By Michael Patrick O’Brien–
I admit I was not excited about recent reports that—for the first time in 800 years—Jupiter and Saturn will align this December into what is called the “Christmas Star” or the “Star of Bethlehem.” Instead, I scoured the news seeking details of any cataclysmic consequences that might accompany the rare cosmic event. It was then I realized that I have become a Covidian.
Covidian is not a real word, of course. If you type it on your phone or computer, autocorrect will change it. I made the word up, to sound witty and clever when discussing the current unpleasantness. What does my newly-conceived word actually mean? Someone whose usual manner of thinking is changed by a pandemic.
COVID-19 has brought out our best, but it also has revealed the worst in us. You’ve probably seen your own ample share of the worst. I won’t list any examples here, because I am trying to be less judgmental of others.
I can, however, judge myself. The rather awful year drawing to a close has changed my manner of thinking. My pessimistic reaction to news of the elusive Christmas star is but one example.
I used to be a rather social person, open to most encounters with the world and its great variety of human creatures. Now those encounters include a lurking element of apprehension.
I get edgy when someone stands too close. I worry that any passing person is an oozing infectious viral agent. I tend to accuse—“why the hell isn’t he wearing a mask!”—instead of giving the benefit of the doubt—“she must have a good reason for not wearing one!”
In years gone by, I loved to go out on the town…movies, restaurants, concerts, visits with friends, sporting events. Today is all about working from home, reading books, and watching Netflix.
None of these are bad pastimes, mind you, but they do hint of hibernation. My isolated den’s soundtrack tellingly includes an old Simon and Garfunkel song: “I have my books, and my poetry to protect me. I am shielded in my armor. Hiding in my room, safe within my womb, I touch no one and no one touches me.” (“I am a Rock” from 1966)
I did not often have anxious dreams pre-COVID, but now they seem commonplace. I snapped awake one dark night in a cold sweat. Moments before, in a vivid dreamscape, I was atop a cupboard, cowering in a corner, and using a golf club to frantically fend off an angry gorilla.
One of my daughters is similarly vexed. She dreamt that one of her cousins was getting married in a swamp, to an alligator. Another family member showed up at the wedding wearing alligator boots. This rather insensitive fashion choice instigated a noisy and acrimonious quarrel that derailed the festivities.
Pre-COVID, I did not whine much. Now I moan about wanting my old life back. I complain how some days I never even go outside. The irony is I actually have it pretty darn good. I can do my job at home. I have a comfortable place to work. And I am still here to whine.
What’s clear about this new Covidian nature is that whether testing positive or not, we all are infected with the virus. I don’t discount the notion that some change of mindset and behavior is good currency for transacting life during a pandemic. There are two sides, however, to that coin.
My grandfather, a newspaper reporter named Donald O’Brien, survived the 1918 Spanish Flu epidemic. (See: My Great Aunt and her fellow nuns stared down the 1918 flu pandemic.) He also survived several deadly tuberculosis outbreaks that claimed his father and many other family members. (See: My Irish Grandfather confronts the Captain of Death.) He lived through both world wars, the Great Depression, and many personal setbacks and problems.
Yet, reading his sweet newspaper column dated December 27, 1954, one would never guess he had endured such dreadful infections of the soul. He wrote lightheartedly about the bright Christmas star that guided his walks home along Church Street in Burlington, Vermont, on cold December nights after he had sent the next day’s paper off to the presses. (You can read his column here: A Star of Our Own.)
My grandfather’s column noted how the star illuminated the simple Nativity scene he passed by each evening on his walks. He described how one night he heard a mother tell her young son that the star kept occupants of the crèche warm.
And ever the fisherman, he wrote how the star was “like when you’re out on the lake in a boat—and there’s one special light ashore that guides you to your harbor.” Sixty six years after he wrote them, my grandfather’s words teach me that sometimes the best way to look forward is to look back.
Don O’Brien’s encounter with his own seasonal star was a happy one, despite his many ordeals. Almost seven decades later, his column about it is a shot in my arm and an inoculation of hope. Even during pandemically bad times, not everything is bad.
Yes, my manner of thinking has changed this past year, perhaps forever, but I can deal with it. I can moderate it. And like my grandfather before me, I can draw life from the Christmas starlight that shines on notwithstanding the rise of the Covidians.
*Mike O’Brien is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. His book Monastery Mornings, about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah, will be published by Paraclete Press in August 2021.
