“This night will pass…Then we have work to do…

Everything has to do with loving and not loving.” – Rumi.

I was online searching for computers to buy for the Bishop Maginn refugee kids stranded at home when I got a text message from a friend: “Hey, Jon, turn on the news, you’ve just been banned by the Governor of New York.”

Of course, I was startled and assumed it was a joke. Until I looked at the news. The awful surge of sick people into hospitals has begun, the thing the doctors have most feared.

I am 72 years old, and Governor Mario Cuomo, along with other governors, has ordered me and everyone over 70 to stay inside avoid other people, and go out only for food, medicine, or “solitary walks.” Older people are at heightened risk of getting the disease, and thus, of passing it along.

Walking with dogs is permitted. Talking to other people on the path is not unless I shout at them from afar.

I have no argument with Governor Cuomo or his ban on me. I accept this diminishment of my life,  hopefully with grace.

Governor is ordering me to do just what Maria has been demanding that I do, and what I ought to do. Thank God for the governors. I’m not deep into politics, but he has been honest, bold and clear. I thank him for that. He does not lie, disassemble or use this plague to promote himself.

He said these rarely heard words:  This is my responsibility, he said, and nobody else’s. If you want to be mad at someone, he said, be mad at me. I know what this will cost, I know the pain it will cause.

I don’t want to be mad at him. I want to shake his hand (also forbidden, and pat him on the back one day) and say thank you for being honest.

I am working hard to process this new category I am in. The really sick people need everyone’s attention, not me. I am in a rural county with few people and lots of space between them. We’ve had no cases yet. I know this could change radically and swiftly, but it’s only theoretically about me right now. It’s my job to stay alive, and do no harm.

I have no right to feel a victim. That could change in a flash, I know that.

There are lots of people sick and dying out there, and the doctors are saying we are not even close to being prepared. How could our rich and advanced country walk so blindly into horror like this?

It is a simple sacrifice for me to walk my dogs in the woods and stay home to do what I normally do – write and take pictures and love my wife.

After an initial panic attack over toilet paper, I’ve given up even thinking about hoarding and are buying only small amounts of what we need. We’re good for a week or so.

That panic, at least, is subsiding. Toilet paper is creeping back into the store shelves. Hand sanitizers are popping up on Amazon.

I don’t have much hand sanitizer on hand, but then, the doctors say it isn’t nearly as good as plain old soap, of which we have plenty.

My local supermarket has established early hours for older people, and I might take them up on that. 6 to 7 a.m., three days a week.

The governor says it’s okay to shop, just don’t get too close to other old people, or any people.

I don’t usually think of myself as being old, but the past few weeks won’t let me forget it. I almost expect to be wearing a Scarlet Letter on my forehead, people stay very clear of me. I think my official title now is “Old Man At Extreme Risk.”

Those microbes are like angels of death, I hope they blow over me and around me and those I love.

I do think about my daughter and granddaughter stuffed into an apartment in Brooklyn. They are too careful, I think to attract this virus but being alone day and night with a willful and demanding three old for weeks or months just might do them in.

What the governor did is something I never once imagined would be done to me. He put my life and the lives of everyone else on pause. So did governors in several other states.

Our whole country is in a state of shock and wonder. And fear.

Our lives have been creeping towards pause for days, and finally, it seems to be upon us. My heart goes out to all those people flooding into hospitals, and all the doctors trying to save them without the proper medical equipment.

I am nothing but lucky, at least so far.

My prayers and hopes seem quite small and powerless compared to the disaster slowly unfolding, yet I am very angry about the politicians who dismissed the dangers and lie about them every day.  Lying about life and death diseases ought to be a crime. In many ways, it is. I am grateful to Governor Cuomo for speaking truth to me.

There will be a reckoning, I am sure of it. I will work to empty my heart of anger and focus on doing good. It is better to do good than argue about what it is. I really believe that.

Maria asked me at dinner tonight if I was afraid. I said I wasn’t. She asked a question I did not expect: “If you caught this disease and died, would you have any regrets about anything you did?”

“No,” I said, I won’t.

“Okay, then,” she said, “you’re doing the right things.” I hope so. I am not afraid. I don’t feel it’s my time. But I will do everything the governor has asked me to do, it is the very least that I can do. Nobody wants old people helping out anywhere. They want us inside and out of sight. This is a new position for me.

For now, I will accept the pause and shrinkage of my life, accept the label this virus has put on me. I will pause a part of my life and keep the other part – my blog, farm, photos, and Maria – very much alive.

You don’t have to be a saint to be good, and you don’t have to leave your house much either. I wish the best for all the sick and frightened people.

I will do everything I can to help Jean’s Diner survive; I will help the Mansion residents do their art and watch their movies, and I will get those gift cards and laptops for the Bishop Maginn students in urgent need of them.

I have no regrets. And I’m not sure why, but I am not afraid. Age has its benefits.

The governor didn’t ban small acts of great kindness.

They are not on pause.