Laughter overcame me the other day as I slid open the shower curtain that hides our pantry annex. Me, storing things in the bathtub? Never, ever, except now I do. So many items that we normally buy as singles we now purchase in bulk…and our walk-in pantry is full…as is the hall closet emergency stash bin.

Like everyone, we’ve made some big changes since early March resulting in a very different lifestyle. We cook instead of dining out; attend online meetings and social events rather than seeing friends and colleagues in person; tie on masks when we step outside; wipe down EVERYTHING that comes into the house. Two people who live to travel have no travel plans. All big differences from the way we were living earlier this year. But there are also small things that taken together create a radically different life. For example:

1-Long, silky hair is out; wavy, messy hair is in. My blow dryer has not been turned on in two months, resulting in more than one tangle and quite a few knots.

2-A luxurious quantity of facial hair adorns Bill’s face since he stopped shaving and trimming his beard. (That needs remediation if his mask is ever going to fit properly!)

3-The skin on our hands looks like alligator hide from washing excessively/compulsively during the day. No amount of hand cream seems up to changing the new texture.

4-Since instituting the daily checklist, adherence to my asthma med regimen has been perfect! Yay!

5-Projects litter every horizontal surface in every room because we don’t have to straighten up the clutter for our cleaning team…sad face. The person in our household who does the dusting just flicks the duster around the messes! (Note: I used to be known as a neatnik!)

6-We have a lovely new hobby…building Harry Potter Lego sets during FaceTime calls with my cousin’s grandson. And at other times…like when we are supposed to be cleaning out the office.

7-We see some of our friends more often now that our social life takes place on video calls. It is so much easier to get an hour or two together when no one needs to fight traffic!

8-Our once pristine car is covered with dust because we haven’t yet figured out where to have it washed. Of course, we have only driven it three or four times in the last two months…but, still!

9-Kale and sweet potatoes are now staples in our house. Vegetarian meals are prominent on the weekly menu. We drink tea more often than beer. We juice…enough said!

10-We binge on “The Brady Bunch!” I think that says it all.

These are tough times for optimists like myself. Even though this household rations our exposure to the news, we are immersed in the events that are engulfing the planet. It seems like there is little good news most days. We are in for it…a time of suffering and deprivation for many.

Much of the pain could be alleviated if we each tap into the kindness that is in our hearts. Most of us are very willing to be kind and fair to people we know and love; we can extend that to strangers. The love in our hearts can be limitless…love cannot be quantified, and no heart is too small to love everyone. Where are examples of this love? Look to the nurses, the nurses aides, the doctors, the grocery store clerks, the delivery persons, the volunteers doing what they can to help all of us through this nightmare, the people wearing masks, those staying at home.

Of course, where there is kindness, there is also the opposite. Cynics and opportunists make decisions that affect all of us. Their cold calculations of the worth of a life determines many policies. Harsh rhetoric frees many to act out their biases and hatred. Shooting a store employee who asks one to wear a mask; screaming at a police person who is guarding a state capitol; cutting back on healthcare and food assistance in the middle of a pandemic…what is in the hearts of those who behave in this way?

What kind of hearts hold distrust of people of different races, disregard for the homeless, disdain for the elderly and infirm? What heart beats in a person who can see suffering and not act? What heart allows one to refuse care and concern for others at a time they need it most?

I don’t know the answer, but in my mind those hearts are black…stained by hatred or perhaps deep holes devoid of light. This artwork tells that story.

As is our habit every first morning in Paris, my husband and I awoke bursting with big plans for the day. This year we decided that topping our agenda in the City of Lights was a revisit to the beloved Impressionist paintings at our favorite French museum, the Musée D’Orsay.

 

After a petit déjeuner of baguettes slathered with butter and jam, crispy croissants, freshly pressed orange juice and strong coffee we descended to the Metro at Grands Boulevards. The Paris Metro app on my iPhone directed, “Ligne 8, direction Balard, transfer at Concorde to Ligne 1.” Alighting at Tuileries station we walked through the gates of the Jardins des Tuileries. We knew a ramble through the gardens on our way to the pedestrian bridge over the River Seine would ease our transition into la vie parisienne.

