Scanning Facebook recently to see how my lovely friends were faring in the new Touch less Pandemic Landscape, I see the usual:
Arguments for taking the family to the beach in quarantine, arguments for not leaving the house in any circumstance.
Questions on what is acceptable for venturing out to get a little sun on their faces while still following the new social distancing rules.
Argumentatively figuring out what social distancing means.
Pictures and stories of friends quarantine experiences, some that reminded me of a story I’d heard about the Great New York Blackout November 9, 1965, conversely, some that looked like stay-cations.
As I scrolled and read, I found that one central theme governs this new day: our society has become touch less. A necessary measure now it seems to flatten the curve of exposure to an aggressive, invasive new virus currently ravaging our planet.
Necessary as it may be, it has its own side effects.
I scroll, taking in the information of others, reading about their politics, perceptions, and responses and mid sentence, an ‘FB memory’ pops up for me. You know, those little adages that FB offers every so often that can come off like a lovely little gift or a nasty curse depending upon the memory and where you now sit with that memory’s scenario. Today it appears, it was a gift. It was a memory of an experience I had with a fingerprinting shop over in Northeast. It had me thinking about our Touch less New Age, mostly it has me hoping that we can one day return to normal, if possible, even better off with that ever so slowly dying spectrum of human culture. There is healing in the human connection. I don’t imagine any pandemic can stop that.
It was March 22, 2018, and I was feeling pretty annoyed and taxed as I drove to the tiny shop way out on Division. They are among the few who take fingerprints for the State of Oregon and other fed background checks for less than $40 bucks. Felt like it took forever to get out there. Both the dog and I were tense when I got out and stalked in there. It was a Vietnamese gift shop stuffed to the brim with jewelry, tea sets, books and other novelties with a small corner in the home for their print business. I was stiff and my hands were cold. The young lady led me over to print board and took my right hand. Her hands were warm, she had a calming quality about her. Each finger on both hands printed on an official card, put in something that looked like an evidence bag. Card number and I.D. documented and the prints given back to me to take back to an organization who then ships it off to the State. I must've only been in there but a few moments and each moment standing in that little shop/house I felt more and more at ease. I took a deep breath and said, "I'm glad I came, it's nice in here." I noticed my hands were warm and bright pink. I walked out onto the patio and down the steps to the car and a first-generation family matron whom I never got to formally meet was playing a musical bell and burning incense in the back garden. She smiled at me as I got into my car and drove away a completely different person than who arrived. Apparently there is a little house on East Division that sells attitude changes.