Strange Days

What a strange world we are living in at the moment.

In ‘normal’ life, Adam spends every Saturday at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music studying classical voice. He’s done this ever since his voice changed in 7th grade (before that he was a member of the San Francisco Boys Chorus); he has hopped on BART at 8 in the morning and arrived back home by 7 in the evening, one day a week, for this serious study of music. It has enriched his life immeasurably.

Once shelter-in-place began in mid-March, instruction moved online. It’s been interesting watching Adam trying to find a place to sing and study in our small cottage. He spends some of the day in his room, some at the piano, and some outside. In normal times, he and his Conservatory friends would spend lunch at a local restaurant near the school, enjoying interesting cultural food. Now, they all Zoom at lunchtime, each of them in their kitchens making something to eat, laughing and enjoying each other. I must admit it’s been fun to have a little window into his Saturdays. And I love hearing him sing, even though I know it must be hard for him to do it when he knows we can’t help hearing! And his teachers, all world-class musicians, are also really fun to listen to, at least the parts I can hear, with interesting stories and jokes at the ready.

Today, the last Saturday of class (before juries and testing and ‘commencement’), was bittersweet, especially for the seniors. It ended with a Zoom recital in which we got to hear all the kids in the vocal program sing. I must admit it was nice to watch it on Tom’s laptop while we lounged in bed - no trafficky commute into the city, no uncomfortable salon chairs. Afterward there was a little salute to the seniors in the group, and at that point I really missed all being in the same room, congratulating these brilliant young musicians. It made me sad that we will miss all the ‘lasts’ - the last band concert at school, graduation on the field, the senior awards, the last day of high school. Similarly we are missing a bunch of Rin’s events as well. The kids seem to be taking it in stride, but what a strange end to all the hard work of many years. At the same time I am so impressed with the administrators and teachers who figure all this stuff out and make it happen and make the kids feel special.

And then there’s all the ‘firsts’ - with Adam going to Cal Poly in the fall. How???? I mean really, how are they going to manage all of this? I have a bit of an insiders view since Tom is trying to figure all that out for the college where he works. Let me tell you, it’s constant change and constant re-planning, and then planning more than one scenario, and then staying flexible. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I’m not in charge of anything like this. Nothing is concrete.

Last night Tom and I watched a Zoom comedy show featuring a local guy that we like very much named Greg Proops - we had to buy a ticket just like in ‘normal’ times (though way cheaper). Everyone in the audience kept their microphones at a very low volume, so that the performers could hear and respond to the laughter. It worked ok, and it was fun to do something different, but gosh it was strange. I think about the possibility of seeing Broadway shows or Symphony concerts in this way, and I have so many feelings about all of it - awe at the planning, amazement at the technology, and sad that we can’t all be together.

Anyway, the concert today was very nice and took us out of our circumstances for a short while. The whole time Adam was singing we were praying that the chickens wouldn’t start squawking, but they were perfectly behaved. And the neighbors got an unexpected concert. :)

I can’t imagine any of this is going to end anytime soon (at least not in California), so I’ll just have to adjust. Some things already feel completely normal, like wearing a mask. Can you imagine not wearing one at this point? Or can you imagine walking into a cocktail party and hugging everyone?

I’d love to hear about some of the things that you are missing, or experiencing in a new and different way. What milestones are you having to postpone or celebrate differently?

The Mental Shift

I have a group of friends I call my ‘Sunflower’ friends; we met 15 years ago when our kids were all 2-3 years old and attending preschool (Sunflower Preschool in Alamo) for the first time. Adam was three when we began there, and was in his first year of what is called ‘maintenance’ treatment for leukemia (the first year of treatment is very harsh; after that, boys have a further 2-1/2 years of maintenance and girls have a further 1-1/2 years - boys have more because they tend to relapse in the testicles). The two years Adam spent at Sunflower are very special to me because he learned how to be away from adults (of course he’d been very much a part of the adult world while sick) and with his peers instead. It was hard for him, but good for him, and Sunflower was a small, local preschool with very nurturing teachers. I became quite close with the other moms there and six of us have remained close to this day. We don’t get together more than twice a year, but we always have such a blast when we do.

Anyway, in this time of pandemic, we are texting each other several times a day. It’s interesting to see which people you can talk to about which aspects of this. Many people only want the pollyanna version of things, but my Sunflower friends happen to be the people I can talk to when I’m feeling either very silly or very depressed. And though I haven’t written about it here at all, I have had moments of pretty deep depression during this shelter-at-home period (we’ve been on official lockdown for 16 days, but I was home a week before that as my college had closed earlier). My depression tends to rear its head when I have too much time on my hands, and, well…. I have nothing but time on my hands right now. I’ve noticed that I have maybe one day a week when I feel really bad. That’s a pretty good ratio, actually, six okay days compared to one bad day. Yesterday was one of the bad ones. I wrote to my Sunflower friends and told them what was happening and tried to reason it out. I got some interesting and encouraging responses, things like “I haven’t showered in five days” and “The other night, I spent six hours crying, no exaggeration” and “I’m so sad and disappointed in the human selfishness that’s being shown at the local stores right now” and “I’m not sleeping either, I’m up every morning at 3 am.”

