Coronavirus Days--Week 22

This was the week that Dowan caught a bird, even though he is confined to a cat run, yet he can hide and at the precise moment the bird is hovering on the shelf outside the cage, touching down for a moment atop, he strikes and makes his capture. Nan heard the bird yelling, and together we went to try to rescue, but Dowan had done more than catch. We scooped the bird up and said goodbye. Dowan wasn't pleased.

It must have been a week to summon the animals our way, since one late afternoon Whitman started snuffling loudly at the fireplace (which has never been active), alerting us that someone had temporarily moved in. We could hear some scratching. We both freaked a bit at the thought a squirrel or a raccoon could somehow get loose in the house and hurt the pets. Fortunately, the flue was rusted shut, and the intruder couldn't get into the house. After the expert animal person came to help, the squirrel (we believe) left. There's plastic covering the outside opening so we can see if anything has left or entered. The saga continues this week.

This was the week that I decided I could really run a 10k if I trained, gave myself a precise schedule and followed it, keep things a bit routine to keep me more rooted, a sense of control, even if false, in times when any aspect of control seems so far from normal. And I have a date--in October, when I turn 61--to run one by myself, which I prefer, to keep my own pace, hear my own thoughts. Over the past five or so years, I've run very sporadically, but always able to consistently jog a solid 30 minutes. Able to push a bit past that and run 5k. I never felt the desire to go beyond that. But now I do. Running helps me feel strong in a time when I could be felled by this virus, struck down by the horrors of our current government, broken by the anxiety of the times. 

This week I made blueberry scones because I had the ingredients and wanted to stick my hands in dough, to watch how the dry becomes wet becomes dryer and even when imperfect looking (I am not skilled enough to make a nice perfect round and then evenly cut the scones), I still smile when taking a bite, knowing that I made this, created my treat. I am not much of a baker, but over these coronavirus days and months, I've baked more than I have in years. Partly to deal with all my nervous energy. Partly to give myself something new to learn. Partly to keep myself occupied and away from my overactive thoughts. I have to pay attention when baking. So, when I looked at the bowl of my dry ingredients and thought it didn't look like enough flour to make 8-10 scones, I realized I had used a 1/2 cup measure since the 1 cup was dirty, and spacily forgotten to double. I added the missing flour. Now it looked right. Perhaps I might be developing a sense of what looks/feels right when in the baking sphere. Something new to keep my mind more present.

And I continue to notice, to look for something I hadn't seen before or hadn't noticed even if it's been there. Yesterday, while hammocking, I looked up and there in the hibiscus bush a hummingbird beat its wings with that buzzing tempo, something unusual for my yard in Denver. Wonder still exists. It isn't erased but shelved, sometimes far away. Some days choke us like the smoke that is hovering over Denver, miles and miles and miles away from all the burning Colorado fires. The ash covers the top of my car and my eyes tear on a late Sunday afternoon. 

This week was not a this or that. Just week 22 since I've been keeping track of my coronavirus days.