D.O.D., 52, a yoga instructor in Newton, MA

The rules, even the rules of kindness, have changed in this new world. Taking one of my short walks outside this weekend on an absolutely stunning afternoon, and an absolutely jam-packed with pedestrians and bikers, Comm Ave. My canine shadow likes to meander, lately even more fascinated with those things that dogs find astonishingly curious.

Five bikers, two dads and three boys, come climbing up heartbreak hill. There is a steepness to this part of Comm Ave that any runner or biker can tell you is insidious—at first glance, it looks manageably easy, but mounting it is another thing. One of the dads takes this hill as his challenge of the day, and accelerates his bike into high gear, taunting his bike-mates to follow along. Three of the four remaining bikers attempt to catch up, and the fourth, a boy of about 10, makes his move by getting off his bike, trying to run it up the hill instead of pedal. The other four continue to climb further away.

As the boy realizes that this is not his winning strategy, he mounts his bike again, renewed vigor and effort pouring out of his body. Except now, he is closer to the top of the hill, and his front wheel won’t cooperate. He is about 20 feet away from me as I notice that his full-steam ahead enthusiasm dissolves into a crash and a scream.

Instinct kicks in and I run towards him, “Are you okay?!” And then my legs turn to lead. Feet, glued to the pavement. My human reaction to be kind, to help, get swallowed up by the heavy vapors of fear. Do I follow my initial reaction to go over, help pick up his bike, dust him off, and get him back on the road to catch up with his group—a group who hasn’t yet noticed he has fallen?

A typical straightforward approach now freighted in this iterative process. Questions bubble up: What if he is sick? What if I am a carrier and unwittingly expose him in my attempts to help? My pup is chomping at the bit to explore this boy, now on the ground at his level, where he can sniff to his heart’s delight. I pull back on the leash. I’m shocked to see the exquisite tension between keeping each other safe by keeping our distance and the wish to help. This is so different from the way that we are wired. We are wired to be part of the collective good. When someone is sick, we want to be with them. But now we can’t. When someone is worried or grieving, we want to hug them, but now we can’t. Our hands are quarantined from our fellow travelers in need.

Taking in the scene, a runner from the opposite direction stops near the boy, maintaining a healthy space. The two of us watch him, social distance in the lead, and concern hanging in the air. There is a silence where hands would typically be, there is a quiet as he manages on his own. The boy looks up. Eye contact. “Yeah, I’m okay”. He pulls his bike up along with himself. Relieved. He walks his bike toward his crew as one of the dads turns to notice the boy’s slowed ascent.

Confronted with the reality of this new order of things is not a happy moment. It requires we balance our spontaneous impulse to lend a hand with the potential risks of doing so. We can worry that our empathic wiring will atrophy under this time, but I trust that though our hands may be quarantined, our hearts need not be. By offering kindness in our words, our intention, and our emotional tone, we hone a more subtle yet still powerful connection between ourselves and others. And this new skill, this effort to articulate our love, may persist long after these strange and tragic days have passed.

[submitted on 4/27/2020]

Life in Quarantine: Witnessing Global Pandemic is an initiative sponsored by the Poetic Media Lab and the Center for Spatial and Textual Analysis at Stanford University.

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