?  And what on earth are we going to do?

Auditions are fascinating.  I have a resume of roles I've played, and a pretty decent black and white head-shot to go with it.  Nine times out of ten these are at home in some box (I have no idea which one, but I'll find them when I clean) and I have to scribble something on a piece of paper and wrack my brain for what year I did which play.  In spite of the fact that I do this quite often, you'd be amazed at how elusive those dates can be.

In any event, last night I inhaled some hummus and pita so I wouldn't starve, lovingly prepared by Himself, and I set off for another audition.  There are not all that many good roles for women "of a certain age" as the French so charmingly put it, so when one arises there is a gathering of the same talented women, eager to learn if they still have enough brain power to memorize a two hour script, and longing for that curtain call at the end of the performance.  We love one another, enjoy one another, respect one another as people and as actors, and we are delighted and distressed to find we are all up for the same part.  So we greet one another with a hug and a genuine "Wonderful to see you!" but somewhere in our head a quiet evil voice is whispering, "Oh, s#*t.  She's here.  I haven't got a prayer!" and that was the beginning of the OSC, or the "Oh, S#* Club".  I've told them all about it and they all know exactly what I mean.  We laugh about the "board meetings" we have whenever we gather. I'm the President because, hey, it was my idea.

No one wants to go first.  It's horrible to go first.  By the time you've watched three or four people read the same lines you begin to think, "I wouldn't do it that way.  I'd pause here and wait for the laugh.  I'd sit on this word and then get up and walk on that one."  We don't get to choose who goes first.  The director calls our names, one by one, and up we get, script in hand, trying to read and interact at the same time.  It's tricky.  No one knows what the director's "vision" for the part is.  Even the director doesn't really know it until s/he sees it up there on the stage.  The best actor in the world won't get cast if the director has a different image of the role.

I wasn't first.  I wasn't last.  I was somewhere in the middle.  There were a few laughs from the "audience" which didn't seem like pity, so I guess it was not my worst outing.  The director asked me to crawl across the stage on my hands and knees as if I were in pain.  "Sure.  That's why I wore a dress," I replied as I dropped to all fours and dusted the boards with my summer frock.  I got another laugh on that line.

There's another audition for the same play tonight.  I won't go. I don't want to look desperate.  And then the waiting begins.  When will I hear?  Will I hear?  Some directors only contact the people they want in the show.  That's so rude.  I always appreciate the liars who say, "We ADORED your reading, but we've decided to go in a slightly different direction. But we hope to work with you again!"  It's just the elongated version of , "No" but it is easier on the ego.  Not getting a part means a day or two of doubting myself.  I usually vow to lose twenty pounds, partly because I assume that was the problem, and partly because I am reminded of what it's like to see pictures of a production when I don't bother to lose twenty pounds.  Not good for the ego.  I hate cameras.

So soon I may be in a cranky mood, but it will only last a day or two.  Or, there is always the possibility that I'll get the part, and then I'll have something to keep me busy two nights a week for the next couple of months.  It's like summer camp for grownups.  Well, we're not really grownups.  We're actors. 

If I retire (and God knows I'm getting old enough) this will be the reason.  Getting up at 5:15 in the morning is not a problem for me.  The mornings have always been my favorite time of day.  Having a reason to get dressed and out of the house is a good and healthy thing.  My job (now that I have kissed my "career" goodbye) is cute.  There is little pressure, and when I close the door at the end of the day I don't give it another thought until I turn on the lights in the morning.  But the commute is going to kill me.
The ride in is usually tolerable.  Three days a week Himself and I ride together.  We are far enough down the line so we generally get a seat (critical!) and he likes to do the daily crossword puzzle together which could one day mean the end of a marriage which has lasted 26 years so far, but whatever.  Then we read our books.  Two days a week I commute on my own as Himself leaves our home at around 6:00 AM and RUNS to work.  It's ten miles and he's become a bit of a legend in the office because of it.  In the winter he is lit up like a Christmas tree, because it's dark out there, but from now until sometime in October he leaves in the light, heads to his sports club and takes a shower and dons the outfit he has left in the locker the day before.  

