I’ve been looking at the stars a lot lately. It started several weeks ago. 

It was 10:18 p.m. on a Sunday. We were driving the parkway, windows rolled down, Van Morrison on the radio. My boyfriend, Matthew, looked over and squeezed my knee. 

Every morning around 5:15, the birds start chirping outside my window. The past several months I’ve been trying to figure out which song goes with which type of bird. It’s made me realize why people become fascinated with these beautiful creatures. Each day, at the same time, they start singing their songs. And every morning, no matter what stress I’m under, their songs make me smile. 

Good girls are raised to be quiet, dainty and accommodating. Real boys are raised to be competitive, successful and tough. Girls can cry. Boys cannot. Girls are soft-spoken. Boys are boisterous. 

I’m a mom to white little boys who will grow up to become white men. In America, white men have it pretty easy. They have both privileges that are institutionalized in our society. 

Many are focused on graduations right now. Amidst the pandemic and nationwide protesting, we’re trying to help our young people celebrate this pivotal time in their lives. While the hype is primarily on high school and college graduates, there are other important transitions that have gotten lost due to COVID-19. 

It’s funny how you can hear a story your entire life but don’t see its relevance until it smacks you in the face. 

Since childhood, my parents have told me the tale of the Hong Kong flu (H3N2 virus) during the winter of 1968. They weren’t sure where they contracted it initially. At the time, my dad was a student at Mars Hill College and worked as a short order cook in the student center. My mom was in her first year teaching public school. Both places were most likely rampant with germs. 

It’s been said that when a cardinal appears in your yard it’s a visitor from heaven. I’ve been spending a good amount of time on my porch during quarantine. This daily ritual has offered many moments with the birds and trees. I’ve observed limbs acquire leaves and listened to songbirds serenade the neighborhood. And when a cardinal lands on a branch, I feel like it’s my mom visiting from afar. 

If you haven’t noticed, the boomers are having a hard time staying home during this pandemic. Doing nothing and performing tasks online doesn’t sit well with the natural disposition of this cohort. 

I’m a child of the 1980s. 

With side ponytails on full hairsprayed display, my big sister and I kept busy making mixed tapes, riding banana seat bicycles and collecting plastic charms for our charm necklaces. We stayed up late watching “Dirty Dancing” and “Indiana Jones,” swooning over Patrick Swayze and Harrison Ford. We heated our food in BPA-laden plastic, drank from hoses and ran around our neighborhood for hours before returning home happy and spent and ready to hurriedly eat dinner so we could be in front of the TV by 8 p.m. to watch “Who’s the Boss” or “Growing Pains.” 

 It was a crisp and cold morning. The lake was still, like a mirror. The sun had just risen. Every few seconds the bald eagle would glide through the sky and then swoop down to catch a fish in the water. 

If he missed, he would start over. 

Lately I’ve been pondering the meaning of life. If everyone took their very best skills and traits and put those into the universe, think how amazing the world could be. I’ve also been considering what the future holds for my two boys and other children. With melting glaciers, yelling politicians, sports heroes dying in helicopter crashes and bizarre, deadly viruses spreading across the globe, it’s a wonder our youngest generations wake up hopeful each day.