Shelter in Place, San Francisco, March 10, 2021
Dramatic thunder clouds are rare in this neck of the woods, so I’ve been enjoying their roiling ebb and flow at this, the end of a winter storm that has brought (at last) much needed overnight rain and a morning spotted with sunshine. And in the thick of it, the crows have been unusually flustered and vocal overhead, careening and barking at an enemy unseen. It’s likely that they’ve spotted the red tailed hawk that sometimes rests in our neighbors’ tall redwood, too close for the crows who claim a nearby tree their turf and nesting ground. But as I watch them dive and sway and circle this morning, it almost seems these fierce and fearless birds have taken on the clouds themselves. I’m stretching the analogy, of course, to say that I am feeling like those crows but less courageous - finally having some protection from the virus that has haunted us for a year now, I find myself suspicious of what trouble lurks nearby. Would that I could screech and fly and chase it all away. Would that we ALL could see and celebrate the sunshine just now breaking through.
Day 350: Can We Fly Away?
Shelter in Place, San Francisco, March 6, 2021
As I work in the garden cleaning, mulching, and planting for spring, I am surrounded by birds - hummingbirds in full color buzz my head; a bright yellow Townsend’s warbler tries in vain to hide himself in the branches of the nearby ceanothus, now a budding, brilliant blue; sparrows begin their mating racket in the neighbor's bamboo stand; and it sounds like the mourning dove is back in the neighborhood and looking for a mate.
My sons asked this morning what we’ll do differently now that both John and I are fully vaccinated. Honestly, I don’t know. What will be safe and what we want are not entirely clear. But tomorrow evening we will celebrate John’s birthday on the newly opened patio of a favorite restaurant - our first San Francisco meal out in over a year. It will probably be cold, it may be rainy. But it marks a milestone, nonetheless. A baby step until we feel safe enough to fly out of our pandemic shelter, truly up and away.
Day 346: Things Will Be Different
Shelter in Place, San Francisco, March 2, 2021
Not all the perennials seem to be coming back this spring, and my hips are improved enough to foster my ambition, so yesterday we ventured down to our favorite nursery in Half Moon Bay to see what we could find. The ride along the coast was much the same - beautiful and crowded, in fact - as if everybody feels, like us, sprung from Covid darkness, and anxious to see the sun and sea. Unfortunately, our destination seemed altered, not only for the masks we all were wearing down the aisles, but for the nursery’s highly reduced inventory and the sadness of their plants. Like us, I’m guessing, many gardeners stayed away last growing season and, as a result, it looks like the place is barely hanging on.
Back home, I’m mapping out where I want to put the plants we did manage to find, taking into consideration the absence of our shady tree and the fact that Northern California has only seen forty percent of its usual rain in this, its wettest season. Everything is dry, and there’s little sign of more to come, so as I plant I’m going to have to water (and get more serious about what can survive without).
This, I imagine, is only the beginning of the reckoning that is to come. As we emerge from quarantine with one desire - to get back to ‘normal’ - I’m guessing that neither the residual economic and social effects of this cataclysmic year, nor the growing signs of how our climate is rapidly changing will let us. Things will be different. Some things - like my garden - already are.