The Little Things
By Ella Stritzel

I think about my last night in Boulder a lot.
A friend of mine and I went out and ate at a Thai place, laughing about what comes next and grinning at each other as we watched the rain fall steadily in the street. Eating Sweet Cow ice cream and walking side by side, the streetlights seeming to glow around us, halos reflected in the puddles at our feet. It’s such a simple memory that now seems distant and untouchable. Even with the threat of Covid-19 hanging over us, her moving home across the country and me seemingly trapped in place, it was perfect– like freezing a brief flash of blue sky in a day hidden by dark clouds.

I remember exactly where I was when I got the emergency notification text from CU: sitting on the bus on the way back to my apartment, staring out the opposite window, trying to ignore the palpable anxiety that filled the air as everyone simultaneously received the notification.

An employee had a presumptive positive test result.

No one knew what to do with that information. Some panicked and got out of Boulder as fast as possible. I clung to one important word from the text: presumptive. It was just as likely that they didn’t have it. Things probably wouldn’t change too much, I thought. Then, five hours later another emergency notification text crushed my hopes: classes were canceled, and remote teaching was going to begin the next week. I couldn’t turn away and hope for it to get better, this was real and staring me in the face.

My professors pre-recorded lectures and posted them to Canvas. My recitation sections stopped meeting. I had no contact with anyone. Any semblance of structure I had in my life crumbled at my feet. It was jarring, like some sort of bizarre, unexpected summer break. But even so, I didn’t really mind it. To suddenly have of freedom from everything—classes, clubs, rehearsals, practice—I don’t know how to describe it. Confusing? Exciting? Terrifying? Whatever it was, it was as if I was at the top of a rollercoaster, faced with an impossible drop.

There was no more standing at the bus stop half asleep in the mornings; no more studying late in the library until the words all blurred together; no more waiting in a line too long just for coffee that couldn’t wake me up anyway. No more rushing from the opposite side of campus, praying I’d have enough time to grab food before work. I no longer felt the exhaustion settle into my muscles as I sat nearly motionless at my desk writing three papers due the next week on the same day. I no longer layed on the floor, surrounded by my laptop and textbooks with my notebook open on my face incoherently mumbling dates and names. I no longer feverishly went over Quizlets on the bus in a last-ditch effort to prepare for an exam. It was as if the most stressful part of school had magically vanished overnight.

But that freedom came with frustrating stipulations. In the mysterious vanishing of stress, it also ripped all my favorite activities from my grasp. Symphonic band was done just as things had started to come together for our final concert. My friends and I wouldn’t be trying to hide giggles behind our music stands. I wouldn’t be writing things that were only funny to us between the lines of our sheet music. I wouldn’t feel the thrill of nailing a passage that had tripped me up for weeks, or the chills that would run up my arms when things sounded almost perfect or be unable to suppress a smile mid-concert just from the sheer joy of playing.

Anthropology club was over. I wouldn’t be sitting in the seminar room, confusing the upperclassmen by using unfamiliar slang and listening intently to a speaker who specialized in an unfamiliar area. I wouldn’t be curled up in a chair in the most uncomfortable position possible, listening to our president talk about scheduling events, reviewing what’s coming up next on the calendar or what the underclassmen need to learn in order to take over the club the next semester; all the while, promising us with a smile that “you’re not going to be thrown into it, we’re going to be there with you”.

None of us could possibly have known what was coming our way. But there’s no use in lamenting it now. Even after the world is shattered and brought to a screeching halt, we still have to get going and pick up the pieces.

So, I did.

I watched recorded lectures and put together discussion posts as if nothing changed, even though it felt like a façade. I did the required readings and took notes despite endlessly staring out my window, watching the spring weather change as if nothing was wrong.

I moved back home to be with my parents to finish the semester. I remember staring at my suitcase, at a complete loss of what to pack. I never thought I’d end up moving home in the middle of college. But I did. My childhood bedroom was exactly the same as it was in high school. My posters, drawings, programs, photos, even my flag were still pinned up just as I had left when I moved out. But the person who moved back couldn’t have been more different. It was almost like I had been shot back into my high school body but kept my college brain, experiencing a strange battle of wills. This time around I was independent. I woke up and stayed up as long as I wanted, trying to experience the freedom I now possessed while still desperately clinging to a self-made school schedule that, too, seemed to vanish at my fingertips despite me swearing I had it under control.

