This is my daily garden journal while the city of San Francisco has “shelter in place” orders to slow the spread of the Corona Virus in the spring of 2020.

March 18 - April 15 below. Ongoing entries April 16 and forward, above.

Day 30: A Little Sunshine (April 15, 2020)

April 15: A Little Sunshine

Yesterday was one of those perfect days that attracts the butterflies, the hummingbirds and this strange creature (a spotted humbug?) I haven’t seen out here much all winter. Amazing what a little sustained sunshine will do! Soon enough, the socks will come off, the umbrella will stay open, and the time spent reading and dreaming in the sun will lengthen day by day to nearly full-time.

The truth is, our routine has not changed significantly during this quarantine because we are the luckiest of lucky - retired, relatively healthy, financially secure (so far), with food in the freezer, piles of books still unread, movies to watch and nowhere important to go. We miss our little trips out into the country and our exploration of the city; we miss yoga class and hugging our family and friends, and there will be the occasional whine about our aches and pains. But all it takes is a little morning sunshine to remind us how lucky we are, and redouble our gratitude for those who are working tirelessly to keep us supplied and safe.

April 14: Maturity

The east side of the patio is dominated by three old friends (and sometime rivals) - the tea rose, lavender, and South African daisies. All three of them are hearty veterans, having spent many seasons growing around, up, and over each other to find the optimal balance, the perfect light. I love the combination, especially when they agree to bloom at the same time. All three will share their abundant color through the summer. Lucky us.

I'll make this short and sweet. I was immeasurably relieved yesterday to hear our governors announce plans to collaborate and coordinate their efforts to get us out of this mess, even as our president lurched one or two more horrifying degrees toward the brink. This is not about politics. It is literally about life and death. And leadership. I need to believe there are grownups in charge, and I think, I hope yesterday they showed up.

April 13: Flowers or Weeds?

Day 28: Flowers or Weeds? (April 13, 2020)

A shout-out to the wild onions before they disappear. Right now, they form a modest white meadow in every available patch of shade - a messy disorder impossible to capture in a photograph. Soon they will lose their flowers and set to multiplying underground.

The wild onions are the only garden subject on which we (so far) disagree. John thinks they're smelly weeds and wants them gone. He's at least half right. I know if I don't cull them soon, there will be twice the bulbs next year to overwhelm us. But I am grateful for the way their quiet flowers fill the spaces when most everything else is dormant, their small and subtle bells turned toward the ground.

It's time. I know it. Before they hibernate, I must pull at least half of them out, flower, stem and bulb, drenching my hands in that familiar, heavy smell that only teases me now as I ignore them one more day.

I don't think I can keep finding a metaphor for every corner of the garden, but I admit that expendability is on my mind. I wish I trusted the motives and the people deciding what comes next for all of us who have (so far) sheltered safely in our small corners of the world.

Day 27: We Are Not Alone (April 12, 2020)

April 12: We Are Not Alone

Aside from the cats, we have hummingbirds, a few sparrows, and one, maybe two squirrels in our little Eden. This doesn't count the night critters we never see. We're happy to have the company. Now the butterflies are starting to come back, too. As I watched this one gorge on the waning lilac, ready at any second to fly off beyond wherever we can't go, a song from Stephen Sondheim's "Into the Woods" came to me unbidden:

Nothing's quite so clear now
Do things, fight things
Feel you've lost your way?
You decide, but
You are not alone
Believe me
No one is alone (No one is alone)
Believe me
Truly
No one is alone

Happy Easter, all, with love from California.

Day 26: Forgotten Beauty (April 11, 2020)

April 11: Forgotten Beauty

The local garden shops are closed and we're not going any longer to the grocery store where I used to pick up a few annuals this time of year. I've resigned myself with good enough grace to the sight of empty pots. But then a single freesia emerged and unfolded itself in a pot beneath the rhododendron. Its radiating color and intoxicating perfume stopped me in my tracks - buried treasure from a bulb I planted as an experiment several years ago. I'm so grateful for the surprise.

I was going to skip the heavy analogies today, but my early morning reading brought me this: "As the lockdown to stop the spread of coronavirus in India continues, pollution levels across much of the country have dropped sharply. Now some residents in northern India say they can see the snow-capped Himalayas 200 kilometers away for the first time in 30 years." I've seen similar reports from other parts of the world in recent days. Forgotten beauty. Should we be surprised? Is there something we can learn?

