That humming sound you hear is coming from the bilge pump on my boat. The pump has been running a lot lately.
When Jen and I watch TV while eating dinner (go ahead and judge – this is a crucial part of our Pandemic Survival Plan), I will often ask Jen to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of my bilge pump working in overdrive. For the length of an episode of our current favorite series, I blissfully forget that the pump is running.
I once Googled what that humming sound was – the (real, not metaphorical) sound I hear in the middle of the night when sleep is a stranger. They call it the earth’s hum or the world’s hum. It’s a thing. Look it up.
Anyway, last night I noticed the hum. It’s had a different pitch to it for about a year now. I’m convinced it was an octave created by all the bilge pumps in all the boats of the world. They are pumping as fast as they can, as all the boats try to steer through this pandemic.
Can you hear it?
Every single boat must be taking on more water than usual.
I’ve charted some rough seas. I’ve even had to replace the pump. But lately, I find myself fantasizing about calm waters. I crave the sound of gentle waves lapping a deserted shoreline. I see the waves go out and leave a trail of foam. Maybe a seagull can be heard off in the distance. There isn’t another “boat” for miles.
Jen likes calm waters, too.
Will? He likes the rapids. The rougher the better. He gets crabby in the calm waters. Oh, he’ll tell me that he likes things to settle down, but about the time he says that, something in his life creates a tidal wave that inevitably sends a wall of water right for my boat.
Jen and I used to say that things would be too boring without Will’s tidal waves but, with the pandemic and the economic and political strains of late, my boat can’t take on any more water.
I’ve noticed that I am becoming adept at avoiding anything else that looks like a potential storm. This avoidance skill is also in our Pandemic Survival Plan. I’m saving my energy for the storms on my immediate radar. Apparently, there is only enough room for the three of us (and a cat) in my boat.
I recently told Will that if he had two married parental units, he’d know which one to go to with a new drama. You wrap your truck around a pole? Go to your dad, and he’ll prepare me for the news. You get your heart broken? Come to me. Poor Will is stuck with only me, so he brings me everything. And I’m grateful for that, even if it doesn’t sound like it.
My boat is on the plains. Nothing blocks my view. I can see when a storm is coming. But Will’s storms seem to come out of nowhere. Well, not really. I know where they come from. (Because I know where they come from, you’d think I’d be better prepared.) As long as he likes that kind of choppy sea, there will be more coming from that direction.
After he and I (and often times, Jen) finish bailing the water from the most recent storm, we can laugh about it. I’ll say, “Geez, you’d think that, by now, I might have learned to not over-react.” He’ll say, “You’d think by now, I’d figure out a better way to tell you this stuff.” And then I think to myself, “Or you might figure out that life is so much better without all that stuff.”
And so the Universe laughs at me while I search for ways to keep a calm center in the midst of these storms. The Universe laughs harder when I dare to tell Will that life is better without the rough seas.
Look at that!
The Universe left me a note in the sand on that quiet stretch of beach: “Let him steer his own boat, Jesse.”
And once again, I am reminded that I learn more from Jen and Will than they will ever learn from me. In the meantime, I’ll prepare myself to have to replace the pump.
There’s a meme that says something about, “You don’t know what someone else is dealing with, so just be kind.” I like that. Let’s assume that everyone’s boat has taken on too much water, their pump needs to be replaced, and they are doing their best to stay afloat.