Like a Walk in the Park
On Saturday Harrison, Karen and I took a hike through Newport State Park. It was a good afternoon. The sun was out. The park was fuller than it should have been. However, if there were 100 people in the park, we each had our own individual 23 acres to physically distance ourselves from each other.
Between Harrison, Karen and myself, we had three different ways of walking through the park. Harrison—once he settled in—acted like a fourth grader on red Kool Aid. He sprinted ahead of us, lagged behind us, squirreled his way through rock ledges, pulled moss from rocks. The forest held for him a new, undiscovered territory. Karen, fitting her personality, worried about the ticks, the branches, potential broken ankles, lack of cell phone coverage should someone get hurt. For her, the territory carried with it the potential for imminent disaster. I walked the trail, hunted and collected stones, took pictures, listened for birds and wolves and Bigfoots.
Three of us experienced the same walk in the park at the same time in three very different ways. No one way was better than the other. No one way was the right way.
Likewise, we walk through these days with the threat of disease differently. Some have taken rather cavalier, indifferent approaches. Some have taken overly cautious approaches. Some have decided to make the best of what is. Some have lost loved ones. Some work to earn a paycheck, to save lives, to make a difference. Some suffer, confined to their rooms in nursing homes. Some rejoice, confined to their rooms in nursing homes. Some suffer, their sources of food and necessities depleted. Some suffer, their internet too slow to play video games.
How we get through these days matters, but not as much as getting through these days. We each respond to crisis differently. There is no right way or wrong way. There are no style points for survival. In that survival becomes, well, like a walk in the park.