Maybe it was because I had just dyed my hair for the second time while in captivity.

Or maybe it was because I had just squeezed the last squoze out of the toothpaste tube I had opened on the first day of the quarantine.

Just maybe it was because we had let the house get a bit shaggy, a coat thrown here, an unmade bed there, a sink full of dirty dishes and a dishwasher full of clean ones.

Maybe it was because my husband also seemed to be slipping down the deep dark Covid hole, depressed as he was about missing his golf leagues.  (It was hard to know which of us was more depressed about him not getting out of the house four days a week.)

And it was raining, of the 40 days and 40 nights variety.

That day had been the 42^nd day of sequestration.  Did you know the word “quarantine” comes from the Italian word for 40, because that’s how long sailors had to stay on the ship before coming on shore during the plague . . . the other plague?

And for the first time during the pandemic, I shed a few tears, a grandmother’s tears, tears for the Cincinnati granddaughter I couldn’t touch and the Norwegian one I might not see for years.

I am not an especially wise woman.

Just ask my children, if you don’t believe me.

But I have been alive lo these many years, and I have learned a thing or two.

And that day I knew I was in a bad place and I had to figure out how to get out of it.

For the previous 41 days, I had been able to shake off the pandemic despair by reminding myself that I was luckier than nearly everyone:  I wasn’t employed, thankfully, but my children were.  We were not worried about where our next meal or rent check was coming from.  Nobody had to go out in risky situations.  We were all healthy.  We had toilet paper.

But that day, Day 42, was different, and I decided to get through it by doing the next right thing, all the livelong day.

“The earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep,” I thought.  Guess it was positive that  I was recalling “Genesis” and not “Revelations,” the beginning and not the end.

“Doing the next right thing” does not mean making a to-do list. It doesn’t mean making a grand goal.  It means living life a moment at a time and intuitively choosing at the end of each moment something else positive to do.  And then you simply do right things, one after another.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

It was already 10:45 in the morning on Day 42 when I made a commitment to do the next right thing.  I was still in my pajamas in my disheveled bed, MSNBC squawking, my warm phone in my hand.

I knew the next right thing was not under the covers.

It was not on the television or Facebook.

And the next right thing was definitely not in my refrigerator.

The next right thing was to make my bed.  I did it and I did it well, with hospital corners and smoothed layers of sheets, blankets, and spread.  A perfect rounding of pillows at the head, and even some red toss pillows. A bed made to start the day, not made in a way that invited an afternoon nap I didn’t need.

The next right thing was a shower, and I won’t go into the particulars, but it involved shampoo, conditioner, exfoliant, and a razor.  And while I was in there, even without my glasses, I could tell that the next right thing to do while I was still wet was to go after the scummy shower stall with a Magic Eraser. (Sorry, bet you can’t unsee that.)

The next right thing involved tinted moisturizer and lipstick.  And I found my eyebrows and colored them in a bit.

I wound and set my grandfather clock which is a beautiful piece of furniture but a lousy timepiece.

The next right thing came to me with a bit of dread:  I needed to call two friends, one who is 98-years-old and the other 100.  That “right thing” is not always easy, but when I was done, I felt lighter.  It had been so frustrating not being able to help people during the quarantine in the usual ways:  making soup, visiting, taking friends to lunch.  I had just done something that was possibly helpful.

Which led me to the next right thing:  to get online and donate to an organization that sheltered women who were victims of domestic violence.  Had to do a little research to find the link and then fill out those annoying blanks on the form, but a few minutes later, I thought about how right that thing was.

The next right thing came to me as I looked across the room at the behemoth of a bookcase, brimming with books I loved, books I had yet to read, bric-a-brac, mementos. The flat surfaces had a thick layer of dirt, and the figurines looked like they had been caught in a snowstorm.  It was an all-day back-breaking process cleaning it.  But what if the next right thing was to just clean one shelf?

I counted the shelves; there were sixteen.  And the top would have to be cleaned, too, so that made seventeen discrete projects.  What if I did one shelf a day?  It would be sort of like an advent calendar.  When I cleaned the last shelf, seventeen days would have passed and it would be . . . . well, whatever it would be.

The next right thing was to reset my grandfather clock because it seemed to be running slow.  I compared it to my smartphone, which had the exact same time.  Sigh.

The day proceeded like that, stringing right things together:
scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees ~ writing a letter and sending it to a friend in Pennsylvania ~ ignoring my husband ~ detailing my refrigerator ~ washing my hands ~ using leftovers to make a palatable meal ~ taking several 1,000-step walks in the rain ~ reading a book about Churchill ~ not ignoring my husband ~ repotting a plant ~ setting the table with the “good” dishes ~ matching and folding socks as they came out of the dryer ~ ordering printer ink ~ washing my hands ~ not killing my husband ~ praying

And the end of the day came, and “it was good.”  It was not an exciting day, but it was a productive day.  I had not wasted the gift of it.

We will get through this.  For me, the way is not looking forward to the end of 17 days of cleaning bookshelves, but by doing the next right thing, for being in this moment, for living one day at a time.

No, I am not a particularly wise woman, but I play one on my blog.  Thanks for tuning in.

Related Posts
A Fine Day to Die
Are You Losing Your Marbles?
Humor With a Wink
We Don’t Talk Anymore
Love In the Time of Covid:  Marriage Was Made for Exactly This
Why I Dyed My Hair in a Pandemic
The Corona Virus Chased Me Out of Norway
June Cleaver Has Left the House