This has been a hard week. I’m weepy, argumentative, inconsistent, and feeling untethered from many of the things that bring me joy. In other words, I’m operating at a lower vibration than is customary. Apart from working on my new novel, I feel I am not contributing to society. Nothing feels important other than to monitor the rise and fall of Covid. My 91-year-old mother is feeling the same way and has taken to writing cheques to every charity that approaches her by mail. Last week I dropped nine envelopes into the red box on Clarke Avenue, on her behalf.
I am sustained by my volunteer work at the Douglas Institute and in the many group homes around the island. All of those commitments were cancelled due to Covid-19, for my own protection, but primarily to follow the rules of social distancing, and minimize the contagion. I’m participating in Zoom calls for Chez Doris, an outreach for homeless women, and for the Douglas, but I miss the human contact of my life prior to March 11th, when everything in Montreal shut down. It was for the collective good, Premier Legault insisted. Except, I am my best self in the company of others. I could never be an astronaut or a monk. I need human touch. We all know it strengthens the immune system. I worry that those suffering from the symptoms of mental illness will think I have abandoned them. I fret that anxiety and loneliness will escalate during the pandemic. For all of us.
The best 75 minutes of my day has become a daily routine. I walk up Argyle to the Boulevard, head east to the staircase off of Cote-des-Neiges and begin my circular walk around the summit of Mont Royal. It’s curious, I have seen the same woman, a stranger, about a dozen times, despite the varied timing of my walks. She has Sarah Ferguson ginger-coloured hair, which has been gathered into two ponytails that seem to grow from the sides of her head. Amazingly, she wears turquoise leggings, or pink ones, or lemon yellow ones; think of a box of breakfast cereal, Fruit Loops or Trix, or Captain Crunch. Her bosom rivals Dolly Parton’s, and she smiles as though she’s channelling the world’s best arias from a secret source. I have crossed paths with her so often, (the park is 692 acres!) that I finally waved her aside and asked if she was an angel. She laughed merrily and said, “Perhaps you are my angel.” Her energy and enthusiasm broke my lethargy.
Days later, after another troubled sleep, followed by a huge latté I went for my walk, determined to choose a new route. There she was yet again, beaming, ponytails akimbo, wearing raspberry coloured leggings, a gleaming white fitness top barely concealing her breasts, sturdy runners She waved enthusiastically as though fully aware of my fragile week, instantly reminding me that forces were at work. I said thank you to the universe for the gift of her appearance. Perhaps you’ve been sent some signs to remind you that living in the moment, despite the setbacks, is the surest way to find joy.