And then there's the commute home.  I have been known to travel 6 stations in the wrong direction in order to get a seat for the ride home. Getting a seat makes a world of difference.  Eye contact must be avoided at all costs.  If I can dive into a mystery or some other  amusing book I become oblivious to the world around me.  But when I look around it strikes me how like a bad Sci-Fi movie the world has become.  Everyone is plugged in.  Babies in strollers are playing with Mommy's iPad.  Music is leaking out of earphones, which makes me wonder what it sounds like from the inside, and my personal favorite is the loud one-sided inane telephone call which could REALLY have waited.    Most of the time, however, I do manage a seat.  The gray hair works for me.  And my look of death, which, if I do say so myself, I have pretty much perfected.  If someone offers me a a seat I never say no.  That behavior is to be encouraged.  Himself sometimes gets cranky because if there is one seat I always get it. Well, I'm older.  And I'm short.  And I'm fast as greased lightning and weave my way like a football player through the crowd until I score!

But the thrill of the chase is losing its edge.  The broken air conditioning, the times when I'm stuck nose to nose (or nose to armpit in my case), the language, the complete lack of civility is just getting to me.  Not that I'm about to drive into town every day, which would present its own problems in the areas of civility and expense.  Maybe I'm just turning into that cranky old lady who gets into fights in the T parking lots with people who insist on going against the arrows in the rows (God, I hate that!).  Maybe it's time for me to sit on my front porch and yell at the people who insist on blowing through that damn "STOP" sign.  Nah.  Not yet.  But I can smell it from here.

Twenty-six years ago today, surrounded by the scent of lilacs on the altar, I married my best friend.  We didn't know what we were getting into.  Oh, we made the standard promises and had the usual party.....well, we actually had Chinese food, and our going away outfits were Mickey and Minnie Mouse tee shirts over new jeans, but you get the picture.  

Fast forward a quarter of a century plus change.  We added two young men to the world who are so brilliant and wonderful that they raise the national IQ average.  We survived the passing of friends and family members.  He became a runner and I got further into community theater than I had been.  I gave up a career and stayed home for fifteen years to be the chauffeuse to soccer, baseball, basketball, karate, and music lessons.  Oh, and I passed on the acting gene, so there were lots of rehearsals for school plays.

Since we have been married, I have learned to read music, I learned to play piano, and I'm currently taking guitar lessons.  I meant to take guitar lessons in 1968 but I forgot.  I just finished a basic course in ASL, sign language for the deaf.  He studies new computer languages and history and we try not to cry over the political situation together.  We give each other space because we know we can.  He encourages me to write and I encourage him to run.  He's done eight Boston Marathons and two Bay State Marathons.  I've done two 5K races and I think I'm done.

As Sister Miriam would say, we are like "chalk and cheese."  It hard to picture two people who are less alike.  He's tall and thin and I'm short and ...well, not so much.  He's athletic. I sit and meditate.  He loves the music of Phillip Glass and I would rather eat glass than listen to that.  He's all rock and roll from the 60's and I'm more folk music.  And that's good.  The  basic values of honesty and faithfulness, kindness and generosity are there.  I had no idea when we married what an incredible father he would be.  

So pardon my mush, and yes, I really do realize how incredibly blessed I am (we both are).  I'm not sure how I fell into such a happy place, but I'll take it, and try to spread the joy around a little.

Happy Anniversary to my other half.  I don't know what I did to deserve you (in fact, I probably don't deserve you) but I am grateful that I got you anyway.   

Sister Miriam

I met her in church when my kids were just babies.  She would bustle through before or after Mass, always stopping to talk to the line of people who needed a prayer or a hug.  I could never remember her name.  Then when the boys were a little older (3 and 4 or so) we decided to try a one mile version of The Walk for Hunger to get them thinking about how lucky they were and to realize that not everyone was.  But they were sturdy wee men and made it to mile five before Mommy pulled the plug and flagged the "Toe Truck" to take us all back to the Common to catch the T.  And there she was, apologetic for quitting so soon, but she had such a bad back, and twenty years ago she was only a sweet young thing of 68.  We drove her home from the subway and Sister Miriam Patrice McKeon entered our lives.

