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I love to walk. Scratch that. I used to love to walk. Now I walk because I have to; for my sanity and for reassurance that my lungs are still working at full capacity. When I walk now, I feel like Andy Dufresne in “The Shawshank Redemption”, circling the prison yard, planning my escape, and dreaming of freedom - freedom after COVID 19. I am beyond fortunate to live by the lake and next to a long path that winds along the water in either direction for miles. I can walk in some semblance of nature and hear the sound of waves in my ears whenever I choose. The nature I see on a daily basis straddles two worlds as it struggles for real estate in the surrounding city. There are well fed, garbage hungry seagulls and squawking geese that own pieces of the shoreline, clearly marked by poop and feathers. Bricks from far off construction sites and broken down chimneys have found their way to beaches filled with smooth rocks, bleached out driftwood and surprise fire pits built out of nowhere, like Inukshuk’s on a quiet highway - signaling under-age drinkers to a new world, free of adults after dark. Shimmering green glass hides in the pebbles; evidence of an emerald city underwater with trident wielding mermaids, or a local lad with an affinity for Heineken. There are birds and turtles and swans, blue waters and even bluer skies, not really prison at all, but lately, the walks have been prescribed and policed. On one of those walks, my husband and I came across a growing display of painted rocks with messages of hope, warning, humour, sarcasm, sadness and pop culture references that either make you laugh or scratch your head. People are talking to each other in strange ways these days - through memes, Tik Toks, YouTube videos, Zoom calls, and even, painted rocks.

As my husband and I stood in the rain, about to leave the path, we watched a family walk up carrying a massive rock; a father and his three girls, the dad doing the heavy lifting. They seemed excited to add their artwork and words to the line of scripted stones. Social distancing prevented me from running up and reading their note or congratulating them on participating in this primitive coming together. The messages are all over the map in their sentiments - ranging from ‘stay strong’ to ‘speaking moistly’ painted in cheap pastels on jagged rocks. It’s perfect, and messy, and colourful, and smart, and stupid. Exactly how life seems to be these days and totally representative of what is happening in my brain and in my house on a daily basis. I feel Iost in a constant vomiting of thoughts, emotions and ridiculous behaviour. A single day during this pandemic can feel like a month trapped in a fun house full of mirrors and trick doors that lead nowhere.

At home, after our first visit to the rocks, I took a moment, or ten, to begin an inventory of all the things I have done in the last 5 weeks in isolation. While I try to spend most of my days writing, I still have loads of time for arbitrary activities, which has left me drowning in a cesspool of conflicting emotions. Some days I feel accomplished. Other days I feel useless and void of motivation. Getting dressed is now a typical agenda item that involves a weighing of both pros and cons. I look at jewelry now the way a caveman might have first looked at the wheel - I push it around a bit and wonder what I might use it for. The other day, I vacuumed the top of our headboard. Because that’s important. And then I realized, I’ve never seen the top of our headboard before. It’s nice. It’s a soft fabric, a linen-tweed, and now, it’s very very clean. I scrubbed the tub - once. I cleaned out all the half melted Tupperware and started to count the empty spaghetti jars I’ve kept over the years, assuming one day I would make something and need them. Then I stopped counting and got the recycle bin. I found multiple jugs of vinegar and combined them into one, that I have since lost during a subsequent cleaning. Good thing all the bread and buns I’m baking don’t call for vinegar. I contemplated piercing my own ears with an ice cube and a sewing needle, then realized it was the boxed wine that’s more into piercing than I am. Be careful who, or what, you talk to in isolation; I find I’m getting more and more responses lately.

I’ve baked a cake on a Tuesday and finally used up all the half empty containers of frosting that were hiding behind gourmet condiments no one liked. I pulled one off the back wall of the fridge that was suspended by a super glue made of maple syrup, or congealed steak sauce, either way, it explained why the stack never fell, no matter how many times I rammed it with new groceries. Imagine the thrill when I found one last whipped vanilla in the meat crisper! Enough time has passed in quarantine for me to have made as many unsuccessful batches of soup as I have made successful batches. For the most part, my soup is just an excuse to eat salty crackers and homemade bread shaped like baby Yoda. I’ve enjoyed long stretches in front of the mirror, individually combing out the knots at the back of my head; a part of my body so low on my beauty priority list now since it’s in the out-of-zoom area. Most days I just leave it, knowing it looks like a beret made of rat hair has slipped down the back of my head. I trimmed shrubbery in the yard that had grown over the fence and climbed a ladder to do it. Do you know how long it’s been since I climbed a ladder? It’s great up there. My youngest son and I made a bird feeder and hung it outside one of our windows. It’s the first time I have ever directed Steven-Seagal-like aggression toward a squirrel. I raked and scraped up wet grass that wasn’t ready to be raked; planned trivia nights, and taco nights where a poncho-only dress code was in effect, and forced uninterested kids on drives through neighborhoods in the city they’ve never seen before. Drake’s place is a-ight, if you’re into mansion-y type living. We’ve made ourselves sick on homemade flatbread and cheese, over-indulged on Easter chocolate and arranged for FaceTime performances of newly practiced magic tricks. I took down a set of window blinds, briefly believing I could successfully clean them myself. They are currently being re-purposed to make face masks instead while I wait for the new ones to arrive from Wayfair. ‘Love Is Blind’ seemed more important than washing window coverings in the bathtub.

