It’s a conversation that has lasted for more than twenty years, one book at a time, one month at a time. On this particular evening, long before the coronavirus, two members of our book group, Suze and Lynda, have folded themselves, side by side, into two big chairs separated by a small table. Dee, our host this month, lies nearby on the floor, her head on a large, soft cushion.

Except for Diana, the rest of us are moving around the room, or sitting in or on the various corners and arms of a long, comfy couch, facing our friends and the big chairs opposite, with a glass coffee table in between. Casual tonight in a t-shirt, jeans, and baseball cap, Diana has seated herself cross-legged on the floor, halfway between the couch and a large, crackling fire.

We’re talking about Donna Tartt’s opium-addled orphan from The Goldfinch when Di drops an innocent-enough, book-inspired question into the conversation. She wants to know what our own children would say they remember having heard us repeat a lot. My mind jumps to “God grant me the serenity…,” which I said often to my children when they were feeling anxious or frustrated. 

Some of us are offering replies to Di’s original question, everyone is talking all at once, and a few are remembering things that our own parents said to us once upon a time, like my mom’s “Don’t do me any favors.” As the eldest child, I was full of clearly underappreciated ideas about how I could help out around the house.

Replies to the original question continue to pop up from all corners of the room, and I am gobbling them like cinnamon red-hots when I am suddenly distracted by light laughter from somewhere nearby. I am reminded of a frequent observation of my husband’s, “People say what they need to hear,” and immediately lose my grip on all the other responses.

Dee offers that her dad always said, “What you see depends on where you sit.” I sit up. What did he see? Where was he sitting when he said that? I wish so hard that I could know the backstory for that. But Dee has nothing. I wonder what she can see from her spot on the floor. From where I sit, she has a straight line to the ceiling, our stocking feet, and the underside of the coffee table, which is covered, at the moment, with the most delicious collection of goodies.

My friends, relaxing now into the familiar rhythms of our repartee, remind me of colorful afghans draped all over the furniture. I appreciate our longstanding commitment to spending time together. I can see that how you frame an issue affects your next move. Like this pandemic. Boredom or a renewed appreciation of simplicity? Fear of future illness or gratitude for current good health? Challenge or obstacle? Speed bump or brick wall? Failure or success? For instance, we switched book group to Zoom last spring, and will plan to switch back only when it’s safe to do so. It’s not as good as being together, but it’s good enough for now.

This book club conversation really speaks to me, in part because I see myself as a teacher who works continually to frame obstacles as challenges, to identify and then applaud baby steps, and to methodically teach patients how to improve their “self-healthcare.” I keep sharing what I see until patients see it for themselves: I believe you can fly. I believe you can touch the sky.

I believe the view from up there is quite something.

When this is over, and it will be, we will be smarter and stronger. The knowledge will have come at a price, but it will be ours for the remainder of our days.