Day 80: Same Old, Same Old - 80 Days and Counting

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

I know I’ve posted a lot of rose pictures before, but this one (David Austen Iceberg Floribunda) reminds me why I love them so. We planted it three years ago as backdrop for the fountain after its predecessor, a giant wisteria-like lupine bush, gave up the ghost. I picked the rose for its color and its name: “Iceberg,” given that it nestles in the corner with the juvenile tree fern whose name is ‘Dicksonia antarctica’ - my own little private joke. It’s been a spindly thing so far, though the bush’s core seems a tad stronger this year - just in time, too, since I counted forty buds on this single stem. Forty. As they continue to open, we’ll see how many it takes to bring the whole branch to the ground. 

I feel like I’m repeating myself in my pictures and posts these days and sounding a bit more overwrought than I actually feel. I appreciate the support and feedback, but I’m wondering if it may be time for me to at least slow down. It’s inevitable that, with no time spent outside of what is, after all, a very small garden, unique pictures, new observations, and better metaphors become harder to conjure every day - even as fast as events in the outside world insist on grabbing my attention. Anyway, it has been 80 days now, a nice round number and one that evokes the Jules Verne tale of a gentleman recluse persuaded to leave his sheltered home to explore the greater world. 

I’ve gained so much from this daily habit of looking at my little universe from this place of isolation. In spite of having kept a garden journal for several years, I’ve never known or appreciated the cycles of bloom and decay as I have in these past months. The discipline of delivering a photo every day has kept me outside, busy, and curious through circumstances that might otherwise have brought me down or put me to sleep. It hasn’t always been easy to find the accompanying words, but it has given me a way to process the things that are happening to all of us (and those that are not). Most of all, it’s served as a reminder that there is beauty in the world and a life worth living. Always. No matter what. 

So here I am. 80 days and counting. I honestly don’t know if the project is even ready to let me go, or if I, in turn, am ready to stop. But the question is out there among the roses. And we’ll have to see how many more days and photos might (metaphorically speaking) bring the branches to the ground.

Day 79: Two Paths

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

Our garden’s lefthand path is the main thoroughfare to the back shed. But it’s longer than you'd expect because we made it an ’s’ to add interest and to maximize the room for plants; there’s always something to look forward to around the bend. The righthand path is narrower than the left and messy with calla lilies, shrub roses, and ferns that sometimes overshoot their boundaries. You can barely make it out. But the smaller path is a straight shot to the shed. It's how I take the hose for watering in the back. 

I knew it was going to be hard when the world began an incremental return to business as usual because I knew it would be less clear what was the right next step for me. I knew the garden might feel less like a haven and more a cage when everybody else returned to a so-called normal life. What I didn’t expect was that this first soft-reopening would occur in the midst of a moral, civil and political crisis that has interrupted our obsession with the virus and rendered all of us less sure of what to do. Remember Memorial Day (ten days ago) and the people who rushed to the beach without their masks? My outrage seems so quaint now. This week's images have been of much bigger crowds, people who ignore the pandemic’ dangers in order to march, to sing, to hug, and to remind us what’s important in the world. They make standing less than six feel apart look almost normal again - patriotic, even. And it nearly feels like I could, I should go out there, too. I’ve almost forgotten why I’m here.

Yesterday two of my doctors called to let me know that they are back in business and ready to start up where we left off. Once again, there are decisions to make, appointments to schedule, risks to consider. I do not feel prepared. Do I tell them I’m not ready? Do I heed the experts’ warning that the virus will undoubtedly rebound? Or do I pretend that life will continue on a path toward normal, and I can begin to take more risks? Do I opt for the pain relief of surgery or continue to bite the bullet and stay out of the virus' reach? Do I hold on to the illusion that I’m safe as long as I stay here? Which decisions will make me safer, healthier, less anxious? I simply do not know and I don't feel ready to decide.

Ahhhhh, I miss the good old days, that is to say, some odd twelve weeks or so ago, when we knew what we were supposed to do and why we had to do it. The parameters were clear. There were no decisions necessary. We stayed in. All of us. We felt sure and brave. And at least a little safe.

Day 78: Seeds of Hope

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

A few weeks ago, stepson Jack brought over this packet of seeds from the stash he’s using to start his first vegetable garden. He stayed well away from us on the back deck, setting the seeds down on the table between us. I let them sit there overnight, and then forgot about them as Jack called back to report COVID-19 symptoms were making him miserable, inaccessible, and feeling guilty that his restaurant had to scramble shifts to make up for a missing chef. I didn’t, in fact, have the heart to plant the seeds until a few day ago, when we got the all-clear that two consecutive tests were negative and he reported symptoms gone. I don’t really have room for a long and messy squash vine, but I have planted and will nurture the seeds in honor of Jack - his health and his gift - both tokens of hope for better days to come. 

This morning, I learned that Jack’s restaurant is closing again tonight because the entire staff wants to be in a protest march down Mission Street. I am proud and I am impressed by their solidarity and resolve. Depending on their route and our energy, John and I may don our masks and walk down a few blocks to cheer as they go by. 

I was told more than once this weekend by younger people I love that this current state is - all of it - the fault of my generation. Trying to put their disappointment into the context of America’s history and my own personal lifetime would sound defensive, but I do agree that our children have inherited a mess. Bottom line: this is a terrible time to come of age. ‘Never trust anyone over 30,’ was one of the slogans when John and I were marching together against the war in Vietnam. Upon reaching that milestone myself, I realized that - to some degree - the mistrust was justified. Life became or seemed, at least, more complicated. And though all of my boys are now beyond that particular 30-year marker too, I still believe that they, in this moment, will move us toward a better reckoning, a fairness that my generation was never able to achieve. Seeds of hope.