Day 72: Freedom

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

There have been fewer Anna’s hummingbirds in our yard this spring and they have not always shown us their brightest colors. That probably means they’re courting and nesting in someone else’s yard, which they have every right to do. Still, they’re regular visitors at John’s feeder, and are quick to scold us when the sugar water is not fresh. To get a good shot of these tiny creatures as they dart and dive from yard to yard requires more patience and a steadier hand than mine. It also requires quick thinking about how to get the camera’s settings right for focus, and light, and depth-of-field, and motion, all as the hummingbird zooms by. I am a lucky amateur with time on my hands. It’s always worth a try. 

Race has grabbed the headlines from the pandemic this morning, and from the president’s latest unseemly, incendiary remarks. Not that race has been absent from the story all along. The disproportionate number of Black people dying from this disease should be a reminder that unequal access to healthcare over a lifetime has consequences we do not like to face. But today, the headlines are more stark and ugly: a woman calling the police because a black man asked her to follow the rules and leash her dog, and a black man killed by the police for what? For forgery? It makes no sense. Unless you’re black and expect no less. These atrocities happen every day, not just when they are captured on video, but they are not situations I will ever have to directly deal with. 

As a white person I am not exempt from harm and suffering. I have experienced (a few) hardships that have been difficult to overcome. The current threat of Covid-19 and its disruption to my life is certainly not a picnic. But no harm or hurt has ever come to me BECAUSE of the color of my skin. That is the difference, a difference that allows me to stay in this garden to protect myself from a dangerous virus but gives me the freedom to go beyond the gate anytime I want without fearing disrespect, suspicion, and harm from my neighbors and danger from the very people we, as a city, hire to protect us. America is the land of the free… if you look like me. Black lives matter. They matter. Virus or no virus, today and every day, black lives matter. 

Day 71: The Other Side

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

I keep forgetting to ask my neighbor what those bright red flowers are on his side of the fence. There’s an early morning moment as the sun is rising above his house and before it floods our patio, that the small blossoms seem to glow. I love that. They’ve been blooming for months, but I’m rarely out of bed so early, and it’s a time my neighbor’s never around. Later in the day the flowers recede in shadow and I forget my question.

Closing up for the night last night, I stepped out the back door to see the stars. Perhaps it’s just the cycle of the moon, but there seemed to be so many more than usual. Enjoying the cool air after a hot day kept me on the deck long enough for an extra treat - the soft melancholy of “Taps” played on a recorder drifting across the garden from some hidden yard or balcony - the end to a Memorial Day like no other. 

I’ve been a little down in the dumps these last few days, so I’m glad to be reminded of the things I’ve liked within the confines of the quarantine - little gifts this side of the fence. So here’s a list in no particular order:

- A closer relationship with the garden (every leaf, every blossom, every weed) 
- The increasingly loud and reliable catharsis of clanging pots at both 7:00 and 8:00 (don’t know why our neighborhood has decided that twice is better, but I like the independent spirit)
- The intimacy of sisters 
- The daily NYT mini crossword competition where completion times are called out but never written down 
- Science
- The secret relief of being forced to cancel doctors’ appointments and suspend worries about illnesses other than the virus; it clears the head and feels like borrowed time
- Zoom, Skype and FaceTime: the rediscovery and emotional support from smart and kind old friends
- Blue sky empty of airplanes and their trails
- Journalists
- Roast chicken and its inevitable second act: spicy tortilla soup with lots of gooey cheese - the comfort food of all comfort foods
- The sobering reminder and acceptance that death is around the corner for every one of us, but we have at least a little control over whether it will be this terrible disease that takes us
- The neighborhood cat, who has finally decided that my lap is an OK place to be (she must be lonely, too)
- Creative genius: the world’s valiant effort to reinvent itself overnight
- Reading aloud to and texting with my grandson
- The smell of Chinese take-out wafting down the street as the corner restaurant tries to stay alive
- Ricky Gervais, whose genius I have only just discovered
- Less guilt about not making better use of my retirement i.e., embracing the art of minimal expectations and its corollary: puzzles that help me while away the afternoon in the company of Degas, Michelangelo, and Van Gogh
- Oranges
- The generosity and ubiquity of art and music online
- The vacuum cleaner
- Mozart sonatas and the piano that forgives my mistakes
- Roz Chast
- Sappy ‘we’re in this together’ ads that honor our new heroes and give me an excuse to cry (have you noticed they are disappearing from rotation as we bicker about whether to wear masks and open up the country?)
- Mail
- Governors (most of them) and Bill Gates
- A release from my life-long fear of becoming destitute - it’s finally, completely out of my control (I didn’t expect that it would feel so freeing) 
- The dive of male hummingbirds as they court their mates for the second time this spring
- Yamiche Alcindor
- My colorful array of pens and magic markers for writing postcards to voters (and to friends)
- Steven Sondheim
- The sound of kids being kids in the street at sunset
- Fog’s reminder that we do live in a city by the sea, even when it is hidden from our sight
- Love, marriage and best friend… all in a single package 
- My camera and all the things still left to learn

Day 70: In Memorium

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

‘The Sky’s the Limit,’ this yellow rose is called, and its blossoms have been with us nearly as long as the pandemic. Not quite, but close. I love the variation of colors on one flower, life’s natural stages on a single branch. Even as the rose’s first round of blossoms are almost spent, we see fresh new branches growing from the base. By mid-summer we’ll inevitably have a new crop of these yellow beauties to take us through to fall.

Today, we remember the lives cut short in wars gone by, even as we near a stunning milestone in the disease that stalks us now: 100,000 deaths in this country since February, an average of more than 1,100 a day - too many to fathom, too many individuals to mourn. Lives cut short. 

This holiday has always seemed strange to me - a solemn tribute to the dead, mixed with our manifest eagerness for summer to begin. Memorial Day. The two meanings are at odds, and - if the weather’s nice - the latter tends to win, playfulness abounds. This year, especially, we’ve been warned the beaches will be crowded, the lakes teeming, the parks overflowing. And maybe for a few hours, folks will be able to forget the danger they are escaping even as they court another round. 

I feel it too, the hunger to be free. But I am planning to stay home (sigh, again) honoring, in my small way, the recent dead and the brave souls who cared for them and who, we hope, will still be here for those who’re not yet sick. The sky’s the limit, I’m afraid. As I count the roses we have left, I cannot help but wonder… how many deaths will this nation record today and what will the summer bring?