Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California August 4, 2020
Such has been the length and tenacity of this virus that we’ve experienced the pear tree’s full cycle within the pandemic’s confines. On day 19, the tree’s blossoms were waning, the fruit was set. Today - 119 days later - the pears have begun their imperfect letting go. This year’s is only a fraction of last year’s crop, I don’t know why. And those that have dropped so far (we can’t reach the branches to pick them ripe and perfect) seem to have been damaged even before they fall. I found this dried out and broken one protected from the animals beneath the dense and prickly Asparagus fern. Sad to say, it is inedible.
I’m trying to be more like this pear as I ready myself to give up a hip this week: damaged, sore, and ready to let go. Instead, I cling to the idea that if I just try a little harder to fix it myself I can stay wholly me and still sheltered in this garden. Surgery is not to be taken lightly under any circumstances, but COVID makes it worse. There are extra protocols and risks one has to endure alone. Of course mine is not a matter of life and death like some I know and love, and I’m sure everyone is right that once it’s done I’ll regret I didn’t do it sooner, but still… there’s something about the process that makes me pause and ponder: we are lucky that science now allows us to replace some body parts that no longer function well, but I remind myself lest I get cocky that fixing one and then another hip will not slow the seasons down nor make me less imperfect fruit.
