It was March 13, 2020, 3:00 P.M. 

It appeared to be just like any other dreary March afternoon.  I wished my last hour class a good weekend and gathered my things for home and what I hoped would be a quiet weekend. While I could not have predicted how rapidly and drastically things would change I had been struggling with a growing sense of unease. It was only a few days prior that the governor of Wisconsin, a neighboring state, had dismissed schools in an effort to control the spread of the Coronavirus.  It didn’t take a genius to see what was in store for Minnesota. Still, I had no idea that this would be quite possibly the last time I would see my students. I never got to say goodbye.

That Sunday Governor Waltz announced that students would not be returning to school after Tuesday.  The school district I work for took a very serious approach in keeping their students and employees safe in not opting to hold business as usual.  Students were allowed come gather things from their lockers and desks. Staff was not required to report on Monday, but there was to be an all-district staff meeting on Tuesday morning in the auditorium where we could all sit far away from one another.  

I opted to go in on Monday to gather things I thought I might need over the next weeks.  I tried to grapple with how I was going to teach art ala Distance Learning style with students who may not have any art supplies at home. Walking into school that morning was surreal.  The building was dark, eerily hushed. My co-workers, stuck to their rooms for the most part, gathering and dropping completed projects, folders, and student textbooks in the commons for students to pick up.  We warily passed each other in the halls, sharing small, unsure greetings. The students who came were being told to clean out their lockers as if it were summer break. In hearing this, my heart broke as I cleared off my desk and completed grading whatever had been handed in.  There were so many unfinished projects that would never be completed. The unease I felt earlier grew.

Over the next two weeks, I tried to come up with a feasible, flexible plan for Distance Learning.  I’m not going to sweeten things. I absolutely hate it. I am doing everything I can for my students.  It’s taken everything that I love about teaching; the personal connections with students, witnessing the a-ha moments, the flexibility to change a lesson that’s not working and has replaced what I love with endless hours of email correspondence, phone calls, video conferencing, grading and attendance.  My body aches from sitting too much. My eyes are bugging out from being on the computer hours on end. When I’m not working on my work, which can often last until 10 at night, I’m guiding my daughter through her own Distance Learning. I am grateful to be employed but it is taking its toll on me.

Meanwhile, the world began the process of cancelling everything.  Baseball’s Opening Day; postponed. The National Art Educators Association convention I was looking forward to; cancelled.  The Laura Marling concert I had bought tickets for; postponed, then cancelled. My daughter’s 11th birthday party postponed for the foreseeable future.  (I feel bad, last year after my Dad passed away I couldn’t get it together to get one organized for her. Now this year. Props to the kid though, she’s handled it with grace and maturity).  

The news is grim.  I don’t need to tell anyone that.  Listening to the multiple daily news briefings leaves me angry, scared and sad.  I feel myself clenching my jaw. My head hurts. There is a heaviness on my shoulders I’ve not felt before and I’ve had some pretty dark thoughts I dare not give voice to.  (Nothing involving self-harm. I’m OK). Optimistically, I believe mankind will make it through this, but I worry about myself as a person who is considered high-risk. I don’t want to get sick.  I don’t want to die and I want to keep my family safe. I’m pretty sure the same thoughts run through other’s minds. I am not complacent when it comes to social distancing and protecting myself and my family.  The stress does get to me.

I try to do things that I enjoy and offer some sort of escapism.  I go for walks, listening to music. I attempt my art. I have looked back through my journals again, looked through old photographs.  Still, I’ve struggled with the stress and the fear.

A couple of weeks before some of my old Spine crew decided to meet up for the CD release party for the new Caroline’s Spine album.  It was the best weekend I’ve had in such a long time and something I really needed. I got to see a couple of friends I hadn’t seen in several years.  It was so good catching up. Laughing over old memories and creating new ones. I came away from that weekend feeling the most refreshed I had felt in ages.  The show was good too. We always said that the shows were just an added bonus. The best part though was Jim ending the show with Rainbow Connection. A few tears were shed.  When I try to explain to people what this song means to me I always find my explanation lacking, much like when I try to explain what those years were like and what magic they were. I guess you had to be there.

A few weeks later amidst all that was happening in the world, a friend shared the audio from one of the songs from the show.  I asked if he had Rainbow Connection from that night. He did and shared it. The recording included Jim’s introduction. The message was meaningful and moving that night weeks ago, but it took on a whole different meaning after the stress and fear from the past weeks.

“So you’re gonna wake up…we’re all going to wake up tomorrow, right?  It’s going to be Sunday. And all of our lives are a lot different than they used to be, right?  But it’s still good to get together. So on Monday morning, I want you to think back to this moment, ok?”

So I did and for a little while, I felt the weight fall off my shoulders and that everything will be ok.

For me Rainbow Connection is a song of hope, dreaming of a better future.  Maybe, just maybe, we could have that.