Here they are, Holden.No kidding.

Sparkle, Sprinkle, Unicorn and Cupcake (names that would make Holden puke).

​Today, we hit a new milestone: 2 million coronavirus deaths worldwide.  CNN says this is like 10 of the world’s largest commercial jets packed with passengers are falling out of the sky every day for an entire year.
 
Although aware of this mounting death toll, I develop an odd  fascination with visiting the ducks in the pond behind our house, which is only matched by the euphoria of my 4-year old son Tyler, who joins me.  We sneak into the golf course, with offerings of old Cheerios, bread crusts, leftover croissants (of which there are many, as Jory and I have gone keto this month). 
 
Tyler’s wonder is contagious: on future trips his older sisters join us. Ali soon has named her favorites (“Sparkle, Sprinkle, Unicorn and Cupcake” in case you were wondering.)  
 
But where, I wonder, is this excitement over ducks coming from on my part?? At times, there are literally over a hundred ducks littering the golf course with green poop, which can carry disease (like histoplasmosis). I have no history with ducks to speak of, and while we’ve anthropomorphized them into cute silly relatives of Donald’s, apparently they can be quite vicious toward each other.
 
I watch the ducks navigate the half-frozen lake under a clear blue sky. Tyler asks where the penguins are.  Funny how the mind works. With a sudden surge of joy, an answer pops up to a long ago similar question from someone far away. I realize why the ducks have become so important to me in this season of loss.  “Here they are Holden. I found them!” I announce, my confused kids just staring at me. 
 
When I first read the oft-banned Catcher in the Rye in Mr. Kite’s class, I was Holden Caulfield’s age, and was knocked out by his boldness, and his terrific and funny as hell observations. (For example: “I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot.”)  The second time I read Holden’s account was while tutoring, about 25 years later, and as I helped my student unearth what Holden was rambling on about, I literally had to fight back tears.  
 
Funny how it's an entirely different experience reading a book years later as a different person. It is like this, I suspect, when reuniting with real friends, not just the ones nerds like me create out of books.
 
In any case, when I met (for a second time) this lost and lonely privileged boy bravely trying to navigate life after the premature death of his little brother (also named Allie), he broke my heart. Of course this book was written by a G.I. who had just survived World War II. Holden’s grief that his life will never be as whole or as carefree as before is true to anyone who has suffered loss. (How lucky I was to be naïve enough to not empathize with any of that in my first reading). Holden literally fears growing out of his childhood because that means leaving Allie behind. As a friend of mine who tragically lost her 5th grade daughter last year recently wrote to me, “I am at war with time, because every day carries her a little further away from me.”
 
Holden becomes obsessed with finding out what happens to the ducks at Central Park during winter because the ducks, a symbol of innocence, personify Holden’s need to know that change isn’t permanent (oops), and that survival is possible even in the harshest environment (only if you bend, dear boy). 
 
Trying to find a loop-hole in this crappy change business, after asking his “phony professor” and then two bewildered NYC drivers in their “vomity cabs” if they know what happens to the ducks, a drunk Holden searches the half-frozen goddam lagoon hoping “they might be asleep near the edge of the water, near the grass and all”.  He finds no ducks, though almost falls in the icy pond. No kidding.
 
I remember wondering, when I read the book as a teenager, “So where do the ducks go, for cryin’ out loud?” (And now I know: apparently to Albuquerque.) 
 
But change, I’ve learned,  is permanent. For example, dear Holden, even though those city ducks may look the same to you, many are the offspring of those from the summer before, and more importantly, the New Yorkers enjoying them (even you) will have somehow changed from the previous year, whether they are aware of this or not.  
 
A global pandemic is a constant reminder of how fleeting life is, with change our only constant.
 
Here’s the thing Holden, you're right: people die, some way before they're old. Marriages fail. Deals collapse through no fault of your own. The phone doesn’t ring when you want it to, and sometimes you don’t get chosen when you deserve to be. There’s sickness, and strokes, and decline. Tyler’s school sent out an email this week that a boy in kindergarten lost his dad to COVID on Monday. It’s not what any of us signed up for.  No one escapes unscathed, for cryin’ out loud.
 
So take a breath, Kiddo. If we are engaged in life, suffering strips us raw, takes away that luxury of looking like we have it all together, or, as you more accurately say, being phony. It’s part of the deal of being human. But the other part, which enables us to cope with all this serious crap, is mindful celebration. 
 
Here’s a snippet, Holden, of what I celebrated this week, because I could. Does it resonate with you? Vulnerable phone calls with besties, January birthdays, a new moon seminar, Jory’s new client, my friend Hilary’s admission to a prestigious photo workshop, writing, daily progress in meditations & workouts (and accountability for both with friends trying to do the same), Jory's amazing grilled salmon, registering for my upcoming Amherst class wine tasting, rich dark chocolate, my kids’ excitement at trying out new food in their free school lunches, my breathtaking book (Liz Gilbert’s Big Magic), our enjoyment of our new family TV comedy (Ted Lasso), feeling the winter sun warm my face while feeding the ducks, then later set with an astonishing splash of orange and purple. The hour and a half soul-cleansing call from Ali's Godmother Maddy, the addictive song Ty and I learned this week and sing to each other by Christina Perri, the joy in reading a fable about a roadrunner every day to Lillie Grace, and about a dragon to Ali.  These gems sparkled joy into my life this week because I noticed them as such.
 
It kills me to think that if you were real, you’d already be in your 80s. And hopefully you learned enough of this so you’re not some reclusive crotchedy old man mumbling to yourself like your late author, or still in some institution because you never learned to accept or honor these small moments of beauty.
 
Because Holden, the only BIG consolation is that as we inevitably change, our emotional winter cannot last forever. Neither can this pandemic. And we're all in it. Together.
 
I hope you see that Nature is our best teacher. Spring always comes after winter.  Growth is always an option for we who remain. I’m not sayin’ it’s easy, but even the goddam ducks find their way, for cryin’ out loud.  I’m enjoying them, peacefully swimming on the frigid pond outside my window right now.  I’m tellin’ ya like it is. I swear.

Retain this sense of wonder, Kiddo. It will serve you well.

The joy just from feeding the goddam ducks, Holden. It's just terrific, I'm telling ya.