I watched from my window as my husband took a phone call in the car and later listened to a podcast Brene Brown recorded in her closet because space, and peace, is at a premium in some households. I realized how many times I have shopped in a sparse, post-apocalyptic looking grocery store surrounded by strangers in masks and wondered if I would find flour today, rather than wondered if we were all going to be okay. I’ve let my toenail polish chip off and my roots show their darkness. I’ve made friends with my Instant Pot and enemies with personal hygiene. I have hidden away sweaters that are now tight on my arms because … I have become prone to making cake on a Tuesday.

Isaac (13 yrs) painting his rock, and someone else’s witty musing.

Somewhere in the middle of this quarantine, early in the evening, I accidentally took one of my son’s ADHD pills, a terrific stimulant, instead of my allergy pill. I spent an ENTIRE sleepless night reading and I didn’t even care. With nowhere to go the next day, spending the night lost in a book while my family slept, and the streetlights kept me company, was a surreal experience that made me feel as though I had been given a super power, allowing me to stop the world and examine it at my leisure. Not surprisingly, by 7:30 pm the next night, more than 24 hours and one whopping glass of red wine later, I embarked on another solitary adventure; a swift and embarrassing tumble into dreamland. In the haze of COVID-19, time seems to be a construct I have begun to play with. Or some would say, obsess over. Each day, I struggle to get my older kids out of bed so they can engage with daylight. It is the worst sort of parental Groundhog Day imaginable.

Me: “Hey, it’s 12 o’clock. Get up.”

Son: Silence.

Me: “Hey buddy, it’s 12:15. You gotta get up.”

Son: More silence.

Me: “It’s 12:20 now. You’re really pushing it. Get up please.”

Son: Grunt.

Me: “Are you kidding me right now? It’s 12:30!! I’m gonna dump water on your head.”

Son: Grunt, roll. Grunt.

Me (changing tactics, singing gently): “Good morning to Kirby it’s nice to see you. Good morning to Kirby, it’s nice to see you. Good morning, good morning. What a wonderful day! Good morning to Kirby, let’s sing and play.”

Son: Bad breath exhale that makes me gag.

Me: “OH MY GAWD! Enough already, it’s 12:45!”

Son: (eyes closed, sitting up, cobra pose) “What are you, Father time? Ok - I’m up. Now get out.”

So now - I’m Father Time. Repeatedly unhinged by noon. Once, this Father Time used pots and pans to wake up the teenagers. It was a fun day. Later that night, with just the older boys (16 and 18 yrs), cozied up by a fire, not quite able to muster the courage to watch “Contagion”, we settled on watching “The Shining”. The reality of a high school teacher turned writer (you hear what I hear?) turning murderous during endless isolation made it all the more fun when I stuck my head through the banister that night and yelled at them “Here’s mommy!”. I will win this battle in quarantine and out-crazy these kids, no question.

With little outside structure imposed on me, I don’t know from one day to the next if my time will be spent watching movies and discussing it over drinks on Zoom, or spent looking for ways to be charitable, cheering up a friend, crafting the perfect sentence in that still-to-come novel, or weeping for the walls that I feel closing in around me. Images of military trucks transporting the dead, play alongside endless family dinners and lazy cuddles. Laughter, fear, sadness, and homemade cookies are all a part of this mixed up COVID experience. I can only see my mom from a distance now, and yet I have my children so close I can barely remember what it was like when they were out in the world without me. To experience such closeness during a time of extreme separation is a twisted irony I think the Universe may have taken too far, but that’s just me. While the gas tank in my car remains full, at very little expense, my emotional tank is struggling to stabilize; with the mental cost of a refill changing daily. There is so much loss around the world and exhaustion for those charged with the front line fight that I can’t help but feel sharp pangs of guilt and helplessness, like a stomach ache of the soul. Thankfully, most days I feel gratitude.

These rocks on the path, with their hope and poetry, are nonsensical yet inspiring. A tiny RA strand has brought the world to its knees and communities back to scrawling communication on rocks. There are Tiger King conspiracies and mad Presidents assaulting our fragile brains and in the wake of it all, we have chosen, in this community, to fight back with humour and daring messages hand painted by resilient children. No printers, no wifi, no software. Just fathers carrying big rocks with heartfelt messages surrounded by his children in the middle of the day, like Moses down a mountain, hoping someone will read their message and feel something. If I could hang on to time and wring out the minutes like water from a rain-soaked beach towel, I would drink in the goodness, spit out the horror and remember this piece of history for the opportunity it has given me to slow down, take care, and figure out what my role is in the world. Maybe ‘multi-tasking’ is a fashion we can finally see for the ill-fitting bridesmaid dress that it is. And the status the word ‘busy’ once bought us, can now be acknowledged as a bankrupt code for directionless. The amount of time it took to search for a rock, clean it, paint it, write on it and deliver it to this space, makes it far more valuable and charged than any momentary thought shit out on Twitter. Fewer people will participate in this activity and consume its messaging than can probably fit on a couple of streetcars but, it feels like a tangible social network that is far more thoughtful than any other.

We left our own rocks in the cue and stood back to watch others read, laugh, and cover their mouths in sadness as they worked their way down the line. I’m curious to go back and see what the father and his three daughters crafted together. Will it be funny? Will it be a farewell to a lost grandparent? Will it be a poem? Will it be surprising? What is the truth they are living during this global pandemic? It may be random and unexpected like much of life is these days. They walked away, smiling and drinking in the precious moments of fresh air, leaving behind a giant rock, like a piece of their own personal wall come apart, lighter for having reached out, more resilient for having written something together, and ready for another day knowing they are not alone circling the yard, clinging to hope and waiting for freedom. If this is what it means to be stuck between a rock and a hard place, at least we are stuck together, and have something to read.

By Carol Sloan

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COVID Musings - Between A Rock And A Hard Place