In the Quaker tradition, Sunday is the first day of the week and is meant for rest and contemplation. I usually start my day with reading the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the San Francisco Chronicle, in that order, but today I just haven't the heart. I'm going to honor First Day instead - talk with family and friends, and contemplate this garden gift: a second blooming of the azalea. Did you ever see such color? I'd call this the very definition of eye candy. The bush itself has been growing very slowly since we planted it several years back, choosing to remain in the shadow of an over-achieving hydrangea. But if it gives us blooms like this (twice), who cares? Happy First Day, friends. May you find at least a little peace, wherever you are.
Shelter in Place, Day 47: Too Many to Count
San Francisco, California
Our unruly friend the potato vine as seen from our chairs on the patio, has too many small flowers to count and the effect overwhelms - ‘families’ of delicate, five-pointed stars shining bright, new clusters forming all the time. The resulting mass is on the edge of untamable, especially since neither John nor I are particularly steady on a ladder thesedays. I suppose when it starts climbing into our neighbor’s window, we could ask for some help cutting back the growth.
As of this morning, 64,496 people have died of the virus in the United States in just a few short weeks. And whether it’s grossly undercounted (it is) or not, the number is staggering - too hard to fathom, too overwhelming to mourn. If we’re honest, we’ve each been focused primarily on adjusting our daily lives and expectations, worrying about our own safety and that of our families to take more than a moment to understand the devastation of those who’ve lost one or more loved ones to this disease. More will suffer, maybe even closer to home. But the mourners are out there now. They are our neighbors, our co-workers, our bridge partners, our grocery store clerks, our hiking companions, our mail carriers, our friends. And we’re only a few degrees of separation from each of their stories. It’s just too hard to focus on that, too difficult to comprehend.
Yesterday’s New York Time’s podcast “The Daily” https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/01/podcasts/the-daily/coronavirus-death-remembrance.htmlillustrated the pain by focussing on just one, a life told through the granddaughter, an eloquent and brave twelve-year-old trying to make sense of the sudden loss. My connection to her story is through my boys: Tilly is a former student of son Jesse, who for years now has had his kids do podcast portraits of family members and events; son Hans is a contributor to the “Daily” and made the connection for their staff. The result is a poignant attempt to record what just one of our neighbors is going through even as we’re not really sure we want to know.
I’m proud of my boys (and their wives and my grandsons, too), and I worry. Waking up every morning I don’t have to wonder where they are but I fear every minute for their safety, my five-point stars, and for the stress they’re undergoing as they try to go about their lives. I worry about other families, too. And the impact on this country of all this unfathomable loss.
Shelter in Place, Day 46: May Day
San Francisco, California
May 1st in our garden is the day we trim the lilac, put the cushions out for good, open the umbrella, clean out the fountain, and bring the hose from its hiding place to where it can be easily reached. Statistically speaking, we can expect that it will not rain again until October. Who knows if this year will be different!
It’s taken me a few years to get used to the wet/dry rhythm of this climate, both for my own psyche and for the plants we choose to grow. We considered going completely native as some folks here have done (succulents and scraggly California natives that flourish at the edges of the sea), but compromised, instead, with mostly Mediterranean and South African plants and flowers that require only a modest amount of water. Most of the rich Midwestern varieties I’d grown to love in my previous home don’t really flourish here. They require a steady rain, and abundant cold and heat.
I got a notice in my Facebook feed that The School in Rose Valley is planning to hold its annual May Fair virtually tomorrow, and that the traditional Maypole and sword dances will be performed. None of us graduates are quite sure how that’s going to work online, but I’ll tune in to see. The sword dance has been a right of passage for the Oldest Group (5th and 6th graders) since well before my ancient time. Holding wooden swords from end to end, the dancers form a circle and then weave in and out and through and under, without ever letting go. In the grand finale, they contract the circle and, dancing in place, weave their swords together into a single star that the leader raises high. When that star goes up and holds its shape, it’s the greatest feeling in the world - like you’re saying good-bye to childhood, your parents cheering from the lawn. I think I could still do that dance, if my legs worked better and somebody handed me a sword.
In Minnesota, I used to attend the traditional May Day parade along with some 50,000 people eager to get outside and enjoy the first warm (hopefully) day of the year. Here in San Francisco, May Day is passed over in favor of the extravagance of Carnaval (where social distancing is frowned upon), a Mardi Gras tradition scheduled in mid-May when there’s no more chance of rain.
This year, of course, we’re in the garden on this first day of May, and happy enough to be here. It's a lovely, sunny day. We share the space with roses, cats and hummingbirds… no rain, no dancers, no parades, alas, in sight.