I slip out of the house into the cool, pre-dawn darkness and walk to the end of our gravel driveway with a cup of coffee in one hand and a pair of binoculars in the other. The waning moon shines bright and beautiful hanging up there in the velvet sky, and I never tire of watching it, but I am not standing here in this chill half-light just to stargaze. I sip my coffee and wait. It doesn’t take long before I hear it: the soft cadence of early-spring birdsong slowly awakening all around me. I’ve found myself doing this most mornings recently as winter is shrugged off and the once-whispered promise of spring gradually becomes a welcome reality. I drink my coffee outside, watch the stars and listen to the neighborhood wildlife talking to each other, all while dreaming of autumn and dogs and birds and crisp mornings afield as the sky slowly brightens above me.

Eventually the tugs of responsibility and life intrude, and I reluctantly go back inside and slip once again into the daily grind of life; work, family, kids, while also trying to pretend that what we are all going through right now is normal. The term “social distancing” first entered my lexicon a few days ago, right along with everyone else’s, and even now, as my family and I struggle with this new and hopefully short-lived reality, I cannot help but marvel at the tragicomic irony of the term itself, and the reality that perhaps our single greatest shared experience as a nation at this unique moment in history, is one of self-isolation. However, although we may be isolated, we are far from alone. “We’re all in this together” is an oft used and sometimes trite expression that’s damn easy to ridicule, or simply ignore. But right now, perhaps more than any time in modern memory, we truly are all in this together, linked by our communal concerns, our communal bonds, and, yes, our communal fears. No one knows how long it will be before things go back to normal; before social distancing becomes just a historic artifact of a singular point in time, before kids go back to school, parents go back to work, and yes, before toilet paper reappears on the shelves and feelings of fear and uncertainty are replaced by feelings of hope and optimism and bird season and dogs and memories yet to be made. Until then, I’m sure there are those who would scoff at the notion that listening to a bunch of birds whistle at each other is a form of mental health, and that what I need to do is keep my eyes glued to the endless stream of information being churned out about our current situation.