The hummingbird showed up at the feeder today. I'm so relieved. There was only one day of snow, but it was a long day of solid wind and fall. The snow piled on the roof and fell with a thump that sometimes shook the house. I bundled in my sweater, enjoying the soft snowy light, but wondered where the birds were sheltering, how the little hummers with their high metabolism could manage. I still wonder, but it seems they are fine. There is comfort in that. Maybe I cannot travel during this pandemic, but they can. And they are visiting me in my solitary confinement. It's nice.
They are not the only travelers. I hear the constant whoosh and hum of I-40, down below my hilltop home. Who is out there on a Saturday? Why are they not sheltering in place? It's not all trucks by any means. Clearly, people are out and about. Not me, though. I find myself flinching from the very idea of it, rather the way I flinch when I turn the corner to my PO Box and see a person fewer than 6' away. I have become a recluse, and other people are a source of fear and discomfort, an invasion.
The crowded and crazy world has been leading me up to this point. A year ago, I sat in the top row of the Saddle Dome in Calgary, Alberta. I felt both acrophobic and claustrophobic. I thought about random shooters and the long crowded hike back down the beer-sticky cement stairs. Then I thought, no, I'm in Canada, I don't need to worry about gun violence in public places. I breathed carefully and watched the Flames fall to the Avalanche. At the end of the game, I followed the crowds into the rain and walked slowly back to the hotel, sympathizing with the low-spirited silence of my fellow walkers, such a contrast to the pre-game exuberance walking in. The wet streets reflected white and yellow headlights and bright red tail-lights and neon blue streetlights. People passed me, without a glance. As I turned away from the crowds, my nighttime caution kicked in, and I watched doorways and approaching pedestrians for signs of danger, walking briskly and attentively in the way the self-defense people taught me: don't look like a victim, don't look hesitant. If your spidey sense tingles, cross the street.
I remember another spring in Portland, 30+ years ago. A workmate and I were walking down 10th street after a quick Safeway run on my lunch break. We were talking animatedly when an unkempt man accosted us, asking for money. I looked at him and said, "Sir, you are invading my personal space." I was irritated, because he had panhandled us on the way in and I thought that once was enough for one day. The trees were budding, the sky was blue, the street was clear of litter and this person was an affront to my pleasant day.
Now personal space has a whole new meaning, and the invasion of it is more than an affront: it is an assault. But it's an invisible assault, not overt like the guns in the mass shootings or the muggings on the empty streets in the bad neighborhoods. One doesn't know how to defend from it. My mom calls me after her food is delivered, panicking because the delivery people aren't wearing masks or gloves or standing 6 ft away. "They are breathing on my food!" I tell her that even if she did her own shopping, she could not guarantee that no one has touched or breathed on her food, and she would have even more people standing too close. "Just wash the items and wash your hands," I say. You can't live in fear, I think. The world has always been dangerous.
Meanwhile, I watch the birds, envying their freedom, and flinch away from people at the post office.
