We Had a System

I have just come back from a self-created errand. Did I ever think I’d be doing this? Looking for a reason to run around town?

That was before the coronavirus. Less than two weeks ago I  felt on track. Since then, Wil’s volunteer work at the Catholic schools is on hold for at least six more weeks. The Archdiocese of Portland has cancelled all Catholic Masses for at least another month. His Monday class with Timmy at PHAME was cancelled for the rest of this term, and just yesterday, we got notice they will not be having classes in the spring.  It’s quite possible Portland will be one of the next “shelter-in-place” cities, forcing us to stay inside our homes except to go out for essential groceries. 

Every single thing on my calendar has been cancelled: appointments, time with friends, gatherings with my Sacred Circle. It was Chris’s idea to set us all up on Zoom and do a virtual gathering. While it will not have the same palpable energy in the room when we’re all together, it will be nice to connect. 

The last time we gathered was at my house. After we blew out all the white candles in tall glass jars—the ones Anne decorated with bits of twine and green ribbon she’d gotten from a trip to New Orleans—I let the wax harden before putting them in a box. It was my intent to bring them to the next gathering and leave them with that host. We had a system. 

After finally arriving on the second and fourth Thursdays of every month as our meeting time, the next gathering turned out to be Spring Break. I would not be in town. I’ll just drop off the candles to Cindy’s before I leave town, I thought. Then after they moved their meeting to Zoom, I realized I could “attend,” and maybe I would want my own candle to light while gathering. Maybe everyone would want theirs, too. We might all want to have our individual light join with our Circle’s both through the Internet and in ways that stretch far beyond. 

I texted the group before heading out the door. I was going to take the whole box to Cindy’s so she could light them all when we met online, or I was going to drive all over town and drop off each one separately. Regardless, I was leaving my house, alone. I would put on a podcast and look at the trees blossoming all around me. I would see signs of spring despite the fact the circumstances felt like the dead of winter. “I’m on my way to Cindy’s to drop off the candles, but I was wondering if you’d rather each have your own back? I am happy, (thrilled) to deliver them each to your front porches. Just let me know your preference.” They quickly responded that yes, they could use the light, they’d be grateful to have a part of a greater whole.

To plan my route I consulted Stan. To say I am directionally challenged is an understatement. I could plug in each address into my phone and rely on GPS, but I knew I’d be zig-zagging around in an inefficient way, and I also knew this was the kind of task he’d light up about. I gave him the addresses, he put them on a Post-It then numbered them for me. “You’re going to want to start with the one on NE 9^th. That’s right where Jeff and Jill used to live. You know that area.” 

Yes, I know that area. Our marriage began in a house right up the street from there. I got the candles and my list in the car, plugged in Enlightened Empaths, and set out. There were so few cars on the road it felt eerie, and I felt guilty. I was still practicing “social-distancing,” no one would see me or be anywhere near me. The six-foot-apart rule would not be broken. 

I headed over to drop off Number One, and within a few blocks I could feel the tension leave my shoulders. This felt good: having a purpose and being away. When the first candle had been delivered, I readjusted my GPS to find Number Two and quickly realized I’d be driving right by our old house. It looked good—better than when we’d sold it almost 24 years ago. The people were standing on the front porch, and there was a For Sale sign in the lawn. 

As I made my way through town dropping off candles, I picked up memories. First house. First child. First death of a parent. That house held all those and so many more. I turned off the podcast and cracked the windows. The sounds of birds chirping was mixed with the sounds of families walking and talking, riding bikes, being outside together on a day and a time they would not ordinarily be.

These are not ordinary times.

We had a system.

Now, we are charged with keeping our light going, and joining it with others’.