There are surely lessons for all of us in the current crisis. Some political, some cultural, some economic, and plenty environmental.

But it’s much easier to focus on — and get hooked on — macro than to get traction on it.

Except, that is, unless we’re willing to deal with it at the micro or personal level.

A friend said to me the other day that anyone who’s not looking for and actively trying to learn the lesson that this crisis and this time holds specifically for them is missing the point.

She’s right.

Reverse-engineer it from your favorite macro challenge if you must, but by all means don’t miss the lesson — or the opportunity.

It is now not only possible but positively encouraged to talk about (and often celebrate) topics that used to be carefully kept out of view.

Failure, famously, became modish to the point of absurdity. (I recall reading that so-called “failure porn” is metaphorically perfect: it bears as much resemblance to the real thing as regular porn.)

Next up might be impostor syndrome. As with failure, that’s good as far as it goes — now that we can accept it in speech, we can begin to accept it in ourselves, and feel less alone in our experience. And if that leads to somewhat less bluster, bombast, or isolation in the world, three cheers.

The challenge with this dualistic thinking is that it becomes a crutch. First, there’s you, afraid. Then, you’re able to distinguish between yourself and your fear (“this is me; that’s my fear”). But if you stop there, it’s easy to get stuck.

The essential next step is to re-integrate: “I feel fear and it is real, but it’s not me and I’m not it.” Or, better, as Roz Zander writes, switch but for and: “I’m afraid, and I’m in charge.”

We are none of us either our failures nor our emotions. But it’s not enough to talk about them if we still let them talk us out of being our selves and doing our work. We can talk about them and move ahead with them, too.

We’re used to the kind of warp speed they have in sci-fi movies: faster than light, dodging asteroids and scary space critters along the way.

And then there’s now, when most of us haven’t moved at more than walking speed (dodging the kitchen table and chairs, maybe) in days or weeks. The information firehose is still going full blast, but it’s harder to keep up the frenetic illusion of keeping pace.

There’s another definition of warp, though — much older, much slower, and applied to real ships rather than space ones.

In the days of sail, movement naturally depended on wind. Sometimes the wind wouldn’t blow, of course, and some of those times, ships had to move some distance anyway.

One technique was called warping, whereby some members of the crew would put an anchor in a longboat, row it ahead as far as they could, and drop it. The rest of the crew would then turn the capstan to pull the ship forward against the anchor until the chain was up-and-down and the anchor could be retrieved and rowed ahead again if necessary.

You can imagine the sweating and straining and cursing that must have accompanied this operation.

Clearly, no one could cross the ocean this way, but that was never the point. What it could do was get a ship and crew some relatively short distance when it really counted: into harbor, out of danger, off of some obstruction.

And the same sort of short-range, effortful, but important momentum might be available to us now if we can get an anchor out ahead, hook onto something solid, and then pull forward until we can do it again.

If and when need be, how will you get the anchor out, what will it hold, and how will you put your shoulder to the capstan and warp ahead?

That’s how a friend and teammate described this life many of us have been living — those of us who were primarily working from home before it was universal, anyway.

It’s different, but it works. And it has advantages (as well as disadvantages).

Many people are getting a taste of this now, and the cost of carbon is now impossible to unsee.

The new normal, then, is a choice — really a series of choices — about which tradeoffs and constraints we’re willing to embrace.

Networks’ primary purpose is not and need not be to deliver more entertainment and information faster to our pockets.

Now that we’re seeing what we can do with what we already know, what will we choose to do next?

Yesterday brought news that several groups of states (at least six on the East Coast and the three on the West) were setting up coordinating committees to consider when and how to reopen en bloc for life and business.

This isn’t terribly surprising. One of the most interesting (and concerning) features of the pandemic has been the sudden relevance of borders — and their permeability — in a way we haven’t seen in years. But if we’re serious about flattening the curve, which really means the many curves in specific cities, states, and countries, we’re going to have to be creative and coordinated in the reopening.

(At the same time, it’s worth noting yearslong trends toward localism and distrust, disgust, or just plain impatience with the federal government. And it’s not just red state/blue state: witness the state “home” stickers, regional flags, and area code pride even in “progressive” areas.)

The questions are whether this will last, and whether what lasts will be to the good.

In some way, it probably will last. Political experiments and experiences tend to be sticky. And it doesn’t take an enormous or reactionary leap of imagination to look around and wonder what those suits back east could possibly know about life out here. It’s easy to talk tough across the Pacific when you’re already all the way across North America, too.

There are many things to celebrate about localism and regionalism. Cultures, foodways, and dialects are only part of it. Beyond knowing where the great restaurants are, devolved and distributed systems can be more resilient.

But they’re awfully hard to coordinate, as the agonizing evolution of the European Union (and many other international organizations, including the UN and WHO) show every day.

There’s no firm answer here, nor a hot take. But it’s a trend worth watching, and it’s worth wondering how we might move closer to solving the puzzle of how best to balance the advantages of federalism with the advantages of subsidiarity in a networked world.

It’s been a month or more for most of us, with perhaps at least that much more to go.

Most people have found that time has grown slippery: we’re not sure which day it is, and we have no idea how long we’ll be in this suspended reality.

