This is the viral truth

I’ve been home for six weeks now, except to run or walk with the dog.

Unbelievably—and luckily—I’m busy with a three-month writing gig that started on March 16. After one day in the office, all-but-essential employees were asked to work from home. A week later, Denver shut down.

As a writer and as a human, my aim is to be truthful with myself and others. And to tell truthful stories for my clients.

That takes time. To slow down and think. To sit—patiently—with an assignment or a friend or a loved one—long enough to understand the 10 percent of the tale that hasn’t yet been told.

The first 90 percent of any narrative is easy. It’s fine. But it won’t get us anywhere. Especially at a time like this.

Being truthful—with oneself and others—is hard. But it’s more essential now than ever.

The coronavirus narrative is 90 percent set in stone. It’s polarizing and impersonal.

The privileged stay home. We paint and bake bread. We order hair-color products online. The people most at risk are forced to go out. They provide our essential services. They die alone. In great numbers. Without thanks.

Some people are making lemonade right now. Others are choking on the sour. But unless we ask, unless we listen, we don’t really know who’s who.

A friend said she thinks I’m “built for this.” I bristled at first, but she meant it as a compliment. And I see her point.

I can easily entertain myself. I’m content in nature. And I have many friends to ring up on Zoom. My kid, too, is resilient, and he’s back here living at home.

But that’s just the 90 percent.

As a social creature, I’m starving for loud live music. The sticky splash of a margarita up my sleeve, and being jostled in crowds. I miss pointless happy hours with disappointing dates. And playing my ukulele, not all that well, with people I barely know.

I also crave certain joys of being alone. Watching my dog run free up a snow-dotted mountain. Seeing Venus at midnight through the net of my tent. Swimming half naked in a freezing-cold lake.

Last night I dreamed a friend wanted to hug me, but I stiffened and told her no. I woke up crying. Again.

It’s hard to get past our assumptions. To tell—or to hear—the viral truth. But, maybe we can try this:

Ask a friend how she’s doing.

Listen for the 10 percent.

Offer something real in return.

If we can ask and answer truthfully, with an open heart, we’ll all be winners in the end. Because with or without that stinking virus hanging over our heads, we will have each other.