The year there were no airplanes

In the year the airplanes left the sky,

We learned to take our garden naps

To the whispered wings of butterflies.

In the year that no one ventured out,

A parade of golden roses crested the long, tall fence  

To dazzle a wide and empty street.

In the year that threatened to last forever,

The splendid calla lilies clustered early (or so it seemed)

And stood sentry for an extra month or two.

And in the year when no one ever came to call,

The lemon tree erupted as if we alone 

Could finish all its fruit.

The Before and After

Some memories stand as markers among myriad other more transient and forgotten moments in our lives, milestones to help us keep our experiences in context and measured out in time. Marriage, divorce, birth of children, new jobs, death of parents and friends - touch points earmarked with a ‘before’ and with an ‘after,’ moments when we recognize that life (or the world) will never be quite the same. JFK’s murder is such a public marker from my childhood. I was twelve and I remember most the horror on my mother’s face. Watergate, Kent State in my twenties. 9/11, twenty years ago (can that be?). Undoubtedly, the last pandemic year and George Floyd’s death will be similar markers, especially for my grandsons’ generation - a before and (we hope) an after… indelible marks on the personal and public history of our lives. 

One such private marker came for me the day that I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis… a before and after moment, perhaps the biggest of my life. I remember it not for any significant physical manifestations - my symptoms were (and still are) quite mild and sporadic - but for the emotional abyss into which I then tumbled, aided by the way in which the news was delivered. I had an inordinate number of lesions in my brain, I was told off-handedly; there wasn’t much to be done - I could try some experimental drugs that might slow the progression down but have their share of side effects. No promises and not much hope.

“What would you do if you were me?” I asked, through the fog of fear descending.

“I’d take out a lotttttt of life insurance,” the doctor shrugged. “By the time you’re seventy - if you live that long - you’re going to be a mess.”

I’ve been carrying that callous warning in my pocket for nearly twenty years, measuring its weight against every mental hiccup, every ache and every pain.  And though its weight has lessened in direct proportion to my continued ability to function, and as other signs of aging have begun to make their presence known, I realize that I’ve still been waiting for my 70th birthday to finally bring me down.

And now it’s here. This week as I turn 70 - when the abstract becomes concrete, the dreaded milestone is reached - I realize even as I write this that I’m neither angry nor scared. In fact, I am surprisingly indifferent. The prediction has finally lost its power and its relevance, the weight (and wait) is finally gone and I feel only this:  incredibly lucky to have reached an age where my death, whenever it happens now, can no longer be considered premature or caused by specific complications of a terrible disease. At seventy years old I feel like I’m on top of a mountain, not knowing how I got there nor how I will make my way back down but in this moment the view is glorious - look at the life I have managed to live while I’ve been waiting to die!

So this is my new ‘before and after’ milestone, my 70th birthday. The beginning of a new era in which the aches and pains of old age begin to mount, and the MS continues to nibble at the edges, but I am (or will try to be) unafraid of the inevitable. I will enjoy every moment my brain works without lamenting its diminishment. I will nap when I am tired without apology. I will be thankful that my legs still carry me though, dammit, they don’t move like they once did. I will love my friends and family as long as I can remember who they are. I will leave the world to the younger generation and thank them in advance. And I will measure everything by how I feel this birthday week, not overthinking the before, nor worrying (much) about what is yet to come.

Beyond the Fence

On this the day that the governor removes most restrictions related to the COVID virus in California, I feel up to my neck in mud. I am mired and confused. I cannot move, and I don’t think I’m alone in how I feel. 

The angst is mundane - with the lifting of restrictions I have no excuses left for avoiding doctors and dentists anymore; it is social - I have forgotten who I want to see and how to go about it; it is political - I don’t know how to orient my privileged life in light of the inequities so starkly exposed this year, and I have lost faith that there is anyone that can mend the broken bits; it is existential - I have lost the acceptable, normal parameters and definitions for safety and for risk. That last one is the hardest one of all. 

By all rights, I should rejoice in today’s lifting of the bans, but I cannot shake the sense that more bad news is just around the corner and I’ve seen this year just how incapable we are as species and society to mitigate and cope. Personally, I think I’ve lost my reserves for facing the next inevitable onslaught - another COVID strain, perhaps, another virus altogether, the fires, the floods, the winds, the increasingly unsustainable human impact on our planet, the ugly face of racism and intolerance that presage a dark age yet to come. I feel old and unsafe for the first time in my life. 

So here I am. Today the gate has opened, but I’m afraid of going through. Instead, I count the lessons that I think - I hope - I’ve learned from this extraordinary year that we have survived together and apart. 

• Know that loving matters. Nurture the relationships that nurture you. Ask for what you need and be ready to give everything. Write love down and send it. Be grateful, generous, and speak up.

• Embrace fear. Name it. And then let it find a place to live outside your heart. Remember that death is always a close neighbor, even when the virus moves away. Find peace and acceptance from acknowledging what you can and cannot control.

• Accept your aging gracefully, but do not surrender. Relish the long hours and days of reflection without wallowing in regrets, and without wanting the earth to turn any faster or slow down.

• Find joy. Or make it on your own. Sing. Make art. Plunge your fingers in the soil and plant another flower. And another. And another. Wear the nicest clothes in your closet, the ones that make you smile or remind you of those you miss and love. Follow little rituals that give the day some structure and some purpose. Let the present be enough.

• Be honest. Speak your heart out loud. Pandemics are not a good time for small talk.

• Trust that somewhere and sometime in your life you have done something to make the world a better place, even if you cannot always see the traces in the sand. Trust that the next generation has what it takes to carry on. Never let them give up hope. Never give up hope in them.

• Don’t wallow in the bad news as tempting as it may be to do. Obsessing about the mistakes that other people make is not the way to fix the world. Nor is waiting for a bigger plan. Get on with it. Use your economic privilege to go solar, buy local, eat sustainably, and give money freely to good ideas and noble efforts. Fly less. Find pleasure and comfort with less impact close to home.

• Understand that the things that you have ordered or have asked for may not show up; make do with what you have.

• Forgive yourself. And others, too. Believe, really believe that we’re all doing the best we can. Trust in kindness and in justice, even when they do not always manifest themselves. Say thank you every chance you get.

These are the many thoughts that have challenged, bolstered, and sustained me over the past 450 days. And this is what I tell myself as I consider what comes next: Keep learning from this, your pandemic garden. Don’t be eager to let its lessons go. Open the gate, today, tomorrow, whenever you are ready, but remember always that beauty and wisdom lie equally within and beyond the fence.