Ebola is the word on everyone’s lips and minds these days.  Although I’m not upset or afraid, I’ve had a reminder of just how interconnected we all are, and how our mobile society has changed the fact of communicable disease.  I was reminded that it is, indeed, a small, small world (cue Disney music – you’re welcome).

For many years, Ebola has been something I was aware of.  I knew it was a horrible, usually fatal disease that happens ELSEWHERE.  When selecting a name for our home wireless network several years ago, I selected the name “Ebola” because I thought it would be less attractive to try to hack into a network named after a deadly virus (and, admittedly, I was trying to be “cute).

As the disease spread throughout the African continent, I still though little of it.  Transporting stricken aid workers to the US did not worry me, either.  When the man who was sick came here from Liberia and was sent home from the ER before taking a bad turn and eventually dying, I realized that this isn’t something that just happens somewhere else, but still thought “it will not affect me and my family.”

On Tuesday, I had a court hearing in downtown Cleveland.  I parked near Public Square, walked 5 blocks past lots of people waiting for lights to turn and past food vendors and bus stops.  I grabbed a handrail to go up the courthouse steps.  I pushed the elevator button for the 6th floor and shared the elevator with another person.

I waited in a crowded waiting area for my client’s case to be called.  I sat at a table in a chair that had probably been occupied a dozen times by a dozen different people throughout the morning.  I walked back to my car through another crowd, had lunch in a crowded diner with a friend, and meandered home.

The next day (Wednesday) the news broke that a nurse who had cared for the dying Ebola patient had been in Ohio over the weekend and had flown from Cleveland to Akron.  Although it still didn’t scare me, I couldn’t help thinking that at some point on Tuesday, I had probably come within close proximity to someone who had been in the airport terminal on the day she flew.

My son works in downtown Cleveland, and at dinner we discussed the news.  Although neither of us felt uncomfortable, both of us had spent time thinking about the likelihood that someone who had crossed our path had likely crossed paths with someone who had crossed paths (and so on and so forth).  Still not afraid, we were both reminded that the access to easy transportation brings with it risks.

On Thursday, I saw the news that my cousin’s son had been on the flight from Cleveland to Dallas.  While it would not be uncommon for the relative of an Ohio family to be on a flight originating in Ohio, this case was a little different.  My cousin’s family lives in Arkansas.  Her son lives in Texas.  He wasn’t here visiting family – he was on business.  I’m not sure I’ve ever met him in person.  Although he is a virtual stranger to me, his mother is not.  We grew up together and although we are not close, we communicate on Facebook and I enjoy seeing what her family is doing.

My cousin’s son is a smart young man, and he has voluntarily quarantined himself.  Although he received news that he was seated within 3 feet of the infected nurse, we are all hopeful that he will not contract the deadly virus.

I’m still not afraid, but I am far more aware of the risks of this and any other disease. I will be practicing “flu season” measures, including frequent hand washing and avoiding touching my face with my hands.  I know the risks of catching this virus are very small.

I know there is a lesson for me in here somewhere.  Maybe there is a lesson for you, too. It’s a small, small, world.  We are not so removed from one another as we might think.

Nearly all of us have had the experience of “having the air knocked out of us.”  That sensation of breathlessness after a physical shock is often accompanied by the reeling pain of the event that did the “knocking.”  It’s frightening and confusing.  However, as we take that big gulp of air and the body’s tissues stop crying out for oxygen, the adrenaline rush calms, too.  We look around to see if the threat to our safety has been neutralized, and deal with it or go on about the day.

Sometimes that blow is emotional.  When it happens, it’s no less frightening and confusing.  Sometimes, the confusion is greater because the enemy doing the “knocking” is unseen.  We cannot physically subdue the subject of our distress.  The source of the pain is either a response to something someone says to us, something we witness, or news that something bad has happened or is about to begin.  We are left feeling helpless.

Sometimes, those “knocks” come in rapid succession from multiple directions.  Having just caught a breath after the first blow, a second and third rain down.  We cannot control others.  We cannot control the thoughts or actions of others.  We cannot control disease processes.  We cannot control many aspects of life that bring us to our knees.  Those are the moments when the first order of business is to remember to breathe… just breathe…

I had planned a different kind of blog post for today.  I thought of something fun to try to make a difference for people affected by an issue that is close to my heart.  Right now, my heart is elsewhere – in my throat.  

Today I forgive myself for not consciously trying to make a difference for others.  Today it takes effort to breathe.  I give myself permission to breathe.  Just breathe.  Just do the things that must be done.  

Today I accept that certain things are beyond my control.  I pray for the grace to accept whatever may come and the strength to be a comfort to the others those challenges may affect.

I can go back to changing the world tomorrow – one breath at a time.

I’m a runner.   I run slowly, but it’s still running.  Sometimes I run with Jimi the Wonder-Dood.  Sometimes I run alone.  I depends on the venue.  Jimi’s not very good on the treadmill, and he’s not allowed on the high school running track.  

Usually I run at night, but today I decided to run in the morning.  The plan was to run on the high school track, so I snuck out the front door while Jimi gave me a look of reproach for ditching him.  My neighborhood is having streets replaced, so it’s faster to walk to the track than drive (as we say, “you can’t get there from here…).  I started my three running apps (they all do different things!) and headed for the stadium.  Taking the “long way,” it’s a nice half-mile warmup, so by the time I got to the track, I was good and ready.

It was a beautiful morning.  It was just a little cool, and the sun was shining.  There were a few dark clouds, but they really didn’t look threatening.  At the track already was a gentleman who I’ve shared the track with many times.  I waved hello and we chatted briefly.  I was happy – happy to be at the track, happy to be alive, happy it was Thursday.  I was just happy.

As I began my laps, a young lady appeared.  Unlike me, she’s a “fast” runner.  I watched with mild envy as she sped by me.  Each lap she would pause and stretch.  I’d run by, and smile, but she never looked my way.

Self doubt began to creep in.

“She must be laughing at my idea of ‘running.'”

I imagined her critiquing everything from my stride to my wardrobe.  I soon began to cringe when she lapped me.  Another runner joined us, and shouted a cheery “good morning” as he ran by me the first time.  I felt vindicated.  Runners should back each other up.  We should encourage each other.  We shouldn’t “look down” on each other because one of us is bigger or slower…

Then it happened on lap 10…  My left leg cramped up.  I stopped, stretched, rubbed.  I tried to run again, and there it was again.  The “run” was over.  I walked/limped the rest of the way around the track, and as I approached the gate, my nemesis passed me again.  She turned to face me as she ran by and extended her hand to “high five” me.  

I shouted, “Thank you!”  I smiled broadly.  The dark cloud that had descended suddenly lifted.  I was bathed in sunbeams and a choir of angels appeared behind me and sang in beautiful chords (okay, that part didn’t happen).  

I was reminded that assumptions are often (usually) wrong.  I was reminded how good it feels to be acknowledged.  I was reminded how significant a difference something as simple as a wave, a smile, or a high five can make for someone who is feeling down, and I resolved to reach out more often.

I’m not about to start hugging strangers on the street, but you may find me doling out high fives at the track on a regular basis.  Jimi loves to give high fives, too.  It’s his sign for “I love you.”  It’s also his sign for “let’s play,” “I’m hungry,” “I’m really, really, sorry,” and “gotta poop.”  High fives are useful when you’re a Dood.