Things picked up like they would normally. I had papers due and had to prepare for exams. Things shifted from feeling like a strange summer break back to sitting at a table for hours, watching lectures I had forgotten about, furiously taking notes, my hands once again getting covered in pen and highlighter as I mixed up demographic data across time periods and tried to understand the social upheaval of ancient civilizations. Once again, things had simultaneously completely changed while also not changing in the slightest. My exams went well, but instead of a celebration, smiling in relief, and finally having a satisfying end to a class, it was simply closing my laptop and tossing it aside in indifference, only to sit back down a few moments later to begin preparing for something else.

After the semester ended I’m not even sure what happened. I’d look up and the day would be over. Days bled into weeks. Time seemed to leave me behind. If I’d remember to, I’d Facetime my friends. I’d play video games for hours and stare blankly at the notifications on my phone, none of it seeming to register. In an age where everything is connected at every moment, I’ve never felt so isolated and cut off from the rest of the world. My best friend celebrated getting into Eastman on violin, and to celebrate, I bought him boba. We sat on his porch wearing our masks and talking as if nothing had changed. We watched the sunset and howled at 8:00 p.m. with everyone else in the neighborhood. His brother slid us popsicles, making sure he didn’t get too close. We tried to ignore the anxiety settling into the background and the petrifying ‘what-ifs’ that no longer seemed outrageous. It all seemed to twist and spiral in the darkness just beyond us, kept at bay only by a singular porch light and our quiet companionship.  

We are desperately trying to connect at a time where we can’t. I miss the small, innocent moments of a world unbothered and that’s why Utagawa Kunisada’s woodcut Autumn Moon-viewing Scene from Inaka Genji is perfect to me at this moment in time. It depicts five people enjoying each other’s company, overlooking the ocean. While this print is a scene from a story, to me it represents the simplistic moments of life now taken for granted. The scene is so incredibly human, the group focusing on what is in front of them, but still aware that they are doing their individual tasks together. Scenes like this are almost inconsequential, a snapshot of life, and yet given our current situation, seem so far removed it’s nearly unimaginable.

Those are the moments that I miss, where soft everyday occurrences have lost their context and have become a distant memory. I miss standing next to someone in line, instead of glaring daggers at strangers who gets too close. I miss my friends’ smiles and laughter now hidden and muffled behind masks. We’re still making small moments, but the paranoia can’t be hidden away. We see the world change beyond our windows and reminisce. We have a new normal, and despite the fear that seems to guide our waking moments, we can’t abandon it. Humanity is resilient. We survive, time and time again. This too, shall pass. We just have to hang on a little longer. 

Image Credit: Utagawa Kunisada, Japanese, 1786-1865, Autumn Moon-viewing Scene from Inaka Genji, 1847-1852, woodcut, 13 ½ inches x 9 ¾ inches. Gift of Helen Baker Jones, in memory of her father, James H. Baker, former President of CU (1892-1914), CU Art Museum, ��ɫ��Ƶ, 67.333.16, Photo: Jeff Wells.

Off

The Surface & Shadow of COVID-19
By Sophia Baldwin

"In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself. That is the true meaning of inner strength!”

I was at ��ɫ��Ƶ working two jobs and going to school full-time and all I wanted to do was be in my bed. I got my wish, but not in a shape or form that I was expecting. In March, I contracted an illness and was in bed for two months. At the time, I didn’t know it was COVID-19.

Sickness of the Body

It was a fight against the unknown. Wave one started. I was overcome by chills, sweating, and a fever. Soon after, the fever left me and I lost my sense of taste and smell for a week, making me suspect I had COVID-19. When the fever subsided and my ability to taste and smell came back, I thought COVID-19 had left me.

It was just starting.

Wave two began in the form of crippling abdominal pain, hallucinations, and a heavy lack of sleep. I lost my appetite even though I was so hungry. With a hollow stomach, I was stationed in the bathroom, draped over the toilet without relief. I laid in bed for hours at a time, unable to go on walks, with waves running underneath my skin. Any activity started a relapse of COVID-19 symptoms and killed the white-blood cells trying to fight for me. I weakened, and my once-athletic-self began to fade away. In my bed, I was left to my thoughts as my only escape. 

The nights were long and were some of the darkest hours of my life. One night, I threw up 9 times. As I lay in bed, my mom sat beside me and held my hand as I drifted to sleep; I didn’t want to fall asleep alone because I wasn’t sure if I would wake up in the morning. I’d never felt so detached from life before.

