Estranged

One of my dearest friends told me (via text) that she is feeling estranged. I found it a little alarming. Estranged in general? Or estranged from me? It sounded personal. I looked up the word, just to be sure: “The adjective estranged suggests a loss of affection, a turning away from someone. The word ‘strange’ within it seems to suggest an alienation of affection, and that a loving relationship has not only soured, but turned distant and even somewhat hostile.”

That didn’t seem right. We are distanced, of course, and there is much happening in the world about which to feel alienated, but a loss of affection? Say it ain’t so. I wrote back promptly—I seldom suffer in silence. Estranged from…?

“Not from you in particular,” she replied. “Just everything and everyone outside my tiny crew….I hate how I feel about human interaction right now.”

I get it. There is much about which to feel disillusioned, and the impulse to disengage is understandable. Lately there are times when I feel downright ashamed to be a member of the human race. But for me, the core friendships seem more important than ever, and the love I feel for those kindred souls whose lives have overlapped with mine has only intensified.

Oh, I miss casual, real-world interaction with others, but the ways in which we maintain those crucial connections have been innovative and heartwarming. I hate that I cannot visit my daughter, and maybe I’d feel less needy if I too had a tiny crew of family at home with me, but among those of us who have been navigating this difficult time together (though apart), a remarkable bond is forming.

Meanwhile, in our various parallel worlds, the weirdness continues. Here at the Ranch, yesterday started with a phone ringing at 3:48 a.m. and when a phone rings at that hour, you know it’s not good news. There was a fire at the east end, and evacuation was not mandatory, but a recorded voice was suggesting the option. We stayed. The wind cooperated, and the fire fighters…best in the world…got things under control by day’s end, but naturally a heightened sense of vulnerability lingers. It feels like we are under assault from all fronts lately. I’m half expecting to be bombarded by swarms of locusts at the window.

Instead, I was treated to a visit from a handsome bobcat strolling around on the deck, and at one point looking straight at me. He seemed an emissary from the natural world, reminding me of all the good things that quietly continue, or are striving to survive. This is his domain, not mine, and we’ve certainly made a mess of things. It isn’t just the plague; it’s stupidity, selfishness, and corruption that make everything worse. And hence that sense of alienation and estrangement. As I said, I get it! It is tempting to retreat and look away. But it helps me so much to focus on the decent and enlightened humans who will hopefully prevail.

My poet friend Dan tells me that this period reminds him of his boyhood during World War II, during which the whole world was involved and changing and no one knew how it would turn out. “I remember our milkman harnessing a team of horses to his milk truck to make his deliveries when there was no gasoline,” he wrote, “and I remember not having a birthday cake because we didn’t have enough sugar ration coupons. But I’m finding–big surprise–that coming back to and being in the moment is the only place that will make sense. If what we’re watching is the beginning of the end of the world, or even only a continuation of the end of the world, I don’t want to miss the beauty of it while it’s going.”

The beauty of course is accompanied by terror and sorrow, all of it shaping our being into new forms, or eroding us down to our true and fundamental selves. I notice I’ve been succumbing to tendencies long held and kept in check, and maybe I’m a strange old woman now, but the strangeness feels oddly familiar. I’m a stream-of-consciousness speaker, a no-filter commentator, an observer of micro-phenomena, and wasn’t I already well on the way to becoming those things? I mutter to myself and marvel about lemons, and I meander through the canyon with a clumsy gait, and I’m strangely in my element.

Maybe I’m a masked ink-slinger, which is what my neighbor called me, or an aging Tinkerbell whose magic dust is tinged with a touch of New York angst, which is how another friend confessed he views me, and I’m fine with either of those labels. In fact, I’ve always thought my epitaph should be “She tried” but now I’m thinking that slinging ink and magic dust are also nice ways to be remembered.

See how I’m wandering? Forgive me. I have not left this place in nearly two months, and I write these posts whether or not I have anything to say.

But please don’t let me be estranged. We need each other. If anyone is listening, hello out there.