Resting on the Sabbath – maybe

Sundays always just “feel” different to me. Maybe it’s because even in quarantine I know I’m going to church. This morning, Jordan wanted to “attend” the nine o’clock service because she wanted to spend mid-day at a neighbor’s pool. So I was barely up and into my morning routine when we put everything on hold for church. Another inspiring service, with Russ Peterman’s theme of “What Now?” After Easter, what now? What lasting impact does the Easter miracle have on our lives?

This morning he talked about anxiety and said his family decided they didn’t yet have enough stress and anxiety in quarantine, so they adopted a border collie puppy. He showed clips, and she is adorable but energetic with both puppy playfulness and border collie unquenchable enthusiasm for life. The clip showed her deviling the family’s older dog—biting at her ear, her collar, her face. The older dog’s look, according to Dr. Peterman, said, “Are you just going to sit there and let her do this?”

I could identify because Sophie is half border collie. Now, at nine, she is more sedate but she was wildness on wheels as a puppy. Dr. Peterman said it was actually a good time for a puppy because everyone was home and could train her. I remembered that I didn’t get Sophie until I was retired and home 24/7 with her. And I remembered my  scratched and bitten arms. One Sunday Jordan was so embarrassed by them she urged me to wear long sleeves to church.

After church, I piddled. I decided I would not work. I would take a rest from my novel. So I dawdled on Facebvook and read the entirety of the New York Times Community Cooking page. Then the Sisters in Crime posts, and truly whatever. But I knew in the back of my mind that I was avoiding the novel because my mind was in turmoil about where it should go next.

So I reviewed the notes I had made, and almost before I knew it, I was writing. I didn’t add much but it got me off dead center, and I went back and plugged some holes in the plot consistency, added some motivation.

But when I took my usual afternoon nap, I couldn’t sleep because I was still writing that novel. Woke with notes of things I must plug in tomorrow. I fear I am at the point where the novel is with me night and day. When I told Jordan it was costing me sleep, she said that’s the time you take a vacation from it. She’s right, and I should have done it today.

So chalk up one more day of distancing. Twelve of Jacob’s friends went to lunch today, and he was uncertain what to tell them about why he didn’t go. Jordan suggested, “I didn’t go because I don’t want to kill my grandmother.” I appreciated that. Much as I don’t like the idea, I can see two years of mostly being quarantined. Infections and deaths are already spiking where re-opening is happening, and I look with horror at people shown on TV eating on patios, shopping, going to the beach—all without maks. But we are also hearing that some of the most adamant protestors—a pastor, a bar owner, etc..—who decried the isolation policy are dying. I’ll stay home, thank you, and I am grateful that my family is protecting me—and themselves.