It felt so good to know I’m not alone in these feelings.

But I still wondered why I have them. I mean, I know anxiety and worry are not exactly in short supply right now, and it’s normal to feel that way. We fear the unknown and we fear for our family’s safety. But looking at it from an outsider’s point of view, what do I have to complain about? My husband is still working and we are still getting a paycheck (and I’ve never been so grateful). We have a lovely (though small, and getting smaller by the day) home in a lovely neighborhood. None of us is ill. None of my extended family is ill. None of us works in health care (and God bless those folks, they are true heroes). Tom and I are in our early 50’s and not in any risk group. Even Adam is not at any higher risk due to his cancer history (you better believe I checked with his oncologist). And while my kids seem sad and confused and frustrated, they are not deeply morose.

So why this once-weekly struggle of mine?

As I was talking this out with Tom, I realized that we mothers in my Sunflower group were all in the same place in life. We’re all happily partnered, with older children, and confidently pursuing either work or degrees now that the children are fairly self-sufficient. One of us is a tutor, and that work is now cancelled. One of us is a salesperson who travels, and she has been laid off. One of us owns a business as a professional organizer, so she’s not working at the moment. Of course, I’m a full-time student, and that’s all moved to distance learning, which is really not all-consuming. Our days, normally spent out of the home in fruitful pursuits, had all come to a halt. We had raised our children (many of them special-needs, we all ended up at Sunflower for a reason), put systems in place to make it possible for us to work and/or go to school, and had a beautiful rhythm to our lives. Sure, we still cooked dinner and cleaned our houses, but we were reinventing ourselves too. Suddenly that’s all been stopped. And here we are, back in the home, cooking and cleaning, but without small children to care for and to fill our days.

I imagine our kids are feeling that same pause. Many of them are seniors, like Adam, suddenly stopped in the middle of that trajectory out of the home and into the world. In a time when they should be celebrating their accomplishments and gearing up to move into adulthood, they are forced to wonder what September will now look like. Will they have the grades they need for their chosen colleges? Will they be able to take AP tests and get credit? How to choose a college if you can’t go visit them right now? And how to ‘mark’ the end of their grade school years without any kind of public celebration or recognition? And our kids that are juniors, like Rin - suddenly the SAT isn’t possible, so how is that going to affect college applications? (The UC system just announced that SATs would not be necessary this coming year for application; hopefully other colleges will follow suit.) Rin said to me recently like she felt, last January, like 2020 was HER year - she finally felt healthy and comfortable at school and totally ‘on it’ academically, and now that’s all toast. What will her senior year look like? It’s all very unknowable. And all of Adam’s friends that are a year older, now forced to return home from college, just when they felt like their adult lives were well on the way. Now they’re back in their parents’ houses, doing chores and hanging out with mom and dad. No matter how great your parents are, that has to feel like a regression of sorts.

I’m been feeling jealous of Tom, who has a very difficult job right now and probably can’t imagine anyone being jealous of it, but my feeling is that at least he has something to THINK about other than this crisis. He has something to DO. Even the volunteering that I’ve explored seems to make no sense right now when the most helpful thing I can do is stay home. I keep finding places to donate money but what I really need is somewhere to donate time. Other than taking some groceries to people that need it and checking in on some seniors in my neighborhood, I am utterly useless at the moment.

And I am so completely aware, while writing this, of my privilege. How fortunate I am to be in this position, and I really have no business being sad about it whatsoever.

While I was talking with Tom about all of this, he was bringing up an article on his computer for me to read. It’s geared towards those in higher education, but he thought it might be helpful for me. It’s hard to overstate how profound I found it to be. I found it so meaningful that I am going to copy it here in its entirety and share it with any of you who might be feeling the way I am feeling.

“Why You Should Ignore All That Coronavirus-Inspired Productivity Pressure

By Aisha S. Ahmad, The Chronicle of Higher Education, March 27, 2020


Among my academic colleagues and friends, I have observed a common response to the continuing Covid-19 crisis. They are fighting valiantly for a sense of normalcy — hustling to move courses online, maintaining strict writing schedules, creating Montessori schools at their kitchen tables. They hope to buckle down for a short stint until things get back to normal. I wish anyone who pursues that path the very best of luck and health.

Yet as someone who has experience with crises around the world, what I see behind this scramble for productivity is a perilous assumption. The answer to the question everyone is asking — “When will this be over?” — is simple and obvious, yet terribly hard to accept. The answer is never.

Global catastrophes change the world, and this pandemic is very much akin to a major war. Even if we contain the Covid-19 crisis within a few months, the legacy of this pandemic will live with us for years, perhaps decades to come. It will change the way we move, build, learn, and connect. There is simply no way that our lives will resume as if this had never happened. And so, while it may feel good in the moment, it is foolish to dive into a frenzy of activity or obsess about your scholarly productivity right now. That is denial and delusion. The emotionally and spiritually sane response is to prepare to be forever changed.