When the boys went to school and I became a stay-at-home Mom, I often went to Daily Mass and, of course, she was pretty much always there.  So we started chatting.  Then we started having breakfast most days at a little diner in town, and I started to learn all sorts of things about her. She loved to sing, and to dance.  I was her partner for more than one polka at a party.  She had been cured of breast cancer the night before her surgery.  Really.  They couldn't find anything to operate on the next day.  And she began to cure others with her prayers and her joy and her love.

She could speak in tongues, and every so often she would grab me by the hand after Mass and say, "I got a Word for you from the Lord."  Then she would tell me what He wanted me to know.

She taught Bible studies at a home for unwed mothers and once a week I would babysit for the children who had already been born so their mothers wouldn't be distracted. Her faith was amazing to watch, and it was contagious.

She had a brilliant mind.  She led retreats and marches and sat on Boards of Directors for groups that helped the poor.  She was a highly coveted speaker and she cast spells with her kindness and her bright, burning love of God.

Then she had a fall and broke her hip and her arm, and she had to go to the Mother House in Wellesley to recover.  But she was getting older and frailer and her falls came more often, so she stayed there.  It was only  half an hour drive from my house, but I didn't make as many trips as I should have.  I started working full time in downtown and pretty much collapsed when I came home.  Last week one of the Sisters told me she wasn't doing well and I went to visit her.  She reached out her hand and took mine, calling me "Honey" and telling me how good I was to come.  She told me I was a "holy woman of God."  I was very moved by that until her funeral today when I found out she had said that to almost every one of the Sisters present.  But maybe she was right.  Maybe we all are "holy women of God."  It takes one to know one.

She was tired and couldn't hang on any longer.  Today I saw her for the last time, I listened to people tell of how much she had changed their lives.  And how much she was loved. I felt what I had always known in my heart.  I knew a saint, and we were all so privileged to have the opportunity to "walk her Home."  I will miss you, Mimsy, but I expect to see you again.  Meanwhile I will pray for you and to you, because if anyone can get it done, Sweetie, it will always be you. 

I hate crowds.  I don't do the Fourth of July on the Esplanade in Boston.  I don't go to the Saint Patrick's Day Parade in South Boston.  I don't do First Night.  And yet, I could not stay away from the Women's March which gathered on Boston Common yesterday.  They had planned for a crowd of 20,000.  The estimated attendance was somewhere between 100,000 and 150,000.  We couldn't move.  We stood for hours listening to the speakers and then trying to get out of the crowd and onto the streets to march.  I never actually did "march", but I heard every speech.  I saw nothing because if I were any shorter my hair would smell like feet (I stole that line, but it's a good one).

So there I was looking at a lot of pink hats and a lot of creative signs and a lot of extraordinarily pleasant people, largely female, but there was a fair representation of men and some children there, too.  There were many rainbow flags.  There were Muslim women in full dress.  There were immigrants, with and without papers.  Everyone showed up.  And the mood was not at all what I expected.

My reluctance to participate initially was largely due to my abhorrence of what large crowds have been known to descend into.  Violence terrifies me whether it's directed at me or not.  I thought the crowd might be looking for Trump's blood.  I thought there would be angry, shouting people shaking fists and turning red in the face.  Well, Trump was certainly unpopular with the crowd, but most of them weren't wishing him any physical harm.  What they made loud and clear was that they would not let him take away rights, or mistreat minorities, or take away healthcare coverage, or turn this country into a sea of hate without a fight.

But it was women.  We do things differently. People were offering total strangers snacks.  We were singing and laughing and talking to total strangers as though we had arrived together by plan.  My favorite sign was "Kind is the new sexy."  Do not mistake me.  We were all dead serious and joyful in a strange way.  We looked around and saw that we have power.  Everyone was astounded by the turnout, by the tone, and by the dedication to keeping America civilized.
There was not one arrest.  The Police Commissioner issued a press release thanking the crowd for their behavior.  

The marches in other cities, including the one my son was attending in Washington,
D.C., were no surprise.  When I later saw the accounts of supportive gatherings all around the world, however, I was moved to tears.   And for the first time in a very long time I felt hope.  And power.  And the world will be very surprised at what the power of women united can do.