April 10: Grief

This dandelion needs no introduction except to say I didn't know that it was there. I never saw the flower in bloom, but found its delicate skeleton this morning back in the shadows, under the wild rose.

It has been three weeks now, and we are fragile. My email box is full of messages from friends and family admitting to a growing sadness, heightening fear; a variety of articles have surfaced today describing this as universal, but not surprising. Yesterday was my hardest day, too - out of sorts for no particular reason, quick temper and arguments in my head about whether, given the suffering of others, I had any right to complain. Unsolicited, my sister sent me this last evening, an interview with David Kessler about grief and grieving: https://hbr.org/2020/03/that-discomfort-youre-feeling-is-grief?

I found it miraculously spot on and comforting. I pass it on. We will have to forgive each other for the occasional outbursts and meltdowns in the days to come. We will have to forgive ourselves - harder, sometimes, to do. And somewhere in the process, Dr. Kessler tells us, we will find a sixth stage of grief that he calls "meaning." I think I understand this, and I'll stay open and hopeful that there are gifts hidden in this experience that will help us accept where we are and prepare for whatever is to happen next. Love to all who read this.

April 9: Sunlight/Shadow

When the sun comes out, our giant octopus of an aloe makes shadows on the very fence it threatens to surpass. I've found it difficult to get a decent photo of this convoluted monster that I only knew before as a house plant. The shadows are easier to capture. Isn't that a metaphor for something? If so, I guess we all know what the shadow is. Today, I'll feel the light as I'm reading Arthur Ransome to my grandkids, and connecting with my friends.

April 8: Community

I love how this Japanese palm (Fatsia Japonica) fits into its surroundings both inside and outside the fence. Its new growth in spring opens like a fern, becoming webbed feet that glow in a sudden burst of sunlight. And though it will never grow as tall as its neighbors (I hope), this palm is becoming more of a player as the years go by.

Unable to get a food delivery for nearly a week, we decided to risk a walk yesterday to the little corner store nearby and to the butcher's one block more - just to see how they were faring and how well supplied. There were a surprising number of people on the street, mostly in careful pairs, some masked, some not. For our part, John and I looked more like bandits than friendly neighbors, and I learned quickly how hard it is to convey a smile with a scarf wrapped tightly across one's face. It's all about the eyes. I haven't lived here long enough to know anyone on the street by name, but this is my community in these tender times, all of us nodding even as we circle each other gingerly and move toward the relative safety of our homes.

April 7: Patience

Usually it rains all winter and then stops completely right about now, but we had a relatively dry January and February, with the heavens waiting until spring to open up. That's OK, we're not going anywhere.

I woke up this morning realizing that even with all the charts and graphs, I don't actually know what the path out of this mess is going to look like, and what will greet us at the other end. Will somebody suddenly declare victory and release us all? What even warrants an all-clear? Will we see kissing in the street like after WWII? Will there be a Corona Parade (San Francisco loves parades) with everybody marching very close together? Fireworks? I saw a picture yesterday of the huge crowds that are pouring into the national parks of China right now, today, as we speak. Is that what we, too, will do? I imagine so, when somebody tells us it's OK. And after that, will we all immediately book airline tickets to hug the ones we love and miss? Will music happen in a room - everyone together? Will the economy coming roaring back and restaurants immediately open and make us glad we waited? Or will we tiptoe cautiously back into the world, wondering if we'll ever be safe again? These are questions that have been teasing me in the early hours of today.

Patience, I say to me and all of us. Don't get ahead of yourself. Watch the rain make patterns on the leaves and wait for the next chapter in our story.

April 6: Pass It On

I love the common name for this funny, droopy plant: Blue Shrimp (Ceranthe Purple Essence). I love even more the way it grows, blooming in March and April and then completely disappearing - flower, stem and root - but for the tiny black seeds that plant themselves (with a little help from me) back along the edging of the brick. We are now enjoying the fourth generation of Blue Shrimp. And if you're thinking that the log in the background of this picture looks like a dragon, that's because it is. My dad carved it just for fun, and it sat for years among my mother's potted plants. It hides, now, beneath my drooping shrimp.

