Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California, July 26, 2020
I was thinking this morning, as I tried to remember if it was time again to water the plants, that there are numerous ways in which we track the passage of time, most of which are irrelevant now in Covid-land. Sunday, I thought, that’s the last time I watered. But it took a few minutes to confirm that indeed, today is Sunday once again, and it’s time to get the hose out. Watering the garden, placing a food order, Zoom calls, and taking out the trash - those are the the only remaining regular and predictable events left on our calendar. Everything else is sporadic enough to be scheduled when we have the time or energy. Cleaning the house, for example, gets done in fits and starts and usually room by room. Time spent in the garden depends more on the wind than the hour of the day. Even our entertainment is no longer dependent on a timetable, what with podcasts, music, and video always ready to be streamed.
Usually, when one counts the days and weeks it's because there’s something up ahead we want (or dread) to do. But waiting for this pandemic to recede has made us wary of any longterm plans (my nephew’s wedding, for example, was just postponed a year). So now we count how long we’ve been here (131 days), not how long we have to go; we count how much summer we have left (7 more weeks) and try not to think about being alone for Thanksgiving after that; and we count the days until there’s any hope that a grownup will be in charge (only 100 more days - please put it on your calendar, and please, please, please don’t forget to vote!).