Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California, September 12, 2020

Today, with the sky a littler bluer and the air a little less thick, I ventured outside long enough to water the garden and check on things a bit. Everything looks stressed and covered with a layer of ash and some sticky kind of residue that has undoubtedly fallen from the dreadful, orange sky - discouraging, to say the least. But as I came around the patio’s corner, I spotted on the Antarctica rose bush way in the back a branch that is weighted down by blossoms in every stage of life - imperfect buds to flowers dead and nearly gone. And though they, too, bear ashes from above, the roses’ determination to get on with it caught me short and made me smile. Life goes on. Beauty persists.

My sister recounted a story this week about our father when he made his last journey into skilled nursing care several years ago: very sincerely he turned to her and asked, “this part doesn’t count, does it?” I think that he was afraid he would be remembered for that, the saddest, most frustrating few years of an otherwise brilliant and productive eight decades on earth. My sister told the story to put our own struggle into perspective as there are days when we both agree that we feel useless, out of touch, and simply waiting for the virus (or all the other threats we feel closing in) to come and get us. I’m sorry. That sounds harsh. But aren’t there days when you feel that way, too - like none of this should count? Certainly, this is not how I expected to spend whatever time is left me - hunkered down and helpless. And, quite frankly, I don’t like how this week has made me feel. So I am glad to be out in the albeit sooty, smokey garden today, and I'm grateful for these roses that remind me of the beauty, purpose, and resilience afforded us - if we can find it - at every stage of life.