 

Spring was mature when we left our home in northern California on March 30th. Many trees bloomed early this year; in our neighborhood the plums were in full flower in late January. In Paris, spring was newborn. Rows of trees in the Jardin des Tuilleries were just budding out, creating a pale green haze above our heads. Lipstick red tulips nodded at their reflections in the limpid ponds. Winter-weary citizens lounged in slant-backed chairs lining the paths, their faces turned towards the yet pale rays of sun.

 

We wandered the groomed avenues of the garden, reveling in the light breeze and fair sky. Soon, we were feeling peckish. It was early for a full lunch, so we stopped at one of the open-air cafes in the park for take-away food. A perfect late morning snack…baguettes with jambon and beurre. That salty-fatty combination of country ham and butter layered in a crusty baguette called for ice-cold cokes. Luckily for us icy drinks are readily available in Paris these days.

 

Within a few yards was an unoccupied bench where we spread out our picnic lunch. Midway through my sandwich, I asked Bill, “Do you really want to spend the day inside?” He swallowed and considered the question. “Let’s go over to the museum and see how long the line is.”

 

While he finished his sandwich and mine, I sketched a gentleman sitting near us. Like many older men in this city he was dressed nattily, in a sport coat and slacks. Engrossed in his book, he was oblivious to my observation.

 

We gathered our things and strolled away. As always, when we came near the steps to the bridge, our question was “Over or under?” The pedestrian bridge from Jardin des Tuileries to the left bank is relatively new and features two approaches. One involves walking down a shallow flight of steps in a tunnel under the peripheral road, the other up a steep flight of steps from within the park. We opted for the shallow steps and were joined by a dog-walker with a pair of boisterous pups.

 

Emerging in the sunlight we were swept into a small group of people hurrying across the river to the museum. We slowed and stopped to savor the view from the bridge. The foamy wakes of tour boats traced long arcs on the gray-green water of the Seine. The Louvre stretched for blocks on the right bank, while on the left the mansard roofs of the Musée D’Orsay gleamed.

 

A dark-haired woman approached Bill and held out a gold ring. We laughed and shook our heads. She looked crestfallen, but even addled by a long flight and jet lag we were on to the gold ring scam. Plus she hadn’t performed it well. To pull it off, she needed to pretend to pick it up from the pavement at his feet before handing it to him. We were not off the bridge where another woman thrust a ring at Bill. This time, I scanned my husband’s attire. “Something about you is screaming tourist!”

 

At the Musée D’Orsay, the line of art lovers queuing for tickets filled the plaza. We looked at each other and shook our heads. “Today is for walking!” I suggested. Bill grabbed my hand and we turned our back on the Impressionists.

 

We walked down the narrow street behind the museum and then turned left on a side street towards the Seine. Crossing the boulevard we found ourselves at the line of stalls where for years, booksellers have offered used and new volumes in French and other languages. We ambled along, stopping when a bright cover or words in English caught our eyes.

 

“Shakespeare and Company!” I remembered that on the list of things we really wanted to do in Paris this visit was a stop at the iconic bookstore. It was somewhere on the left bank, in the direction we were headed. We walked on, crossing the street again to try to find some shade.

 

At Place Saint-Michel, I shivered a little despite the bright sun. Nearby walls bear plaques with the names of resistance fighters who died on that spot in August 1944. I could feel the bloodied courage of these men and women as if their shades lingered even now.

 

The traffic in the area was a bit daunting. When a glimpse of bright color caught Bill’s eye, we sidled down a side street to find one of those vest-pocket parks that dot Paris. Cherry trees crowned with blossoms shaded the grass. Four young women giggled as they postured for photos in front of masses of pink blooms. The sounds and smells of the cars on the boulevard seemed far away. We were delighted to relax in this green haven in a bustling neighborhood.

