Covid-19: Human Nature

We in California are now in day seven of the statewide shelter-in-place order re the coronavirus. I've been journaling, though I haven't been sharing so far. Today I will. Here's what I wrote this evening, after a day of editing, a (well-shielded) session with a friend as we stumble through a book in Norwegian, a walk up a muddy trail with the dog (with spectacular views out over Monterey Bay), and the usual evening stuff: writing the following, dinner, TV, and social media. My days aren't really all that different being in lockdown, but this whole new reality has gotten me thinking.
 I probably won't post daily, but who knows. Anyway, here's this.

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This afternoon we went for a walk up the “secret” trail that leads to the backside of Jacks Peak Park. It’s usually very quiet; typically we see no one—at most one other hiker, and almost never a dog. Today, though: ten humans and seven dogs. It reminded me of last week walking out at Toro: everybody was there, and everybody had a dog. It’s like the dogs are giving the humans permission to un-shelter, at least for a moment.

 I’ve been seeing comments (both snarky and reasonable) on NextDoor (which is a breeding ground for snarky/self-righteous/judgmental) about all the people parked at Badger Hills trailhead. Which, okay: that same day I saw all the dogs at Toro, I was amazed at all the cars at both Badger Hills and Creekside. The lots were full! And apparently, the popularity of those trailheads, of getting out into the fresh air, persists. And good: it should. And that’s also where reason should prevail: all those people are arriving at different times, so it’s not a “congregation.” And Toro is plenty big enough, with wide roads—army roads—that certainly allow for six feet distance if you pass someone.

 On the drive over to this afternoon’s walk, Ari Shapiro on NPR was interviewing someone about the anti-Chinese sentiment in Los Angeles that’s been growing ever since Wuhan was locked down—so, for six, seven, eight weeks. That plus the comments about too many people at trailheads (and I’m not denying that in some places—big cities, for example—there can be a problem with too many people wanting to use a relatively confined space) made me think about fear. Fear, ignorance. But mostly fear: fear of not being in control; fear of the unknown; fear of losing agency; fear of impermanence. And it made me think we all could use some instruction on how to deal with, not the fear itself, but with potential lack of control, of agency; the unknown; impermanence. (Doesn't it always come down to death?)

 I was thinking about children in that instance—that is, start teaching children from an early age how to approach the unknown, insecurity. But I concluded (sort of, because I'm pretty thoroughly an atheist) that that’s what religion does, or should do, for all of us, adults as well as kids, if it’s any good. Yet so much religion I hear about seems to be focused instead on other matters: us vs. them, for example; getting “ahead”; being “right” (unlike those infidels over there somewhere else . . . I guess that’s us vs. them still). Going to heaven. I confess: I don’t really know what, say, (many? most?) evangelicals believe, or want, but my impression is that very often it has little to do with unconditional love for their fellow humankind. Or for the planet that we all depend on.

 So I was thinking, where do we turn to get wise, thoughtful, compassionate, loving instruction on, oh, the human condition? Or, maybe that’s not the question. Maybe the question is, how do we teach people to want such instruction—or better, exploration—with full heart?

 And again I come around to the paradox of so many people choosing hate, when love is a better option. (I would say, the only option.)

 So yeah: the human condition. It’s the snake eating its own tail, the Ouroboros. But no: that’s a symbol of eternal cyclic renewal, and what I’m going on about here isn’t renewal—it’s a shutting down, a closing off. Is hatred really easier? (Yes, sadly, it may well be, for too many.) 
 Maybe the metaphor I’m looking for is the hungry ghost: someone trying but unable to satisfy desires—for instance, the desire to feel perfectly safe in an unpredictable world. That’s a recipe for unhappiness, for sure. What other metaphor might there be, for this stubborn human tendency to say no, get away, rather than yes, let me embrace you, with all your mystery, all your faults. (For don’t we all have a few of those?)

  When I think of religion, or religious people, people of faith, whom I admire, I draw comfort from my friend Ruthanne, who sees her journey of faith as one of questioning, of wrestling. Never settling for a pat answer, but always probing, always looking for more—more love, more connection, more heart, more joy. That’s what we all should want to be doing.

 And yet . . .