Shelter in Place, Day 56: The Whole Picture

foxglove.jpeg

San Francisco, California
I’ve been trying for days to capture a picture of the foxglove in full, resplendent glory now that its time has come, but no angle gets the flower’s beauty right - the tall elegance as a whole, the complex individual bells designed to draw the bees. Every frame I’ve taken is cut off or caddywampus. I kept trying until I realized - all things considered -these shots are no more fragmented and out of focus than my current life.

Everything, it seems these days, is made up of small tidbits, rather than the whole. When we can even find a time slot for grocery store delivery, only a fraction of our order lands at the door; we have to look elsewhere for the rest or do without. Relentless headlines present only an imperfect picture of where our country is, and where we’re going, no matter how often I reload the page. TV ads designed to make me cry succeed. I read only single chapters of my books - and sometimes single pages, single paragraphs - before I get distracted and have to start again. Puzzle pieces do not fit. Laundry’s done in fits and starts. Meal clocks, baths, and bedtimes begin to inch around the dial as there’s no calendar of events to pin us down. Even conversations with my friends are made funny by the cut-off faces appearing on the screen. All first world problems, I know, but disorienting nonetheless. 

But there is beauty in the fragments, too. Sometimes a limited view allows us to focus on what feeds our souls and gives us peace. I don’t need to see the whole foxglove in order to wonder at the pattern on its bells; I don’t need to finish the chapter in order to relish the beauty of the words; I’m not sure I’m ready for the whole picture of this pandemic and the sorrow and chaos it is bound to reap. For now, this small world in which we live is enough to keep me safe and clear enough of mind to enjoy the crooked flowers as they bloom.

Shelter in Place, Day 55: New Life

Day 55: New Life

Day 55: New Life

To walk past our dwarf lemon tree right now is to be intoxicated. Such a soft and sweet perfume! Never have we had so many blossoms all at once, never have we needed them more. The lemon flowers aren’t the prettiest, but the way in which they show off the literal fruits of their labor is remarkable. From day one, if you look very closely, the lemon is there already, just itching to grow. 

This week my friend Corky became a grandmother in the hardest way - separated by hundreds of miles and a dangerous virus from her son Sam, and from her daughter-in-law, Sara - first-time parents. Parents and baby daughter Skye are reportedly doing well, and Corky is thanking her lucky stars and FaceTime that she can be at least a small part of these first few precious days. (What a funny world, eh? When I was having kids, the normal maternity hospital time was almost a week, and some of us lobbied to go home sooner or even have our babies at home. Our choice, hard won. In the Corona virus world, frightened parents are urged to stay in the hospital as little as possible and/or encouraged to have their babies at home. Midwives haven’t been this busy in decades.)

I’m thinking about my mom today and missing her, of course, as I do every single day of the year. But she raised her kids in a post-war world in which she believed fervently that things were always getting better. And she was right. Looking back, it seems we grew up in a golden age, nurtured by Mom’s love and guidance. And her optimism. And compassion. Giving birth right now cannot be an easy start to childrearing in a post-pandemic world we expect to look vastly different than the one in which today’s newborns were conceived. Congratulations Sam and Sara, and all the new parents (and grandparents) who’ve safely navigated step one. I wish you love, strength and courage. And I can’t wait to watch your children grow!