Shelter in Place, San Francisco, December 27, 2020
This is the week when the media, the critics, and the pundits summarize the year: the best, the worst, the highs, the lows, the most bizarre. For me, a review of 2020 feels like a foggy, slow-motion dream of barely skirted disasters: the virus, of course, racial reckoning, the fires, the growing drought, the near demise of the democracy I’ve always taken for granted — apocalyptic threats that swirled around my cozy, sequestered life but never quite came through my door. I know how lucky I am.
Inside, there were smaller pleasures to be had: a deeper, albeit remote connection with my siblings, friends, and kids; new hips implanted in-between the virus spikes; pure awe and gratitude for the dedication of the journalism, medical and science professions; some remarkable performances that heralded the survival and the healing power of the arts; an affirmation and strengthening of the bond with the man I share this house and life with; a garden, of course, and a photo project that started as a whim and has grown into a lifeline.
To have the strength to take a walk around the block and to find this little bit of artistry chalked outside a neighbor’s house are miracles in themselves, and the drawing on the sidewalk pretty much sums up my year.