Counting Pinecones

This morning I did something unusual. Unusual for me, I guess. I left my phone in the house, grabbed a beach towel, a sweater, and a book and headed out the door to my front lawn. 

COVID-19 has called many of us to do simple, but unusual things. Acts that under normal circumstances might be questioned by our families, our neighbors, or ourselves. I live in a suburb of Richmond, Virginia - at the intersection of what is normally an active neighborhood. And, this particular Saturday morning, I would have expected to see a swarm of people: runners preparing for the upcoming half marathon, kids haphazardly balancing on bicycles, neighbors complimenting each other on the blooming azaleas.

But not today. Not on this beautiful Saturday morning. As I looked out my bedroom window, there wasn’t a single soul outside. Just the gentle hum of a machine from somewhere out of view. 

While the news of the pandemic has been front and center for weeks I can no longer count, and is getting closer and closer to home, something else called me. Called me to leave my phone on the bed, throw on jeans and a sweater, grab a beach towel and head outside. I didn’t tell my family, I just opened the front door and walked out. The azaleas surrounding our yard were moments away from their annual glory. I spread my towel across the grass, sat down and listened. 

The hum, I noticed, wasn’t coming from a single place but from multiple places. Left. Right. Someone somewhere might be cutting down a tree, and I imagined a small child sitting on their front stoop watching the comotion with wide eyes and a juice box. 

Then, I heard the giggles. A few houses over, some children were jumping in a backyard trampoline, demanding that their parent watch them as they practiced a new stunt. The deep, rhythmic tap of a basketball could be heard from the driveway next door. No, I couldn’t see them - all I needed to do was listen and I could see the scenes quite clearly. 

I laid back on the grass and looked up. Thousands upon thousands of pine cones hung over me. Each one of them, I thought, would one day fall to the ground. I started to count them, and then was quickly distracted by a giant bumble bee that was very curious to see me - his buzz friendly and louder than anything else in the background. Hello, bee. 

At one point, I realized it was no longer morning. My husband was looking down at me, smiling. He had gone for a walk and decided it was time to wake me up from the deep nap that had kidnapped me. 

But, I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to check my messages or the news or participate in any other part of what resembled our new life of sheltering in place. I wanted to stay right there, listening to the sounds of people trying to go about their daily lives without ever being seen. I wanted to count the pinecones again and welcome the noisy bumble bee. 

As we continue to live our lives physically distant from each other and glued to the news of the day, I am reminded that it is okay to find new ways to connect with humanity. To connect with nature. To connect with ourselves. Thinking out of the box and embracing simple, but strange activities may be part of the prescription we need to stay sane.