Yesterday we had a noisy, messy, wonderful "ZoomUnion" with three generations of my parents' offspring. Somewhere along the way, the conversation turned to the artwork that peeked from behind each person's shoulder. Some had Dad's paintings prominently displayed, others their own work, or some natural extension of the aesthetic we grew up with. Just as our father paid homage to his own mother's work by hanging it prominently along his own in the house that we grew up in, his children, grandchildren and now great-grandchildren continue to practice and admire art in many forms - the legacy that he passed on.

In these difficult days we can't forget to notice and honor the beauty around, and the goodness among us. Right now, our only job is to survive and pass it on.

April 5: Rebirth

I have a love-hate relationship with this Angel Trumpet (Brugmansia) tree, an anchor to the yard before my time, and to the garden now. The exotic hanging flowers are not only poisonous, they look almost prehistoric when they bloom. (Think deep layers and folds a la Georgia O'Keefe). Prolific as they are, they are also short-lived - one day, the tree is weighted down with lovely bright white trumpets; within a few days more, the flowers begin their ugly decline, decaying first on the tree and then dropping, a soggy mess, onto the plants below. This cycle repeats itself within several weeks, all year long.

Is there a metaphor here? A family online gathering today touched on the question, 'how will we be different when this crisis is over?' Of course we know neither how nor when. We only know that we are witnessing a remarkable and gut-wrenching acceleration of hardship and death even as we hold out hope for a quick rebirth. But it's worth asking the question for real, I think - what do we want to keep from this experience besides our anguish for those who do not make it through?

April 4: Pay Attention

Each winter we declare the pear tree dead and a nuisance in the yard. Each March the tree surprises us with a sudden, if spotty, bloom - an old friend fighting for the sunlight and our attention. A noble comeback. I’ve fully intended for the past two weeks to get a decent shot, but every time I think of it, the sun is at the wrong angle, the wind is blowing too hard, or spotty rain makes me put it off another day. Yesterday, the afternoon sun and blue sky conspired to catch my attention, but alas, when I got back there, the tree’s blossoms were fading and the leaves filling in. With so much time on my hands and nowhere to go, you’d think I’d have noticed and made the effort sooner! Oh well. We are all in a state of suspended animation, powerless to do anything but worry about what will happen next. The stress has made me, a least, capable of little concentrated effort, a side-effect it did not occur to me to expect. Oh well, again. Let’s hope by fall we’re fully back to normal so I will note with greater attention as the blossoms-turned-to-pears fall generously from the tree.

April 3: Family

These lovely daisy-like flowers (argyranthemum Frutescens) have been blooming their hearts out since well before their predicted April appearance. Since February, in fact - months of bonus color. I love the subtle differences in each flower - family resemblance, individual bloom. I admire their longevity, too. Not to mention their cheerfulness.

I'm not the first to say that one of the few silver linings in this crazy lockdown is the increased frequency with which we're all reaching out to the ones we love. Why did it take a crisis for this connectedness to bloom? When we lived a thousand miles apart, John and I spoke on Skype nearly every evening - a simple check-in, a deepening of the bond. But I never used the same technology with the rest of my family. I always took for granted that there would be time later to catch up and share, even if we rarely did. Ironic, now, that I'm holed up here with John and using video to chat with everyone else. On Sunday, we're planning a big extended family, multi-generational online "brunch" across eight time zones. However chaotic it turns out to be, I look forward to seeing those distinct and familiar faces - the ones who do and do not look like me - lined up on the screen, the people who brighten and enrich my world. Even and especially now.

Day Seventeen: Not There Yet (April 2, 2020)

April 2: Not There Yet

The bare branches to the left of our little fountain are just showing the tiniest, tiniest leaves. In a month, this bougainvillea will be a mass of brilliant red. We're not there yet. Yesterday, the New York Times reported that San Francisco is one of the few semi-success stories, having sheltered in place seventeen days ago. Our curve is looking better than most. At the time, I thought our mayor might have been premature. Now I'm grateful. What are the other cities/states waiting for?!?!

Day Sixteen: Resisting Fear (April 1, 2020)

April 1: Resisting Fear

This lovely daisy returning to bloom is meant to keep me calm.