But suspended reality is a good time to consider how things could or should be when the more usual reality reasserts itself.

There’s still too much denialism, more than enough nostalgia, and plenty of speculation (not to say wishful thinking).

What there’s not nearly enough of is productive dreaming — the creative, strategic, intentional use of this break in time to consider what sort of world we want to re-emerge into.

What needs to happen? What needs to be built? Who’s it for?

And what can you start doing today, step by tiny, inexorable step, to make it real?

It’s possible to imagine how all this must feel for children.

It’s possible to take less than a minute to speak to them calmly and clearly and compassionately.

It’s possible to wrap in some good ideas for parents.

New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Adern just showed the world it’s possible in this declaration of the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny as essential workers.

We’re going to hear a lot of arguments in the United States over the coming months about seriousness, what it takes to be leader of the Free World®, and greatness.

We are almost certain to hear more about how younger people, or non-male people, or not-so-pale people, or other kinds of people couldn’t possibly do this.

It’s likely we’re going to hear about at least one “moonshot,” new or (likelier) old.

Could it be possible that we’re just a little too wrapped up in re-defeating the Soviet Union?

Could it be possible to talk — even for a moment — to people who are young enough to worry about the tooth fairy and not old enough to read the news?

Could it be possible to talk seriously about the experience of a generation (or two, or three) that was promised the world and then got a forever war, a Great Recession, and a pandemic/depression?

Could we talk about that for even 50 seconds … and could it possibly be fun?

Last week, I had a chat with a friend in Australia who casually mentioned that she’d be logging in to her myGov account to sort out some Covid-related details.

This morning, I woke up to news that any American who’s used tax-filing software likely won’t get a direct deposit, and may not get a check at all for at least 20 weeks.

(Apparently, refunds through tax-prep companies are processed through special bank accounts before they ultimately land in the customer/taxpayer’s account — with the intermediary banks and tax-prep companies each getting a cut along the way, of course.)

Now, there’s still hope: the IRS is putting together a portal where you can input your bank information for direct deposit. But, no surprise, it looks like the rush job it is:

No further comment, save this: before we talk about the greatness that was, is, or yet might be, let’s focus on rolling out some trustworthy, effective, 21st-century governance services.

Less than a month’s rent, four and a half months late, is the economic equivalent of our epidemiological bungling.

A little less than two months ago, we decided to leap without looking.

One month ago this morning, we landed.

And two days later, half a step ahead of a spreading pandemic, a catch-our-breath weekend trip turned into indefinite limbo.

There’s no moral to the story, and we don’t know the ending yet. It’s tempting to reach for something trite about how we control less than we think we do, or the inherent uncertainty and unpredictability of life, but I’m not so sure that’s really the point.

Instead, I’ll just sit and marvel a moment — as we’ve done every day for the past month and will likely do for many more — at how crazy this is, and how lucky we are.

When I get to heaven, I’m gonna shake God’s hand
Thank him for more blessings than one man can stand
Then I’m gonna get a guitar and start a rock-n-roll band
Check into a swell hotel, ain’t the afterlife grand?

A couple of months ago, I went to a concert at Club Passim. Cleverly titled “Under the Covers,” it featured a handful of brilliant artists whose names you really should know playing songs made famous by artists whose names you probably do.

Late in the show, Mark Erelli played a song called “Summer’s End,” by John Prine. And, as he was introducing it, Zack Hickman [you’ll want to click both links there] razzed him, noting that Mark had lost a songwriting competition to John over that song. “John Prine is a national treasure,” Zach said. “Nobody’s as good as John Prine. But not just anybody is officially not as good as John Prine.”

And then I’m gonna get a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale
Yeah, I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl
‘Cause this old man is goin’ to town

I first heard John’s music on a Pandora shuffle I’d put on the speakers in the coffee shop I worked in at Georgetown. I’d hear these clever lyrics while out front making drinks, and I’d duck back into the office to see who was singing. Sure enough, it was John Prine. Who else would sing, “She uses Eveready / batteries to keep her electrical appliances a-goin’ steady”? Or “Please don’t bury me / down in that cold cold ground / I’d rather have ’em cut me up / and pass me all around”?

Then as God as my witness, I’m gettin’ back into show business
I’m gonna open up a nightclub called The Tree of Forgiveness
And forgive everybody ever done me any harm
Well, I might even invite a few choice critics, those syph’litic parasitics
Buy ’em a pint of Smithwick’s, and smother ’em with my charm

John died Tuesday, and I expect that nightclub should be opening soon — just as soon as he’s put away a cocktail or two and enjoyed his first cigarette in decades. I don’t want to join him there anytime soon, but I’ll certainly miss him here.

Awwwwwwwwww, baby! We gotta go now.

***

PS: Speaking of Passim, you don’t have to die and get to heaven to catch a great show these days. The club is live-streaming a Keep Your Distance Fest on a pay-what-you-can basis, with revenues split between artists, the club, and the otherwise-out-of-work waitstaff (all artists themselves).

Plus, Josh Ritter is performing a Silo Sessions series live on YouTube at 8:00pm ET every Tuesday. All of his tours have great posters, and this one’s no exception. (A portion of proceeds also go to charity.)