I hate wearing a mask. I hate having to stay at least 6 feet away from everyone. I hate that plans to travel to visit family or to gather with dear ones have had to be cancelled. I hate the overwhelming uncertainty we have been plunged into since March of this year.
Sometimes I get so angry at our current reality that my entire body clenches tight - my teeth grind, my muscles flex to the point of hurting, my lungs almost burst - and for a moment afterward, I wonder if I've finally woken up from what has seemed like a never ending nightmare, if finally Covid19 and masks and social distancing and self quarantine and school closures and climbing death rates and astronomical unemployment rates have all disappeared. As if I can just hate this reality away and usher in a new - or, perhaps old? - one.
My anger, fear, frustration, and hate do not, however, change or improve anything.
So, I still practice social distancing. I still limit how frequently I go into town or how much time I spend in public spaces. And I still don a mask.
I have started to think of my masks as sacraments - as "outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace."
Indeed, wearing a mask - or not - and doing anything - or not - to take any precautions against contracting or spreading Covid19 have become outward and visible signs of one's politics, of one's belief system and world view.
My masks have come to mean more to me than what I believe civic duty demands, more than believing and supporting Dr. Fauci and the CDC. I'd like to wonder with you, if wearing masks might be an opportunity to practice something more than virtue signaling or the following of best practices as outlined by practical health guidelines.
First, I must acknowledge that my desire to "go back" to the time before March 2020, when things were predictable, stable, and easy for me stems from my white privilege. I wear my mask and allow the unease, the lack of safety, I feel when I am in public to be a reminder that many, many people in this nation have felt uneasy and unsafe in almost all places at almost all times for as long as - longer, even - we have been the United States of America. My mask becomes a lament - a lament not only for the feelings of unsafety people of color and LGBTQ people experience everyday, but for the reality of the unsafety they experience all the time. I wear my mask and I pray. For forgiveness. For grace. For courage. For knowledge. For strength. For guidance. For change - in myself and in the world.
Second, I put my mask in place and it covers half my face. It is a literal barrier between me and other people. It is a dehumanizing, painful reminder that we must be intentionally separate right now, from people and communities we love. But our separateness goes much, much deeper than this and is doing much more harm. I put my mask on and I think about the strained relationships in this country, in my family, in churches and schools and neighborhoods. Relationships strained over the decision whether or not to wear a mask. Relationships strained over the decision to or not to protest the murders of people of color by our police. Relationships strained by how we vote, pray, live, and love. I wear my mask and I pray. For wisdom. For patience. For love. For compassion. For clarity. For healing. For change - in myself and in the world.
I talk less when I wear a mask. I feel like I have to shout to be heard, like the whole world is muffled. So, I find myself spending the little time I am around people being quieter, more focused on completing the task at hand than making eye contact or small talk. Instead of tuning everything and everyone out, I am going to try to use the time in my mask to give thanks for my health, for the essential workers who make grocery shopping and doctor visits and filling up gas tanks possible.
I also breathe more slowly in a mask. My face gets hot and sweaty. Depending on the style my ears might start to get irritated by the elastic straps, my nose might start to feel smashed. I almost immediately look forward to getting back into my car or my home where I can take my mask off as soon as I am done with my errands. Instead of focusing on rushing through to the end, I am going to try to slow down, to breathe with intention, to pay attention to the people around me, to feel the sun or breeze on my skin as I return my cart, and to give thanks for the present moment.
My mask is like the cross of ashes on my forehead on Ash Wednesday, reminding me that I am human, but also that I am holy, that life is precious. That to care for the health and wellbeing of others is a gift and an honor. That the world, that life, is full of lament and burden, grace and hope.
My mask is an outward and visible sign that I am connected to others, that all people are my neighbors, that my wellbeing and freedom depends on theirs, and theirs depends on mine. My mask serves as a reminder that "no one is an island." That we must work together, care together, to get through this to a place that is more compassionate, safe, equal, than the one we live in today.