Every time I get into a car, I take a risk that I long ago factored into my life’s equation. I don’t think about it (much). A few weeks ago, John and I rationalized the risks of food delivery by adhering to a routine: take the bags from the doorstep, sort the groceries, wash the produce and clean the bags, the counters, and our hands. Now we quarantine all other packages by the front door for two or three days to minimize the danger of touching and opening them.

Today we’ve made a similar plan for the delivery of something bigger - a washing machine to replace the one that inconveniently broke last week: bring the crew in through the back, wipe everything they touch and pass through when they leave, and move ourselves upstairs for a few days so we don’t come into contact with anything we might have missed. It’s a plan, not a mitigation of the fear. I have felt so safe in this bubble of a home. Now there will be strangers breathing in my bedroom. What a terrible, inconceivable thing to be afraid of!

Last night’s dire new pandemic predictions, I know, aren’t helping. Nor is the breakfast conversation about our finances in the light of a falling stock market and a prolonged, and perhaps chaotic crisis. But all I have to do is think about the trepidation with which those delivery guys will climb down from their truck and enter yet another stranger’s house, expose themselves to OUR air, OUR breathe, to remember that I am not the only one who is afraid.

As we confront a new, and perhaps prolonged reality in which all encounters with others represent a rational danger to ourselves, I will have to internalize the fact that it is the disease we fear, not the people who come to help us.

Day Fifteen: Social Distancing (March 31, 2020)

March 31: Social Distancing

At least three cats, maybe four, perpetually prowl the block’s backyard gardens, moving from one to the other across the maze of fences and through holes they’ve dug below. It’s a veritable thruway. Sometimes this one, in particular, will stay for hours, sunning herself in favorite spots on our patio, shed roof, and back stairs, almost always staying just out of reach (John swears she has a twin that climbs all over him and purrs ferociously when I am not around). And what they discourage in bird populations by their presence (alas), the cats make up for in keeping down the mice inside and around the house, and discouraging the rats that steal our ripened pears as they fall to the ground. What they don’t do is vanquish the skunks.

There is a small, fifteen-inch gap between ours and the neighbor’s house, required by law to slow down fires in this vulnerable, earthquake-prone city. The space is too small for us to squeeze through in order to paint, or clean, or repair. But it’s perfect as an escape hatch for the cats to cross from fenced-in garden to the street. Unfortunately, the long, dark space seems to be just right for a nest of skunks, as well. John says they’ve been using it for years. And when cat meets skunk, inevitably what follows is a sudden release of the toxic spray four feet from where we lie sleeping. It doesn’t happen often, but there’s nothing quite like being awakened by that noxious smell. Very early this morning, I retreated to the upstairs bedroom in hopes of catching a few more hours of sleep (I'm writing this instead).

I’m not quite sure why the cats have not learned their lesson over the years, nor how often the skunks are actually there. But if ever there was a case that proved the value of social distancing, it would be that space too small for animals to safely pass each other in the dark.

Day Fourteen: A Little Sunshine (March 30, 2020)

March 30: A Little Sunshine

Things always look brighter when the sun makes an appearance even though, today, the light is spotty. What a gift!

Today is the start of another work week, a fact I'm lucky enough to forget sometimes. To those of you going out to the medical front lines (and all the others still out in the world and on the job) - our hearts and prayers go with you. To those who are starting (another) week of work at home - with children or without - be kind to yourselves and tolerant of the disruptions that will inevitably make it harder to get things done.

To my friends who, like me, have the good fortune and leisure to chronicle the life that still surrounds us, let's remember to notice and be thankful for the quiet little beauties - like the emergence of the sun.

Day Thirteen: All for One and One for All (March 29, 2020)

March 29: All for One and One for All

This morning I'm appreciating from our balcony the view not only of our own small garden, but all of the rain-drenched green beyond our meager fence. As in many San Francisco neighborhoods, backyard gardens stretch the entire length of our block, and so we can take vicarious pleasure in the trees as tall as the far corner redwood in which a hawk will often perch, and as low as ivy crawling across a nearer neighbor's path like moss. Of course, the obvious analogy is this: we are stronger and happier together. What we have, each of us, multiplies exponentially when we combine our resources, and we remember to appreciate the infinite variety our neighbors offer to enrich and inform our own personal point view.

March 28, 2020: Waiting

Son Hans reminded me this morning of the tease that is March and April in the Midwest - soft, warm breezes followed by blizzards and relentless charcoal skies. Here in California we have a far paler version of the same, so I really can't complain.

