Shelter in Place, San Francisco, December 11, 2020
We rarely see our gardening neighbor over the fence, and when we do, he is a man of few words. But when, on our walk, we encountered him in front of his house yesterday, Michael was slightly more gregarious. We stood six feet apart, catching up, and I was struck once again by how much time has gone by with little personal news to show for it - a strange slow-down speed-up kind of life. “It is what it is,” Michael said as I looked down at the ginkgo leaves beneath my feet.
I never notice how many ginkgos there are in our neighborhood until they turn bright yellow and drop their leaves, all of them at once. Like the stunning lilacs in Minnesota’s spring, the trees are anonymous until they burst with color on every street. ’Tis the season for the ginkgos to show their stuff and I am glad for it, even if it means that nearly a year has gone by in this calendar half-life we can barely measure and cannot truly quantify. It is December, I remind myself, because he ginkgos are dropping their leaves.
Day 261: We’re All Doing the Best We Can
Shelter in Place, San Francisco, CA, December 10, 2020
Ironically, I have regained my walking legs just as the city has been shut down. And though, for the past week, I’ve managed half a mile a day pacing the floor upstairs and walking the garden paths, I need more if I hope to straighten this crooked old witch of a back and strengthen these new, wobbly hips. So I’m taking the governor’s advice: be safe but get out and walk - just around our several quiet blocks, my mask on tight and my iPhone in my pocket in case I find a photo or two to share.
This minimalist Christmas decoration caught my eye on my first walk out in the world yesterday: Three COVID-like plastic lights, hanging over the wall of a modernized triplex on Church Street. No, this image is not a black and white. It is a crooked and minimalist attempt at holiday cheer. It made me smile. We’re all doing the best we can.
Day 260: In the Distance
Shelter in Place, San Francisco, December 9, 2020
From my stationary bike this morning I saw spots of bright red in the garden straight behind us. I headed out with my telephoto lens to investigate, and realized they are the annual exotic flowers of a large aloe (ours rarely blooms, why is that?) which, now they’re here, should last for months - a hidden bright spot in the distance.
Every day the vaccine news fluctuates as does my mood - inoculations begin in England, a return to semi-normal is promised by the spring, counterbalanced by the death toll grinding on and upward. The news that the Trump administration did not order enough vaccine, and that the distribution hurdles are immense add their own uncertainties. I can’t keep up and the effort is not good for my mind and heart. Where do we fit in the queue and when will enough folks be inoculated to lower our risk and send us out the door? When will our children be able to get on with their lives? Better to concentrate on what I have and can count on in the present - love and companionship at home, support from friends and family across the globe, connections, art, music. Love. Life happens, ready or not, vaccine or no. And whatever looms out there in the distance, I will wait and, as always, count on love.