Shelter in Place, San Francisco, February 6, 2021
From our deck, the large acacia tree (in the background here) blocks not only much needed sun but our view to the back of the garden. We’ve been talking about bringing it down for years. Finally, this is the week that it happens. Already I’m almost looking at the tree with nostalgia. Will I miss it when it’s gone and irreplaceable? Next to surface will be my ambivalence about change - any change - and the realization that the empty space will need to be filled and things that have flourished in the tree's shade will need to be relocated. The relief of having finally acted to bring sunshine to the garden will be replaced with my anticipation - good and bad - of the work ahead. There is lots to do.
And this reminds me, of course, of the ambivalence expressed by every friend who has managed so far to get their first vaccine shot - an ambivalence I expect to feel after I get mine this afternoon. It is, of course, the first step toward something different - something freer, but quickly comes the realization that the shot itself changes nothing. We must wait for the second one, and for several weeks after that, and then for everybody else to get their shots, and so forth. I have made great effort in these past few months not to assume that any of these steps will make life go back to “normal”. There are too many variables, too many mutations, too many other problems we need to solve. I don’t want to be disappointed. But it’s hard not to think ahead to all the things we might soon be able to do. Simple things, the work and life suspended - going to the dentist, getting a mammogram, going to the farmers’ market, driving down the road, at least, to visit other vaccinated friends. Maybe family, too, some day. Will these things really come to pass? And will I feel ambivalence about returning to the ‘business’ of everyday life as much as I’ve complained about being stuck at home?
Our garden will look new and different when the tree is cut down, there’s no doubt. But how long it will take us to get used to the change and how much work lies ahead as we adjust to the sudden open space and sunshine? We’ll only know when they haul the logs away.
Day 318: Room With a View
Shelter in Place, San Francisco, February 4, 2021
I can’t help but wonder, as I pass an iconic San Francisco apartment building in my neighborhood, what it must be like to see the world from windows that curve and hang above the street. Perched high enough to see beyond their neighbors, I imagine the inhabitants have a splendid view so different than my closed-in vista on the street.
I was reminded the other day when we ventured downtown for the first time in a year (wow, the very first time!) what a limited view I have of the pandemic from the confines of my neighborhood. Here, they’ve closed off long blocks so that people can jog, and ride their bikes, and walk their babies spread out and unthreatened by traffic. Here, people talk on the phone to colleagues and friends as they hold meetings and make deals even as they power walk. Here, everybody wears masks as they stop in front of the coffee shop, or wait on the sidewalk for their turn at the butcher’s counter or their take-out Thai. Here, the only clatter on the street comes from masked teenagers practicing their skateboard moves and children chattering at their nannies as they toddle down the street. Here, the scene seems a planner’s view of a futuristic, idyllic city. Downtown, by contrast, looked apocalyptic - a dirty, lonely ghost town, its shops and restaurants boarded up, its only visible inhabitants sprawled in nearly every doorway trying to catch some sleep.
I’m not only pulled up short by the visual reality check this week. I’m also more aware of the suffering that is accumulating with people I know and love, people out of sight but rarely out of mind: a friend tells me they’re running out of money after not having any work for ten long months; another worries about going into the hospital for life-saving surgery; a teacher talks of the inability to get vaccinated even as he is being sent back to the classroom; and death from this disease has now leapt from the pages of the news and reached within the ripples of my life.
It’s complicated, of course. I cannot really know whether the windows above me really have welcome sunlight and a lovely view; I cannot guess whether its inhabitants are suffering or - like me - just skating by. But I feel infinitely lucky, after all, as I stand here looking up, to have such a safe refuge to go home to, and a smaller garden view.
Day 315: Looking Up
Shelter in Place, February 1, 2021
This morning John managed to snag one of maybe a hundred vaccine appointments at our local clinic, while I kept refreshing the link in vain hopes of doubling our luck. Downtown together with plenty of time to wait for his appointment, we visited the nearly empty SalesForce park, four stories above the street, its lovely, long green walkways flanked by small mini-gardens that represent each continent. Here, South African protea frame one of the city’s tallest towers.
It would have been nice if we both had gotten our first vaccine together today, but at least John’s jab gets us 25% of the way towards safety. I’ll take it, even as I keep on refreshing the website through the night and into the wee hours of the morning hoping that maybe, just maybe, things are looking up!