In January, I got outside between the raindrops to trim back the big, old tea rose along the fence. I watched the new leaves form on its gnarled trunk in February, and then the buds in March. Now, nearly the first of April, the first flowers are opening. Soon enough, the bush will be swamped with dozens of small, pink roses sending a soft, sweet scent across to my chair. I can't wait.... Oh, that's right, I can.

It seems like waiting is all we're doing these days - waiting for news, for the dreaded symptoms to appear, for a food delivery, a phone call, for test results, for release from our homes, for the election (though the latter seems too far away). My heart goes out particularly today to those who are waiting for some immediate financial relief and rescue as their rent and bills come due at the first of the month. I ache for them, their worlds turned upside down overnight, mountains of fear and worry. I know how lucky I am that April will bring me only (I hope) the joy of roses basking in the morning sun.

March 27: Whimsy

My husband never lets me take myself too seriously, even and especially in the garden. Planted in various corners are his reminders (pigs, mostly) that laughter is our friend. This particular llittle fellow has been snuggling in this spot long enough that my eyes pass right over him. That is, until his rosy companions crawl over the brick edging in their eagerness to bloom.

The groundcover (called Pinkhead Smartweed, I kid you not) was a gift from our neighbor. The little pig - who knows? All I can tell you is that the man who put him there makes me laugh every single day, even and especially in times like these. I am so lucky. We’re all going to need a little whimsy to get us through.

Day Ten: Hidden Treasure (March 26, 2020)

March 26: Hidden Treasures

Years ago, John and I planted a dwarf Meyer lemon tree in the sunniest spot of what was then less a garden than a yard. That same day, we planted a ceanothus of about the same size. You can guess the rest: way back in the shadows, beneath a looming haze of purple flowers, eight bright yellow meyer lemons struggle, now, to catch the light. And though they're not enough to keep us rich in citrus through these trying times (owners of heartier, sunnier trees around here give lemons away like Midwesterners pawn off zucchini in August), these hidden souls could not have picked a better time to ripen in our garden. If times were more 'normal', and if I could get my hands on some flour, I'd use at least half of them all at once in a Meyer lemon cake, with a sweet and sour syrup to saturate the cake as it emerges from the hot oven. A profligate treat it seems now, but something that would have made our day. Instead, I think, we'll pick these lemons one at a time to use with some nice, fresh fish, which, for the moment, is still available.

Meanwhile, along the shaded branches, I spy more buds appearing, a sign of spring and hope. In another six months, perhaps, we'll have another chance to bake a lemon cake.

March 25: Adaptation

A seed from last year's foxglove has taken hold in an old stump beneath the hydrangea. I don't know if its roots will have room enough for the plant to grow full size and flower. I'll be sorry if it doesn't survive, but I'm awed by the effort.

In this, the second week of the grand social experiment called "Shelter in Place," we seem to be adapting well enough to the isolation, finding ways to connect and entertain ourselves... those of us, that is, not yet sick and privileged enough to be able to purchase what we need. But I woke in the middle of the night thinking of the greater, more universal adaptions that will merge from this disruption. I suspect that this may be only the first of numerous major crises in the coming years as decades of population growth, climate change, economic inequality and political polarization combine to make our world increasingly less stable. Some will happen in pockets that make it easy enough to still ignore, some will uproot us all. What will change in the process? How will we adapt? What have we learned? How will we prepare our grandchildren for the world they will inhabit, so different from our own? These are my questions in the dark.

This morning I am remembering with great fondness the glory of the parent foxglove's bloom and hoping to see another flourish in its place, but I will have to wait and see what grows.

Day Eight: Anticipation (March 24, 2020)

March 24: Anticipation

Among our balcony succulents we have Aeonium, which surprised us last spring with a giant, yellow bloom (not sure I'd call it a flower). Looks like it's going to do it again this year. This plant is so hearty that whenever a branch gets too heavy and breaks off, I just stick it in the ground elsewhere and it gets right to work. Maybe, eventually, we will have giant yellow blooms all over the garden. This one seems appropriate this morning as we wait for the Senate to pass a package that will help the people who are hurting most. We can always hope.