 

And then we walked on…arriving at Shakespeare and Company where we edged our way through the warren of narrow shelves, jostling other readers to find the poetry section. Bill chose e.e.cummings while I picked a slim book by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet and owner of City Lights bookstore in San Francisco. Somehow that felt just right.

My husband is a man to whom change is an anathema. We still live in the same condo we bought 35 years ago, because the idea of a change to our abode is just too huge to contemplate. Over the years, he has resisted many of my creative ideas…eventually coming around to most (moving is a prominent exception) albeit with a sense of unease that lingers. Simple changes, like switching our brand of peanut butter or buying a new blender or rearranging the pantry shelves, are not taken lightly around here.

So I am amused and amazed at how readily he has adapted to the myriad small changes we have had to make in the last two months. Staying home every day instead of running out on errands suits him fine. He is diligent about his new daily tasks and keeping track of them. Switching brands based on what is available is okay now. For the first time ever, he let me help trim his very unruly beard, although allowing me to cut his hair is still a scary idea!

One change is a surefire hit! Hubby loves that we now eat home cooked dinners nearly every night. Those casual last minute meals at our favorite restaurants are no more. This meat and potatoes guy seems to savor the variety of new recipes served by his personal chef. The thoughtful meal planning required to shop for ingredients online has lead to healthier eating…a change that was overdue.

Some changes we are both embracing with enthusiasm, like having more time together. Our virtual social life is not as robust as it was the first few weeks of shelter in place. We agreed that we need more “we” time and less party time. But, it is fun to connect regularly with friends we haven’t seen in person for some time. We enjoy discovering online theater performances and cultural events. More time to read is a joy!

We are struggling with one change…getting outside to walk has been very hard. We open windows for fresh air and step out on our sunny deck when the wasps are asleep, but developing the habit of walking beyond the mailbox is a change yet to come. There are a couple of reasons for that. Not everyone in our neighborhood is adept at distancing…and until this week I didn’t have a mask that fit well with my hearing aids. My dear cousin took care of that problem…she sewed masks with ties for me. This week, change is coming to our physical activity…we’ll suit up and get out there!

In truth though, we’d very much like our old lives back. We should be deep into planning a big international trip for the fall, scheduling a road trip to visit family in the Pacific Northwest, setting up dinner dates with local friends, making theater and opera reservations. Instead we are supporting our community in the fight of our lives…and accepting that change is a constant and will be forever. We have no idea if we will ever return to the lives we enjoyed eight weeks ago, but we’ll persevere and change as we must to adapt to our new lives.

Not that I’ve been blocked or anything, but my excuse is that visual art has been a casualty of everyday busyness the last few weeks. Every day something seems to come up that keeps me away from my studio space. After two hours rearranging art supplies last week, I realized that forward momentum towards actually creating art had sputtered to a stop.

A few days ago, the embarrassment of showing up week after week to two different art classes with no work to share, got me at least messing around with paint and some collage elements. For one class, the assignment is to work with narrative in an abstract form. My artwork is due for critique next week.

Early in the class, the idea for a narrative squirmed to the surface…and then got clogged in some emotional gunk before I could get to work. Attempts to plough through the blockage failed. A faint ray of sunshine revealed the obvious…there’s another story to be told and until told, everything else is on hold.

That’s happened with my writing more than once. A big writing idea molders in the back of my mind while I resist setting down the words that need to be said on a totally unrelated subject. I spent a year once avoiding work on a mystery novel while I fought to finish the story of my first marriage. Strangely, the week I finished that tale, I also wrote a thousand words of the novel.

So, I faced up to this block…and admitted that it was time to address some anger and pain that was wasting my energy and draining my creativity.

The piece is titled, “Black Hearts.” If I stay on trajectory, it will be finished next week…along with a written narrative of the story that had me hung up. Here’s a glimpse.