Ode to (Lost) Joy
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Covid-19 delivered a shuddering one-two punch. Now it may be preparing one more haymaker.
First came the deaths—with the creeping fear that something invisible was out to claim every last one of us.
Then we began to tremble—whether faintly or fully—for our private economies. Would mine be the next job to go? Would there be enough left to provide?
But the third threat isn’t so tangible. It’s going to take some time to play out. It’s hiding in the shadows, and in the end, it could prove to be the most emotionally devastating.
I don’t know exactly how to write a sentence, or even a paragraph, that adequately describes it. So, I’m going to approach it through three different anecdotes. I hope this helps explain…
ince the Covid story began, one of the best at telling it has been Donald G. McNeil, Jr., a science reporter at the New York Times. Particularly when speaking on podcasts, his knowledge and directness set him apart; he knows the truth and isn’t afraid to tell it.
But in a recent appearance on The Daily, he finished on a note decidedly different from his typical matter-of-fact style. He mentioned something that happened to him several weeks before: “I’m sad that I have not seen my granddaughter, except on video. And I intend not to hold her until I’m vaccinated or immune. You know, it’s sad, but I’m taking the long view. This increases the chances that both of us will make it to her high school graduation.”
And there it was, the tug between logic and emotion. Where do I draw the line between what I know is right…and that thing I really yearn to do? In the balance lies the decision to muffle or bypass the billions of little daily contacts that connect all of us to our fellow humans.
In other words, what price do I pay when I can’t whisper that sly comment into my co-worker’s ear? Or when I can’t use a handshake to formalize an introduction, or an agreement? Or when I can’t embrace a lifelong friend I haven’t seen for many years?
We are robbed of something essential?. After all, social distancing isn’t measured just in feet, but also in feelings.
Or look at it this way: when you wear a mask, no one knows if you’re smiling. Thus, the primary way humans convey joy disappears. If you remove smiles, the impact on life itself is immense. Right now, we’re experiencing a long-term deficit in shared joy. Our primary tools of empathy are blunted..
This is the price we’re paying.
ould we possibly find alternative ways to connect? It has happened.
In 1822, Beethoven conducted the debut of his famous Ninth Symphony, his “Ode to Joy.” No one had ever written a symphony before with a chorus. But Beethoven knew the addition of human voices would give it a primal and powerful quality of life that all predecessors lacked.
At the time, Beethoven was almost fully deaf. On that stage in Vienna that night, he could not hear his orchestra playing in front of him. So he just closed his eyes and conducted, often gesturing dramatically. He fully heard his music—but only in his head. He led them entirely by memory.
Thus, eyes shut, at the symphony’s rapturous conclusion he didn’t notice that while he still waved his baton—his orchestra had already stopped playing. The audience roared its approval, but Beethoven didn’t notice. So, one of the performers stepped up and tapped gently on his shoulder, gesturing for him to turn.
Only then did he see their beaming faces, roaring approval, tears welling in their eyes. That audience knew of his condition—that he couldn’t hear them. So, to better express their excitement, they tossed hats and scarves into the air. They knew he would see this. With one sensory channel muted, they traveled a different avenue to share in his “Joy.”
Can we adapt?
n 1987, I was part of video crew in South Korea recording news stories in advance of the following year’s summer Olympics. One morning we were in an orphanage, where the operators were eager to show us how well they cared for a large group of parent-less toddlers. And indeed, the kids were clean and well fed and obedient. But as we stood talking with the administrators, suddenly one of the little guys broke from the group and ran straight toward me. When he got to me, he clamped onto my leg with desperate arms. Beyond proper shelter and sustenance, he was suffering a profound deficit in human touch. There were not nearly enough workers in that orphanage to give every child enough hugs and nuzzles; the math couldn’t work. So “my” little guy grabbed for what he needed…for just as long as he could. He cried when they tried to pry him loose. We joked uncomfortably that maybe I’d just have to take him home with me. I took several small robotic steps with him still attached—an awkward sight gag meant to cut the tension.
It didn’t work. He held on.
Eventually we departed. I left him behind. But I took with me the vivid realization of how much humans need touch. We are social animals in need of social interactions. Without this, we begin to be something less than human.
Recently, Joe Biden had the same lament: “we were built to laugh, to talk, to hug—together.”
But not right now.
ll this leaves me wondering.
I wonder at how much is already gone; stolen by this third theft from Covid. How much more detachment is yet to come?
I wonder how long it will be until that Times reporter gets to hold his baby granddaughter.
And I wonder what happened to that little Korean boy…
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