love

If you’re not up to the minute on the global COVID-19 pandemic, you’ve probably been living under a rock (and for now you should probably stay there). For me, it’s difficult to read any amount of news without a raised pulse. The situation is unfolding moment by moment, especially here in the San Francisco Bay Area, and each new development seems worse than the last. Today officials in several Bay Area counties issued a shelter-in-place order that will last at least three weeks, so we are all now hunkering down with our stocks of snacks and (oh-so-precious?) toilet paper.

But I don’t need to tell you that.

What I’ve been thinking about, partly to help myself stay calm in the midst of all the anxiety, are the things coronavirus can’t touch. It is easy to feel helpless, to feel defeated, by such a complete global crisis. But one of the reasons I love fantasy literature is that it clearly delineates the conflict between good and evil, and it instills a strong sense that good will win out in the end–if we choose it.

So here’s where I see goodness, hope, joy, and love still very much alive and well, even in the time of coronavirus.

I see it in the faces of a few friends sharing a home-cooked meal (albeit a few days ago), practicing social distancing yet closing all the distance between them.

I see it in a homemade Communion of white wine and sandwich bread, dipped with washed hands and shared among family members around the kitchen table.

I see it in Netflix nights and blanket forts.

I see it in slow-cooked meals made from scratch, savoring the preparation and enjoyment of joyous flavors.

*(Do you know what these are? They are DUMPLINGS that I made FROM SCRATCH!)*

I see it in church services held on Facebook Live, the viewer count in the upper left corner ticking higher and higher as community comes together.

I see it in connection with elderly neighbors, standing six feet away, yet knowing they are provided for and not alone.

I see it in the slower pace of life, hectic schedules replaced with time for the classic introverted pleasures: good books and movies, writing projects, self-taught skills, feel-good music.

*(A sign I saw in a bookstore window a few weeks ago.)*

I see it in video chats with loved ones, the screen jerking and halting as a five-year-old bolts up the stairs to show off her dolls.

And I see it not least in my puppy, whose passions for snuggles and crunchy apples are undimmed by any number of global crises.

Though I am terribly afraid and confused and uncertain of the future, there is love, love, love, tenacious and unstoppable, pushing up through the sidewalks and jetting out through the cracks of pandemic lockdown–through text, video, Facebook Live, six-foot-distant smiles in the grocery store, and around the kitchen table.

So be safe, everyone. Follow the CDC health guidelines, and get a good laugh out of these amazing hand-washing music videos from around the world. And in these strange times, whatever the form, hold on to goodness and love. I give you one of my favorite fantasy quotes, taken from The Fellowship of the Ring:

‘The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”

I am still in mourning over the worldwide terror attacks of last week.

I grieve for the families who lost someone in the violence. I grieve for a sense of innocence lost. And I am afraid.

ISIS strikes fear into my heart. A militant organization that wants to kill everyone who is different from them, no questions asked, seems like a force of unconquerable evil. How can you reason with such a juggernaut of hate?

I don’t enjoy talking about politics, but somehow worldwide bombings of civilians seem to fit in a different category. And while I can’t pretend to understand all the politics behind ISIS, I have done some reading since the terror attacks. This extremist group is sweeping through parts of Syria and Iraq, killing anyone they believe to be an infidel or an apostate from their brand of Islam. And that includes lots of other Muslims. According to some sources, over 220,000 people have been killed in Syria to date, and 12 million more are refugees. Families. Children who have never known a world at peace. Last week’s attacks raised the question of where these people can go. Several world leaders are stepping forward to offer them refuge.

And in the midst of my grief for the victims of last week’s terror attacks, I think what grieves me most is the way I see some people reacting to the question of these Syrian refugees. Political figures who promote the complete and unconditional closing of American borders are the most visible. But we on the ground are part of it too. Last weekend, many people overlaid red, white, and blue stripes on their Facebook profile pictures to show solidarity with France. I did it too; I think it’s a lovely symbol of compassion.

But this week, some of those same striped-profile-picture people are campaigning to completely ban Syrian refugees from entering the United States. Homeless civilians fleeing from the violence of ISIS. Families, women, children. Some more vocal campaigners have even gone so far as to label all Muslims or all Syrians as terrorists.

There’s so much hate. Prejudice. Cruelty. Revenge.

And the reason for it all? Fear.

Fear that what happened in Paris could happen here. Fear that there may be terrorists mixed in with fleeing Syrian refugees. Perhaps, deep down, a fundamental fear of people who are different.

I’m afraid too. My knee-jerk reaction is to want to hide under the covers, let the rest of the world deal with its terrorists, keep them away from me and mine and everything will be okay.

But in a conversation with my brother over the weekend, I discovered one of the reasons underlying my love of dystopian literature. If you’ve hung around this blog a while, you know it’s a favorite genre of mine. I discuss it with my students frequently. I’ve always found it thought-provoking.

But this week I realized one reason I love dystopian literature is because it prepares us for situations like today’s–situations where fear is a monster in the dark and everyone is gripping a baseball bat, trying to keep it away. Because ultimately, dystopian premises begin with fear. For example:

The Hunger Games: The Capitol’s fear of a second political uprising leads them to exact a yearly tribute of two teenagers from every district (Capitol excluded) to die on public television.

Fahrenheit 451: The nation’s fear of unhappiness from the ideas in books leads to forced federal censorship, the banning of free speech, and a society based on mindless entertainment.

The Giver: The society’s fear of the famines and wars of the past leads to the systematic elimination of diversity, memory, and choice, ultimately leading to a community without love.

In each book, the dystopian (literally: bad land) setting arises because a climate of fear leads the society to make sweepingly inhumane choices: gladiator games, censorship, euthanizing society’s weak and helpless.

Today, in America, we have a unique opportunity to build our own dystopia. We can certainly let hate dictate our actions toward innocent people fleeing violence. (Side note: hate and caution aren’t synonymous. I’m all in favor of background checks and security screenings for those applying to enter the United States, from Syria or anywhere else). But if we shut out Syrian refugees completely, the game is already over. Fear wins. ISIS wins. The juggernaut of hate will have successfully manipulated us into playing its game.

But something else about dystopian novels is that the hero is usually someone who stands up to society–who chooses something bigger than the cultural mania of fear and hate. Back to the same 3 books:

The Hunger Games: Katniss volunteers for the Hunger Games, sacrificing herself out of love for her sister.

Fahrenheit 451: Guy Montag sacrifices his home and his job to rescue, hide, memorize, and share books because he believes in the power of ideas to heal a society.

The Giver: Jonas absorbs and shares memories, ultimately sacrificing his place in the community to give his society a chance to choose again and love again.

I feel so small in this global crisis. I’m not a politician or a lawmaker, and I don’t understand everything. I’m only one person with a blog, some books, and a heart that yearns to help suffering people the way I’d want them to help me. So I hold tight to my dystopian novels, and to the words of Martin Luther King Jr.: