I've come to welcome a small amount of chaos now and then, like a snow day, a bucketing thunderstorm, or an unexpected power outage. Things that do little harm, but which throw enough of a wrench into society's routines to allow individuals at every level a moment to reflect. The answers to "how should I use this day?" are as varied as those asking. It's a special kind of question that usually goes unasked, and a small amount of chaos is the mother of that kind of question. But it's not enough to prompt questions like "why was I doing this in the first place, anyway?" or the even deeper corollary "could there be a better way than this?" Summoning questions like that, perhaps, requires a large amount of chaos.

The woeful consequence of the pandemic, of course, was the worldwide sickness. For nearer ten million people than zero, the disease made the difference between the continuation and the ends of their lives.

But what are the good consequences of the pandemic?
Almost as remarkable as the answer is the rarity of the question. It's coming to three years, and I've never heard it posed. Well, I pose it. And I'll answer first.

I'll start with just one consequence: most everyone who remains, from children to scholars to businesspeople to the elderly, has received a comprehensive overview of modern communications technology. It was previously less likely that a given teacher, boss or grandparent would know how to videoconference. Today, it would seem unusual that they wouldn't.

Perhaps the question is so rare because that kind of answer is considered paltry or inadequate. ("People are dying, and you're worried about Zoom and FaceTime?")

But it's not paltry. That's short-sighted. Let's lengthen our sight.

Define human civilization as having begun ten thousand years ago. Select one person at random from it. Tell them that if they would like to see, hear, and speak with another person on the other side of the world, it's theoretically possible to do it, within minutes, with a thought and a few gestures. The chances are approximately 100 percent they'll assume you're lying, delusionsal, or joking. To them, it would feel as you would feel if someone was telling you that you could see the surface of your desired planet on the other side of the Milky Way galaxy from a live camera, at ground level, within minutes of having had the idea. There would be no need for a Hubble telescope or a James Webb telescope ever again – it would be like a million James Webb telescopes already set up, fully equipped with two-way visuals and audio, at your command if you desired, sitting dutifully at the ready if your attention wandered.

I had quietly reflected through much of high school: "I'm supposed to complete a certain range of coursework – reading, thinking, demonstrating skills and knowledge. But the Internet is here now. Rather than spending time travelling back and forth each day, spending money on supplies whose functions are now replicated by computers, can't I theoretically do all of this across the Internet?" If posed outwardly at that time, I did not have the impression the question would have been taken seriously.

But during the pandemic, high school students were doing this every day for over a year without a thought, with endorsements so unanimous that they were unspoken. The transition into this mode seemed more like a dive than a hesitant wade. By word of mouth and across e-mails and press releases, little resembled "should we really do this?" or "is everyone ready?", but rather, "all right, this is what's happening," or "we're in this together," or just "here we go."

So, could I have used the Internet back when the question had originally occurred to me? Without the explicit admission of any individual, almost as though it were an emergent being, society seemed to affirm there was no real reason I couldn't have. It was always possible.

Needless to say, I'm not advocating that all of education (or all of work, or all social interaction) should occur online. There has always been value in the immediate presence of a good teacher, the live objects and substances for a science demonstration, the thoughtfully-arranged surroundings of a classroom, the smell and feel of paint and clay, the stream of sensory cues within a music or theatre rehearsal, and the sharing of all these among colleagues. But there is also value inherent to aspects of online interaction – efficiency, freedom of pace, technological literacy, accessibility, deference to matters of comfort and privacy, the power of software to realize creativity, and more – which have seldom been tapped, let alone optimized or refined, as the in-person institution has, by time and tradition, into at least a coequal force for productivity and enrichment. That has started to change. Online interaction has moved from "always possible" to available and availed. Its shortcomings will be improved upon. And that's one good consequence of the pandemic.

But that's only one consequence. A few others, off the top of my head:

Humanity has discovered that it must reduce greenhouse gas emissions dramatically and permanently, and a layperson can tell that a few people a day heeding the call of a "ride your bike to work" campaign won't do. But each day that school was remote rather than live, nations' worth of school buses, plus the vehicles of students and faculty, were subtracted from the road. Extend that to much of the workplace as well. While experts' calculations must be preferred to laypeople's on the question of the nearness of that impact to a solution, all should agree the reduction in emissions is substantially superior to that of a few voluntary cyclists.

Face coverings have long been commonplace in some countries to prevent contagion of any airborne illness, but in other countries including the two I've inhabited, "masks" were considered untoward if not unnerving or threatening. Now they're considered benign, if not polite, if not altruistic. I observed medical professionals noting the incidentally reduced the spread of other airborne and seasonal diseases, such as the flu, to lows they'd never seen. It seems that was "always possible" too.

Like a shot, the scientific community tapped a hundred-plus years of antibody-crafting knowledge to develop the initial vaccines in a matter of days. National governments, including historical holdouts, seemed to unite in the concession that everyone benefits when medical resources, such as the results of those efforts, are available freely to everyone who needs them. This too, society seemed to exclaim without the voice of any one person, was always possible.

Any one of these changes would be astonishing. But what I've noted in person and online, almost exclusively, is remarks like "when will we be back to normal?" Or, "those poor students are really getting shortchanged." Or the new classic phrase, "these [adjective] times," where the adjective is euphemistically chosen for sensitivity and solemnity. Over and over, like mantras.

We should expect some expressions of condolences and compassion during such rare challenges. But what about "look how far we've come together, that we respond to a pandemic never again with the fear and helplessness of a black plague, but with collective calm and expertise"? Or "thanks to this generation's network and software engineers, businesses and the education of children didn't have to go neglected for a year. No one had to be isolated, lonely, locked out of contact. How incredibly fortunate this technology reached robustness just years before the moment we needed it"?

Weren't "look for the silver lining" or "always look on the bright side of life" considered wisdom around the globe? In terms of proportional advancement, we have this era's equivalent of a million James Webb telescopes at our call. This particular silver lining is blinding. Humanity, and all its individuals who remain, all those who lament the pandemic's woes, deserve to come to terms with that. Society will never be the same. Society won't go back to what was meant by "normal," because that sense of "normal" would not have included these improvements. And, for each one of them, we have the pandemic to thank.

This time.

What lessons remain available to be learned? What else is currently "always possible," but not yet acknowledged? Will humanity summon its ability to reflect on those questions now, without the aid of the next large amount of chaos?