Shadows of Prognostication

I got a COVID vaccination and a flu vaccination this Friday. I timed it for ten in the morning so that the chills wouldn’t hit me until around midnight. My body must be getting used to the COVID vaccine, because the chills and fever response has been getting less extreme every time I get the shots. At least this time I wasn’t cold and shivering for what seemed like forever and wrung out with sweat afterward. This time it was just some minor random chills, no real fever (I never felt hot enough to take my temperature), and a desire to sleep through most of Saturday, with bouts of comfort reading old Mercedes Lackey novels (“…for Evil’s still lurking / and that’s the next book!”).

The act of sleeping while my body generated new antibodies seemed appropriate for Saturday’s new moon, and gave me an excuse to feel tired and like a not-very-creative, inactive lump. In sweatpants and my bathrobe. And a hot bath was in there, somewhere.

Coincidental with the new moon came the news that one of our friends has a serious health issue. I’m still processing it, and thoughts, feelings, and images — departed friends; memento mori; actuarial tables; appropriate rituals; the tension between wanting a long, healthy life and knowing that living beyond ninety means that one could be the last of one’s old friends left standing; the Six of Cups, the Eight of Swords, the Hanged Man, the Tower, and various other imagined tarot cards — have not settled down into static clarity. As our friend texted, “treatment is going to suck.” This is one of those things one does not want to Google. I’m not ashamed to say that I ran to my health app to double-check my records for various tests, and I guess I’m glad after all that my recently retired primary healthcare provider was old-school and lab-panel-happy.

I suspect tonight’s scrying ritual and meditation for the new moon will be interesting.

"We'll Go Masked."

The last few months have not been conducive to writing, but there's been a recent shift, and I'm hoping that the mental energy spent on various distractions and stressors will be available for more creative endeavors.  

Last week I went to a public outdoor ritual.  The organizers had done a lovely job putting out a circle of candles; light blazed from more candles set up on a long altar.   I was looking forward to it--even if I might have to use an umbrella--but the longer I stayed the more apparent the COVID masking and vaccination check protocols I thought were going to be followed weren't.

After some mental risk-evaluation gymnastics involving the number of unmasked folks there, their proximity, and the efficacy of my own mask, I thought I'd be able to stand on the far side of the circle from the unmasked.  Then an unmasked woman came up and handed me song lyrics, and someone else started perambulating the circle's boundary with his nose poking out over his mask and I realized I'd spend the entire time A) wondering if I was going to catch the omicron variant and pass it to my folks and, B) judging people instead of celebrating the station of the sun.

So I left.  

During the walk home, I wondered if I might have said something like, "Who do I show my proof of vaccination to?" or "Is this a masked event?"  I might have if I had recognized anyone else other than the ritual's leader.  The whole thing reminded me of a passage in Starhawk's "Truth or Dare," where women self-censor and have a Disney Ritual instead of something possibly deeper.

When I got home, there was a garden stake with a lit candle over one of the small tables I use as an outdoor altar set up in the center of the backyard circle.  It was like coming home to a sanctuary, and I spent a grateful moment enjoying the flickering flame.  

Presently, Mark (and the dog) came out; the setup was an outdoor bistro for his dinner.

I went in, attempted to write, and wound up making some edits on a various works-in-progress.

Non-virtual Co-workers

Today I went into the office for work.  The last time I went was... you know, I'm not sure—I think it must have been something like last September.  In any case, I was meeting up with a co-worker, who I haven't seen in person since years and years; we were working for separate departments before being blended into our current office.  We were hired remotely.  Our supervisor retired on our first full day on the first of July.  We were meeting up to meet a potential new supervisor.  In person.

I haven't met most of my supervisors and co-workers except in Zoom or over Teams.  Like most of the US, I've been working from my bedroom, dressed in in jeans, slippers, and casual shirts.  The result is that most of the rest of the staff feel a little abstract and unreal.  

Today I shaved, put on slacks, some dress shoes, and a jacket.  I drove to work and found a parking spot on campus, which felt particularly empty because it's the end of the Spring Term.  I walked to the building I've only worked in for maybe a total of six hours over the last year of working remotely.  My co-worker was there ahead of me: I saw her standing near the elevator, slightly turned away from me.  I didn't recognize her at first because she was wearing a mask, I was seeing her from behind instead of in a Zoom frame, and she had legs.  

She must have recognized my voice as I was checking into the building because she turned and said, "John?  I thought that was you.  You're still tall."

I was having some adjustments to seeing her in real life—the only time I've seen her walking, she's appeared to be standing still, with slight swaying, as her apartment moved behind her.  Seeing her move while the building stood still was different.  Later, we met up with another supervisor: the timbre of his voice had made me imagine him shorter than he is in real life.   When he and my co-worker were speaking and trading some contact information for the candidate, there wasn't text in the chat area, and I could see the backs of their shoulders.  

For a moment, I thought I wouldn't remember my desktop's password, but luckily, my fingers did most of the remembering for my brain.  There were a lot of updates to install.  I think that's going to be the metaphor for returning to work.

Last Week of Spring and Hugging

I think I'm hearing the distant roar of an outdoor high school graduation ceremony.

The last few days have been overcast and rainy.  We need the rain, but it would have been nice to see the crescent Moon sweep by Mars yesterday evening.  It seems so strange that we're in the last week of Spring, the Summer Solstice is in six days -- and then the days will grow shorter and dark again.  Oh well, best not to borrow from the shadows until they're actually here.  Better instead to appreciate the slanting northwestern sunlight making the arbor vita glow like green velvet against the steel and slate colored clouds, and wonder how the dying sun will stoke the clouds into coals.  Better to enjoy the cool evening, and growing perception of the trees' scintillating auras as the twilight deepens. 

There was a family birthday party over the weekend -- it was refreshing and weird to have all of us sitting down at the same table and sharing a meal.  Hugging people feels elemental.  Some people when you hug them feel like a river; some feel like knots of wood;  others feel like a layer of sand over solid rock.  Other people hug you like a half-closing door, their frame rigid while a part of them swings -- and you find yourself gingerly holding a doorknob when you thought you were going to press fully into a door to open it.  Some people hug you like they'd hug a cliff, holding on, fingers pressed into crevasses or around anchor points; or they are the cliff, steady and unmoving, while you find a purchase.  Sometimes, you feel the boulder in a person's chest, or the breath flowing in and out and in and out between you.   And some people aren't there yet, holding themselves in some pocket universe that's out of phase with the rest of the cosmos -- when you hug them it's like typing the word "hug" on a keyboard, or hugging them with arms that have fallen asleep, or it's like hugging a shadow.  

I can only imagine how strange it will be to go back to work in an office when it opens back up in September.