And still, there was speculation among my professors, my peers, and my doctors about whether or not I had the coronavirus. Why was I sick and my family wasn’t? I was the least likely out of all of them to get it. And why do some gathered crowds get it and some don’t? Did I have something else in the midst of this pandemic or was my illness not as serious as it felt? 

Finally, after a month and a half of rest and wrestling with the coronavirus I was tested. Everyone was baffled by how long I’d been sick. More tests commenced and for the next week I was clinging to my phone waiting for results. Each phone call was a clawing crawl towards the answer:

Parasite. Nope.
Pregnancy. Negative.

Beaver fever. Oh, good Lord please, no! Negative. Oh, thank goodness.

Several tests later, my mania was confirmed: COVID-19. It was no longer active but I was still recovering from the infection. For a month I ate nothing but rice, rice cakes, applesauce, and canned peaches. The day I was able to eat fish sticks was a victorious day to remember! Having an answer gave me peace, and from there it was a slow but hopeful recovery. 

Sickness of the Heart & Mind

That entire time I was immobile, my mind was burdened: my mom lost her job; my grandma passed away; and my previous boss who fiercely inspired me to be a strong woman lost her battle with depression and killed herself. The burden of other peoples’ miseries surrounded me, and other peoples’ pain reminded me that we are made of two entities: our body and our mind.

When I was fiercely sick with COVID-19, my mind was fuzzy with exhaustion, frustration, and anxieties. When I looked in the mirror my body was thin and twelve pounds lighter, but that didn’t compare with my mind that was wasting away. Being immobile and not having any answers was such an isolating experience. Although I had people who strongly loved me, my mind felt alone. I was quickly humbled in remembering those who the coronavirus pandemic affected in different ways: the lover of her job now unemployed and feeling purposeless and lost; the already isolated elderly being pushed aside into an even lonelier corner; and the woman whose only escape from her own tormenting thoughts was her job which was now to be done in her empty home. Some of us are in bed but many of us feel restless. COVID-19 has attacked one or two parts of us: our body and/or our mind.

Daily Bread

In the time when I couldn’t have people around me I prayed a lot. At times my prayers were full of thankfulness for my boyfriend and family who took such amazing care of me, for the walks in the sunset I got to share with my tired soul, and for the warm bed in which I could heal. Other times my prayers were demands and questions about why people continued to suffer without relief. My frustrations kept piling up. Sometimes I received answers and sometimes I didn’t.

As I write out my experience it’s hard to truly explain how I felt. That’s why art is so powerful. For me, Claes Oldenburg’s Bread Slice in Sunlight #1-King David's use of swishing yet confined contrast of dark and light depicts human needs. On the top is a light piece of bread illuminated by a golden hue. This is what my body desires on the surface: air, water, and a piece of bread. I like the quote, “man [doesn’t] live on bread alone”; we crave and need spirit, and even when I was finally able to eat I didn’t have life in me because so much was still missing. I missed seeing my friends, feeling the warmth of the outdoors as I ran in my old track tennis shoes, and the overall sensation of joy. The shadows of the bread are like the deeper things humans need that lie underneath the basics: spirit, hope, joy, laughter, the hand of a kind mother, and the smile from your lover.

I’ve recovered now.
I still have to take life very slowly but I’m able to see friends again, get a Nerd slushy from Sonic, and enjoy a walk in the sunset. As I walk I think of those that I lost and the people whose friendships were enriched by this hardship. As you look at Claes Oldenburg’s Bread Slice in Sunlight #1-King David, remember that we are made of two parts: things from the surface that allow us to live and more invisible things that sustain our true selves. We need both, and during a time of uncertainty it’s okay to feel unfulfilled. Even though sadness is a natural response to uncertainty, I’m inspired by Uncle Iroh’s quote from one of my favorite shows, Avatar: The Last Airbender:

“You must never give into despair. Allow yourself to slip down that road and you will surrender to your lowest instincts. In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself. That is the true meaning of inner strength!”

Image credit: Claes Oldenburg, American, b. 1929, Bread Slice in Sunlight #1-King David, 1972, lithograph, 18 x 9 5/8 inches. Gift of Polly and Mark Addison to the Polly and Mark Addison Collection, CU Art Museum, ��ɫ��Ƶ, 91.04.18  © Claes Oldenburg, Photo: CU Art Museum.

Off