Our New Days of Intimacy

By Mary Lou Fulton

One of the few bright spots in this crisis is a new kind of intimacy.

Coronavirus has given me a chance to reset the clock and rekindle friendships without having to explain or apologize for why I’ve been absent. We dive right in, crashing through the veneer of pretending we’re okay and getting to the truth of our lives right now.  

One friend is now home-schooling three kids while the business she runs with her husband is collapsing.

Another is caring for two elderly parents, one in his 80s who has already been told by his doctor to be very careful because his age and frail health means he’s not likely to get a ventilator should there be a shortage in the hospital.

A friend just lost her job at a restaurant and doesn’t have money to pay the rent in April. She has another job opportunity, but it would involve interacting with a lot of people every day. Is the risk to her health worth it?

We’re saying the things to each other that we once reserved for funerals. I admire you so much. You’re strong and resilient. Your family is lucky to have you. You’re an amazing mom and daughter. I have said and heard “I love you” more times in the last 10 days than I have in the last 10 years.

With so many people working and communicating from home, we’re also pulling the curtain back on the lives of those we’ve only known from a distance. As people take turns speaking on Zoom, my attention wanders to the bookshelves behind them, a small stain on the wall, the pattern on the bedspread (Wonder Woman!), a child’s voice in the background. I like this fuller, more human, less filtered view.

I especially love that musicians are singing to us from where ever they are. On the first day of spring, I watched Brandi Carlile sing Joni Mitchell’s beautiful Little Green, occasionally hesitating for a split-second when she wasn’t sure about the next chord.  

I listened to Steve Winwood playing the blues on an old upright piano, with his spotted dog asleep on the sofa behind him.

I couldn’t hold back the tears as I listened to Paul Simon sing American Tune, a wistful meditation on life’s struggles. He stood outdoors in front of a backdrop that looked like the skin of a blue leaf, just him and his guitar, and the birds sang along.

We’re all laid bare in this moment. No makeup. Vulnerable, afraid, overwhelmed and perhaps more honest with ourselves and each other than we’ve been in a long time. This is one thing that I hope won’t go back to “normal” after these days of sorrow and struggle are behind us.