Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California, August 31, 2020
This ‘Ray of Light’ or Foxtail Agave is a slow grower. Each new layer starts with a tight spiral that opens out over time to form the next circle of fresh, clean leaves. Eventually the plant will rise to maybe eight feet tall - probably not in my lifetime, but I’m perfectly happy with the pace.
Today this newest agave spiral speaks to me, constricted as it is and looking for the sun. I’m having so much trouble with the concept of time and forward motion, feeling like my own life is spiraling slowly, slowly down, even as the crises beyond my door ratchet ever faster upwards. This morning I did the COVID math: 164 days = 5.5 months, months I cannot even picture it in my head. Where did the time go? What did I do? I tick the months off on my calendar, but I cannot really feel the forward motion, except in COVID dead and acres burned.
The measure of time in California is always harder than other places I’ve lived because the seasonal changes are more subtle. Here, the pandemic began at the end of the rainy season and has lasted through the dry. Soon enough, it will begin to rain again. That’s the one measure I can count on. In other climes, my friends can mark time’s passage much more viscerally - their COVID months have moved from snow and cold, to heat and garden bounty, to now - inevitable hints of fall. Their calendars will march right on to winter. As for me, I stand surprised by the imminent arrival of Labor Day, a day, unfortunately, that promises nothing special. And after that, the election comes towards us at once too quickly and too slow. We all can be forgiven if the spiral that we feel today is one of growing dread.