Shelter in Place, San Francisco, February 26, 2021
When my mother’s Alzheimers got worse, I remember my wonder that someone could so quickly lose a lifetime of curiosity and spunk. And when she finally died, it became for me an existential question: Where does all that knowledge go? The love? The generosity? Are they floating somewhere untethered in the universe? Do all the books she read make no difference now? How can I grab onto and preserve all that my mother did, and knew, and gave the world while she was living?
Those questions returned yesterday when I learned that Peter Ostroushko has died. We are lucky enough to have recordings left behind, a full lifetime of Peter’s remarkable and prolific output, and I spent some time yesterday listening again to a small fraction. But where is all the music he had yet to write down, the beauty in his head? What new Peter tunes float out there in the cosmos? And oh, what we will miss from not having his shy smile and kindness in our midst!
I knew Peter decades ago when we shared the weary life of A Prairie Home Companion road shows. His was a quiet, calming presence on and off a busy stage. I didn’t see him enough in the years that followed, but the breadth of his legendary grace and kindness have been an example and a beacon in my life as I have watched his music spread and grow. So now, too late, I’m sending this to Peter with my thanks. The world will miss you, dear man. May that mysterious universe keep you full of song and safe.
Day 338: The Beginning of the End?
Shelter in Place, San Francisco, February 24, 2021
Just today our Ceanothus' earliest blossoms began to open, giving a hint of what’s to come. Soon the bush will be heavy with blossoms and bees. It will become the anchor to our garden for a month or so, just as it was last year before we knew what was about to hit us. Tomorrow, our mayor reminds us, marks the one year anniversary of her issuing a state of emergency for San Francisco, the first in the country to do so. Though not yet officially restricted to the house for another two weeks, a year ago tomorrow was when John and I began to quarantine ourselves.
This year, the Ceanothus’ first small, blue-purple blossoms coincide with John’s second vaccine shot and the anticipation of mine next week. What a difference. There are, of course, more possible pitfalls up ahead before we’re truly free, but each day we hear more optimism in the experts’ voices, feel more lift to our spirits as we gingerly stick our toes beyond the garden gate. Last year, the Ceanothus’ dark and smokey perfume marked the beginning of the beginning. Maybe this year it will signal the beginning of the end.
Day 334: The Little Things
Shelter in Place, San Francisco, February 20, 2021
Several conversations this week have got me thinking about how this past year, in narrowing our options and cancelling our lifelong busy-ness, has taught us all to notice and take pleasure in the little things. Things like the sound of Gershwin from a distant window, like children giggling in the street, like the perfect caper lemon sauce, like raindrops on a leaf. May we keep this quiet sense of wonder whenever it is we get to where we’re going next.