It started with East wind, which was warm and dry on Friday and floated dry grains of sand across the shore. That called up the memory of walking Bowzer and how he stood so tall and alert, looking far off north until he noticed the sand accumulating on his feet. He would pick up each foot and shake it free of sand and then prance to avoid it gathering until his attention was caught and he would stand still again, the process repeating itself. I dreamt of the Afghan Hounds the other day.

And today we have been isolating for two months. So I thought about my clothing and my shoes and where we might have gone and what me might otherwise have done in the past two months. I am not among those working as a cashier, though I did that work for years. I do not take care of sick patients nor am I forced to work overtime because the job I do is essential. I have no job.

I have too many shoes. Nine pairs on the rack I assembled when I was Kondo-izing my closet, including slippers and pink flowered Crocs, four pairs of booties, two pairs of sandals, and the pair of flats I keep only because my mother ordered them for me. Tucked in the bottom of the closet there are three pairs of Eileen Fisher shoes found cheap, or relatively cheap, on sale, the black cowboy boots I bought at a garage sale ten or fifteen years ago, and my old Bean boots purchased when we first moved to the beach some forty years ago. And also two worn pairs of black boots too disreputable to wear to work. Except I no longer work.

What I actually put on each morning are my runners, even though I no longer run either. Mostly, I wear the same running gear I bought in the 1990s with grey t-shirts and good socks. I put on a bra the other day and it improved my profile, but I am out of the habit. I did not wear a bra in my senior year of high school because P.E. was no longer required, and I did not put one on again until I’d completed three degrees at the University of Washington and started my first teaching job at a Sacred Heart prep school.

These days I dress as if for a run and after our hour or two morning walk shift to clean cotton jersey pants and top, bare feet, sometimes a sweater or my bathrobe. We always go out early, always have. (Now we go out extra early to avoid the tourists and second-home owners we wish stayed sheltering in their own homes. License plates from Washington and California.) Soon we will be ordering our lives to avoid the heat of the sun. Already I am barefoot most of the day, with or without clean cotton socks. Gary reminds me this is an improvement from when I damaged my feet in 2011 and could not even stand for long without orthotics.

Most of my wardrobe is useless, unused for two months and likely to remain so even after the current emergency. There are dresses I have owned for twenty years that, barring moths, will be wearable when I die because I have no where to wear all that lovely silk and wool and that perfect silk-and-linen blend. I can see now that the garments are unnecessary. I took out all my earrings last month. Five empty holes. I wish I had not lost one of my little sterling Laurel Burch birds on the beach, but even if I had them both, it would only be to have and hold. The pair I pierced my ears for. Precious objects (object) of sentimental attachment sitting in a drawer.

Other than walks, I leave the house once a week these days. Without the pandemic, we would have daily driven to pick up our mail six miles away. Many more trips to purchase groceries. We probably would have gone to Portland at least five or six times, to the Farmers Market and Powell’s Book Store and out for lunch and to visit our sons and their families. Cargo to see Calli. I might have made strawberry jam by now (there are eight jars of mango chutney instead). We had planned a drive to Canada, the Black Ball to Victoria and two or three days at Elaine’s.  Now I daydream about San Francisco, maybe in October of 2021. I weave but I am not entirely hopeful that the show I am weaving to prepare for will take place in December. The work passes the time. Like spending an afternoon making more chutney than we will eat in two years. Even without the pandemic, it was a good use of my time.

Without the pandemic, there would probably still be at least six shawls from two warps finished, but maybe not three warps—nine shawls folded away—with a fourth going through heddles today. I likely would have visited the yarn store in Victoria and Churchmouse on the way up north.

Without the pandemic, we would have finished reading books eighteen and nineteen in Patrick O’Brian’s Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin series by now because I generally read aloud on a drive and now we are busy in separate rooms. Maybe we would have read the last one of the series and started something new by now.

Without the pandemic, Gary and I would still be gathering trash from the shore during our morning walks, another two hundred pounds or more in two months. I would still be coming home from those walks with a sore back. So there is one advantage.

Without the pandemic, I would have gone to see my dentist about the pain in my jaw by now. We would have had friends over for dinner. We might have gone to visit friends, sat in their living room, and told stories. I would have played at least eighteen games of Scrabble. We would have gone out for a meal. I would not be baking all our bread. I would not have perfected my recipe for sticky buns or made my very best brownies ever. I would not now be nurturing five kinds of vegetable seedlings. Losses and gains.

Without the pandemic, we would have been able to choose gifts for family in person, and I would have made cakes for two grandchildren’s birthdays. I would feel optimistic that my fifty-year high school reunion would take place in September. We would attend. Family members who need medical care would be receiving it. I would not worry less.

Without the pandemic, “Virtually Normal,” the Brevity blog post scheduled for next week would never have been written. Perhaps I would have written a poem for each day of the last month—I’ve done that for years past. My presentation for Willamette Writers would have taken place in Newport last month, so that would have been another trip. Instead of posting assignments online, I would have had the opportunity to share in person.

Without the pandemic, my novella might remain languishing in a computer file instead of being shared on line for a month, or maybe I would have revised it for NaNo and rediscovered how fond I am of that thought experiment. As it is, I have a page of revisions, additions, and possibilities for when I am next moved to write fiction.

How has life changed for someone like me? A person who is able to isolate with someone they love, but who still feels what is missing? The iris are in bloom. The little flowers volunteering in the front garden would open their faces to the sun. Maybe the middle garden would have less attention. I would have bought starts instead of planting seeds.

Regardless, the tides sweep in high and low. Weather moves through. People and places exist even if I do not get to see them in person. I hope it has not all been bad for fortunate people like me, that even as I miss many things life has changed for the good in some small ways. I hope the useful changes become permanent. I do not believe that what does not kill us always makes us stronger because sometimes what does not kill us leaves us crippled and unkind. Surely we all know that is true. Nevertheless, hardship might reveal to us our power, render us flexible and compassionate. We might find the legendary workaround.

I believe that any time we are forced to do something difficult, something that will not kill us, we should change, and that we should do our best to ensure that the changes we find in ourselves and in our world are for the better.

Happy Mothers’ Day!