Day Seven: Soldiering On (March 23, 2020)

March 23: Soldiering On

I thought about calling this one "Social Distancing." It is, after all, the beginning of the second week of San Francisco's Shelter in Place order. But I want to give a shout-out to everybody who is taking this seriously. There are a lot of shaming posts about folks who continue to ignore or misunderstand the idea of social distancing. But just stop for a moment and think about how remarkable it is that such a large number of people are actually heeding the order and keeping to themselves. Have you heard the profound silence out the window? It will get harder, I'm sure, as the days go by, but congratulations to us on making it through the first week! Even this lavender is doing its part.

Day Six: Dancing in the Light (March 22, 2020)

March 22, 2020: Dancing in the Light

I've been told by a friend that this fuchsia species has recently been decimated by blight in California, don't know if it is true. Regardless, back in the far, dark corner of our garden these wee, bright ballerinas still hang on a bush that, judging by its size, has been here for decades. The brilliant flowers are small and scattered, but if I climb nearly to the middle of the tall and brittle branches, catch the light just right, and wait for the breeze to slow, I can get a half-way decent shot.

I have struggled this morning to match the fuchsia's cheerfulness to my mood but still, their color and bounce make me smile a little which is, after all, the point. It's too easy to fall prey to fear -- so much unknown, such appalling and selfish 'leadership', the headlines more discouraging by the day. Best to focus on those who have shown us their better selves: the incredible medical profession and brilliant scientists working so selflessly; the governors filling the void; the frontline workers and small business owners trying to repurpose their livelihoods and preserve our food supplies and distribution; the teachers reinventing education overnight; the artists and performers who have pumped their creativity online; the parents - oh, the parents, keeping their children comforted and safe.

Okay, so, now I'm feeling better. I guess I will reject those rumors of the fuchsia's sad demise, ignore the obvious analogy, and choose instead to just watch these tiny, happy survivors dancing in the light.

March 21, 2020: Connections

Every February, our neighbors across the fence pollard their tree specifically so that they have an unfettered view from their window of our lilac when it blooms in March. This abundant midwestern variety is not supposed to grow out here but, though spindly, ours can be called resplendent this time of year, certainly worth sharing with the neighbors and the bees. As our isolation continues into another day, I am thinking about the hunger for connection as demonstrated by the abundant emails, calls, and texts that we're receiving from family and friends. I am grateful beyond words. We humans need each other. Maybe it takes a crisis - and the lilacs - to remind us.

March 20, 2020: Patience

I'm still learning about being a Californian. The daffodil bulbs I planted upon my arrival as a reminder of home have appeared each year but never bloomed. Three years, no flowers - only green wisps among the more abundant ferns and wild onions. Then this yesterday: the universal, bright yellow symbol of hope. Last night the governor of California announced that the entire state is to shelter in place indefinitely, and this morning I read that he predicts 50% of us Californians - if I can call myself that now - will come down with the virus. What can I learn from this lovely garden surprise about hope... and waiting for another, better spring?

March 19, 2020: Cacophony

I retreat to the garden to get a little exercise (back and forth, back and forth in this tiny space) and to clear my head. So odd to be alone and disconnected from the world, and yet bombarded with electronic information true, false and inbetween. Think the best of people and check the facts, I say to myself as I round the path. Trust and truth are all we need ...and beauty.

March 18, 2020: Optimism

It's a dreary day in San Francisco. Though we need the rain, it's hard thing to wake up to. I'm glad it stopped long enough for me to sneak out into the garden for a photo, but I'm back inside, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for the sun to reappear as I read more stunning headlines. In my waking hours I believe we can get through this. I am heartened by the signs of new life that peek out among the ferns.

Day 1: “The rain has stopped” (March 17, 2020)

March 17, 2020: The Rain Has Stopped

Today is a new beginning in San Francisco. Day One. John and I have been staying home anyway, but now the whole city has joined us. No cars, no pedestrians, no jackhammers, no workmen singing to the radio as they pound nails, no distant highway noises, no strollers passing below the front window. Even the dogs seem to have stopped barking. Nothing. But even and especially in the silence, I am reminded how lucky we are to be together - we have (so far) our health, food in the refrigerator and more on the way, a bank account that - though it continues to diminish without our help - still promises to get us through, and precious social media links with friends and family. Once again, we are luckier than 99% of the people on earth.

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