Day 74: "Each of Us Has a Name"
May 25, 2020
Day 74
Each of us has a name
given by the stars
and given by our neighbors
~ from Each of Us Has a Name by Zelda, trans. Maria Falk
How long will I count the days since this all began? I don’t know. Maybe a day will come when I just stop counting. But for now, keeping time in this way continues to feel important.
You will not be shocked to learn that I have a batch of cookies in the oven. I have now used my new sunny yellow KitchenAid mixer twice, and tonight was the first time I did not melt the butter before mixing ingredients. If you aren’t into baking at all, that will probably not mean much to you. But to able to actually *cream* the butter and sugar was incredibly satisfying, and something I was rarely able to do since I usually forget to take the butter out of the fridge in time for it to soften. If you are bored to tears by these details, my apologies.
Today we got a new kitchen clock. Our old one was cute – wood, handmade, with a little birdie that swung back and forth. But then the birdie fell out and it just looked kind of sad and broken after that. However many months later, I finally ordered a new clock. And I love it. It is such a small thing, this kitchen clock, especially when we are constantly shrugging these days and asking, what is time anyway?
This morning, I spent about an hour slowly, slowly scrolling through this graphic on the New York Times website. It goes on and on and seemingly on, offering a visual representation of the 100,000 American lives that the Coronavirus has taken from us since early March. Interspersed throughout are people’s names, along with their age, where they lived, and a short line describing them.
I read and read. After about 40,000, I had to pause. It was too much to take in, and I did not want to tune out as if I were just scrolling through Facebook. I stepped away for a while, then returned, stunned that I was “only” at 80,000 as the date marker on the right of the screen showed early May, just two or three weeks ago.
"Was never afraid to sing or dance."
"Sympathetic ear."
"Teacher passionate about respecting people with different abilities."
"A zest for life."
"Always had a smile and a twinkle in her eye."
"Mother outlived by her newborn."
"Worked as a maintenance man for J.M. Smucker for 25 years."
"She helped immigrants and refugees get on their feet."
"Volunteered as a firehouse cook for over 50 years."
"Army veteran, business owner, free spirit, and kvetch."
"Excellent cook, though she hated the task."
"Go-to person for everybody."
"Emergency worker in the Seminole tribe."
"Knew how to make an entrance."
"Worked long, hard hours and still made time for everyone."
"Went to college at 45."
"Loving stay-at-home mom."
"Loved being quiet at the beach."
That is just 18 of the names. Each name a life, a whole world of stories, dreams, regrets, fears, joys, quirks, rituals, favorite flowers and songs. Each name is a life.
The Dive Into Poetry group begins a week from today. I will tell you the truth: I haven’t started creating the prompts yet. It has even occurred to me to postpone the Dive until July or cancel it altogether. What if I can’t pull it off? It would obviously not be the end of the world – to even write those words in the face of this much loss seems blasphemous. But it would be a significant personal and business decision for me, and in my heart, I am looking forward to this month-long online gathering that I’ve come to associate with community, kindness, safety, beauty, meaning, and connection. I know that I don't have to be amazing, and I will spend the whole month reminding everyone else of that very truth.
After I reached the end of the graphic, I knew what I would do for our first “Dive” prompt. And in the spirit of just sharing, I am just going to tell you what it is.
I am going to invite participants to spend some time on that web page. To read some of the names and ages and descriptions of those who have died since this nightmare began not 11 weeks ago by my clock. And then I am going to ask that folks choose one of those lines as the opening line of a poem.
Together, we will honor the dead by imagining their lives, for while these may have been mostly strangers, as in Jewish tradition, we not only welcome the stranger but we also remember that we, too, were strangers once. We read the names and we write the poems until we come to know, in our very bones, that there are no strangers here, not really. There are only people, so many people, and each life gone is a world vanished forever.
From age five to age one hundred and five, we will remember. From Nigerian immigrant to Holocaust survivor, newlywed to firefighter to a 52-year old in Chicago who “wanted everyone to feel welcome,” honoring these lives and marking these deaths – achingly avoidable had our country taken wise action sooner – feels like a matter of personal and collective responsibility. A calling.
As the sun goes down this Memorial Day, I am aware of how little I have had to sacrifice throughout this pandemic so far. Those last two words cause me to make a spitting gesture over my shoulder, an old Jewish superstition akin to knocking wood, not tempting the evil eye.
Today we got a grocery delivery and I gave the driver as big a tip as I could muster, in lieu of the hug I would’ve liked to give him. I took a socially distanced walk with my beautiful daughter, since she is currently stationed at her girlfriend’s family’s home 20 minutes away. I watched the birds at the feeders and met with a client who is slowly getting her website copy to match her “real” voice. The drizzle gave way to sun; the world turned.
I remember a clock I had a long time ago. It didn’t have any numbers. It just said “now” 12 times. It was always now then, just as it’s always now, now. And how we meet this moment is, as always, the one thing we can really do with intention and care.
I don’t know what will happen after that first prompt, but I’m sure we will figure it out. If you’d like to join me for a month of poetry and community, please come sign up. There’s a sliding scale ($30-$120) and no one will be turned away. Also, if you prefer PayPal, you can use this link.
Rabbi Yehuda HaChasid wrote, “I will build an altar from the broken fragments of my heart.” That is exactly what our writing can do, alone -- and together.