We lost almost 100,000 Americans in one month.
We lost almost 100,000 Americans in one month.
I lost a beloved this month. It was cancer. But COVID-19 kept me
from saying goodbye in person. My heart hurts. In my grief I see every maskless
face as the reason we are still in the thick of this pandemic.
People I know are getting the vaccine. I already know people who
have had their second dose. So there is light ahead. But there are also variant
strains of COVID-19 spreading now. We must remain vigilant.
Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Six feet apart. Isolate.
I check the total dead each day. I have a list of numbers. Every night at midnight I light my ancestor altar. I call on those who weathered plagues and mysterious illnesses that swept through villages and cities. I call on my foremothers and fathers who lost loved ones, and those who lost their own lives in such times. I ask them to guide the dead. I ask them to watch over the living. I ask them to wrap the world in some measure of peace.
And I chant the number of souls who died that day. I chant it seven times. I wish them ease. I wish them peace. I sometimes cry for their families, for the ones who died alone. Especially for the ones who died alone. Viruses don't care about human need. I try to remember that.
It's a simple ritual.
It keeps me mindful of what is happening outside of my own isolation.
In January, we
lost ninety-seven thousand three-hundred and eighty-three Americans.
97,384
That's near the total population of the city of Albany, NY in
2010.
Since the rise of the pandemic 458,121 Americans have died.
Dear gods and ancestors, we have passed 400,000 dead and are near
to 500,000. Feel that weight. It’s been a long time. We’re coming up on a year.
Light a candle. Say a prayer. Wear a mask. Wash
your hands. Stay six feet apart. We can do this. May we all come out
the other side.
[Statistics gathered from this W.H.O. website. They have changed as the numbers have come in, so there is
some wiggle room around the exact number.]
*
A
Contemplative Poem for the Month
This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter wind passes.
Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.
If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on fresh pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.
~John O’Donohue
