It’s Saturday morning. It’s warm and there’s moisture in the air. We’re expecting rain for almost an entire week. Right now, the rain has paused and some sunlight is filtering through fast-moving clouds, shining on surfers taking advantage of the wind-whipped waves in the bay, occasionally causing a glare that burns my eyes.

This weekend, we are to stay indoors except for emergencies, and the weather is cooperating. Last weekend, it was sunny and warm, and despite weaker requests to practice social restraint, the parks overflowed with cheery groups enjoying the cherry blossoms. At least this weekend, with wind and rain, those intent on ignoring experts and elected officials might be dissuaded from gathering for weather-related reasons.

Finally, it seems, this COVID-19 business is being taken seriously here. I have spent weeks watching countries abroad—my home country, Canada, included—shut their borders and announce various states of lockdown, while Japan did nothing beyond continue to plan for Tokyo 2020.

I cried tears of relief when my home province of Ontario declared an emergency. My parents are in their 70s, and my mum is immunocompromised. I am terrified for them.

I am terrified for my sister, cousin, cousin-in-law and aunt who are nurses.

I am terrified for cousins who have diabetes.

I am terrified for people like them in Japan, where life, for the most part, has continued as usual despite a growing number of confirmed illnesses. I am terrified at the nonchalance with which many continue to gather; with which clubs and cram schools, closed at the beginning of March, reopen.

But finally, this past week, the governor of Tokyo, as well as those of several other prefectures, stepped up their requests. They’re still not orders, as apparently that is not within their powers. The requests also only apply to the next few days.

But it’s something. And beneath the request from Tokyo’s governor at least, there was a threat of lockdown.

I know I am not alone in hoping and praying that this will be enough to get the attention of the general public, and for more than the three days that the request lasts.

Because if it doesn’t, I am afraid of what the next weeks and months will bring. I am afraid that Japan will become the next China, Italy, USA. I am so afraid.

It is certainly a strange world out there. And like so many others, I’ve been struggling.

But the other day, the sun was shining and warm, the sky was bright blue, and a breeze seemed to blow the sharp edge off my worries and fears.

I visited a local park with my kids, one that stays fairly empty and which has zero playground equipment. I sat and watched the waves, and squinted at the faint outline of Mt. Fuji in the distance to see whether it was actually the mountain I could see, or simply a memory of the mountain I’d etched out of the clouds.

Then the complaining started. The kids are lonely and bored. They miss their friends, most of whom are still seeing other friends. We’re the most self-isolating family I know in our area, and it has been hard on my older daughter in particular.

I try. I try not to lose my already stressed-out mind at the kids, but alas, I am not perfect, especially when I struggle. And so we went home in a partial huff.

On the way home, the toddler fell asleep in the stroller as her big sister ran ahead. When we got home, the older settled onto the couch, and I laced up my running shoes. For the first time in almost a month, I got out of the house alone, and got some exercise.

I went back to the same park, jogging along the oceanside walkway and up between the bluffs. I sprinted a few stairs. I jumped and stretched. I admired the view again, this time without complaints in the background. I found dandelions and marvelled at their brightness. And I felt good and happy and optimistic for the first time in weeks.

Moments like this are few and far between these days. I know brighter days await on the other side of the pandemic, but it’s hard to grasp hold of a time when it’s shrouded in mystery, when we don’t really know if this dark tunnel will be long or short.

So I take moments like these: I take the bright yellow dandelions. I take the purple phlox. I take sunny days. I take Mt. Fuji, even when I can’t see it soar into the sky. However faint, I know that the mountain is there. Just like I know this, too, shall pass. Even if the end is faint. Even if the end is not in sight at all.

Like I do with Mt. Fuji, I will look into the distance and see it there, even if it’s just a memory of good times etched in the clouds that shroud the future. It is there. I know it is. I just need to wait for the clouds to lift.