Wrangler Dani

I bought a new chair last week. I’ve long hated my old one and I’ve long wanted a reading nook in the corner of my living room. I’ve not added a new chair because it seemed silly, frivolous, a waste of money or a selfish act. But I found one, I ordered it and it came and I am ridiculously pleased with my corner. I’m realizing my little corners are what matter in times of crisis, maybe in all times.

That said, I feel a little berated for being a middle-of-the-road worrier about COVID-19. I do not believe we’re all going to die, or that this will go on forever or put all the places I love out of business. I also don’t believe that it’s “just the flu”. I believe in the courage and strength of our systems, I believe in the resilience and decency of our people. So I smile at strangers from 6 feet away and I feed horses and kiss boo-boos and wash dishes and make coffee and occasionally write something, which is not all that different from what I would normally be doing. This is not to say I am not afraid. Everyone is afraid, even the people who blithely insist they are not and haven’t gotten a cold in 20 years. I had a tearful conversation with my husband and a long text back-and-forth with a friend about my fears, and then I gave it to Jesus. I figure he’s probably better equipped to handle it then I am, and no amount of crying will make my fears come true or not.

So back to my corners. I do not think that my corners are what matter because I’m obsessed with my own space, mental or otherwise, because I can’t see past my own small needs. I think my corners matter because unless my corners of the world are beautiful and thoughtful, unless I am reading well and thinking deeply and cooking nourishing, wholesome things, I am not equipped for crisis. Like an empty pantry on the day of quarantine my soul is easily ill-equipped for indefinite time in its own company, my mind is so quickly out-of-shape for my own thoughts. I told my daughter today that we don’t need to do something new, that we have all we need, that life lived around our welcoming kitchen table is just as beautiful as life that involves a trip to the library or pizza joint. But that is only true in a sense. Because if I have not tended my corners than I need constant stimuli to maintain an aura of health, one that is as fleeting as the high of newness. If my little places of the world, my heart, my soul, my mind, are not well and able when the world is open to me, how can they hope to sustain me when the world closes? Even more so, how can I offer anything to anyone else if my own mind is a mothball-scented rummage sale of fear and conflict?

So I bought a chair. I made my corner of the living room into a place for reflection and rest. I printed out a picture  my friend took of me at the job I love, the job which is closed now, until it safe to open again. I am writing love notes to my friends on real paper because F. Scott Fitzgerald did that during the Spanish Flu quarantine in 1920 and what other reason does one need, really. (Unlike sweet Fitz, however, I will not be listing off my alcohol stash, although that is entertaining and somewhat sobering – literally, ha.) I am learning to think under pressure, to create even when there’s not a candle burning or the sound of some lovely quiet music to put me in the creative mood. The sound of my children, building train tracks at my feet and debating whether or not the plastic chicken should sit on the newly-formed railway bridge is it’s own creative gift, after all. I am leaning into my faith. I still believe in the God who conquered death and leads us into hope, even when we are kicking and screaming against it, even when we beat his chest when he tries to hold us and demand he give us answers for our pain instead. I’m caring for my corners. Hopefully this means my corners will be ready, when the time comes to leave again I will know how to do so well.