The rest of this piece is an offering. I have been asked by my colleagues around the world to share my experiences of adapting to conditions of crisis. Of course, I am just a human, struggling like everyone else to adjust to the pandemic. However, I have worked and lived under conditions of war, violent conflict, poverty, and disaster in many places around the world. I have experienced food shortages and disease outbreaks, as well as long periods of social isolation, restricted movement, and confinement. I have conducted award-winning research under intensely difficult physical and psychological conditions, and I celebrate productivity and performance in my own scholarly career.

I share the following thoughts during this difficult time in the hope that they will help other academics to adapt to hardship conditions. Take what you need, and leave the rest.

Stage No. 1: Security

Your first few days and weeks in a crisis are crucial, and you should make ample room to allow for a mental adjustment. It is perfectly normal and appropriate to feel bad and lost during this initial transition. Consider it a good thing that you are not in denial, and that you are allowing yourself to work through the anxiety. No sane person feels good during a global disaster, so be grateful for the discomfort of your sanity. At this stage, I would focus on food, family, friends, and maybe fitness. (You will not become an Olympic athlete in the next two weeks, so don’t put ridiculous expectations on your body.)

Next, ignore everyone who is posting productivity porn on social media right now. It is OK that you keep waking up at 3 a.m. It is OK that you forgot to eat lunch and cannot do a Zoom yoga class. It is OK that you have not touched that revise-and-resubmit in three weeks.

Ignore the people who are posting that they are writing papers and the people who are complaining that they cannot write papers. They are on their own journey. Cut out the noise.

Know that you are not failing. Let go of all of the profoundly daft ideas you have about what you should be doing right now. Instead, focus intensely on your physical and psychological security. Your first priority during this early period should be securing your home. Get sensible essentials for your pantry, clean your house, and make a coordinated family plan. Have reasonable conversations with your loved ones about emergency preparedness. If you have a loved one who is an emergency worker or essential worker, redirect your energies and support that person as your top priority. Identify their needs, and then meet those needs.

No matter what your family unit looks like, you will need a team in the weeks and months ahead. Devise a strategy for social connectedness with a small group of family, friends, and/or neighbors, while maintaining physical distancing in accordance with public-health guidelines. Identify the vulnerable and make sure they are included and protected.

The best way to build a team is to be a good teammate, so take some initiative to ensure that you are not alone. If you do not put this psychological infrastructure in place, the challenge of necessary physical-distancing measures will be crushing. Build a sustainable and safe social system now.

Stage No. 2: The Mental Shift

Once you have secured yourself and your team, you will feel more stable, your mind and body will adjust, and you will crave challenges that are more demanding. Given time, your brain can and will reset to new crisis conditions, and your ability to do higher-level work will resume.

This mental shift will make it possible for you to return to being a high-performance scholar, even under extreme conditions. However, do not rush or prejudge your mental shift, especially if you have never experienced a disaster before. One of the most relevant posts I saw on Twitter (by writer Troy Johnson) was: “Day 1 of Quarantine: ‘I’m going to meditate and do body-weight training.’ Day 4: *just pours the ice cream into the pasta*” — it’s funny but it also speaks directly to the issue.

Now more than ever, we must abandon the performative and embrace the authentic. Our essential mental shifts require humility and patience. Focus on real internal change. These human transformations will be honest, raw, ugly, hopeful, frustrated, beautiful, and divine. And they will be slower than keener academics are used to. Be slow. Let this distract you. Let it change how you think and how you see the world. Because the world is our work. And so, may this tragedy tear down all our faulty assumptions and give us the courage of bold new ideas.

Stage No. 3: Embrace a New Normal

On the other side of this shift, your wonderful, creative, resilient brain will be waiting for you. When your foundations are strong, build a weekly schedule that prioritizes the security of your home team, and then carve out time blocks for different categories of your work: teaching, administration, and research. Do the easy tasks first and work your way into the heavy lifting. Wake up early. The online yoga and crossfit will be easier at this stage.

Things will start to feel more natural. The work will also make more sense, and you will be more comfortable about changing or undoing what is already in motion. New ideas will emerge that would not have come to mind had you stayed in denial. Continue to embrace your mental shift. Have faith in the process. Support your team.

Understand that this is a marathon. If you sprint at the beginning, you will vomit on your shoes by the end of the month. Emotionally prepare for this crisis to continue for 12 to 18 months, followed by a slow recovery. If it ends sooner, be pleasantly surprised. Right now, work toward establishing your serenity, productivity, and wellness under sustained disaster conditions.

None of us knows how long this crisis will last. We all want our troops to be home before Christmas. The uncertainty is driving us all mad.

Of course, there will be a day when the pandemic is over. We will hug our neighbors and our friends. We will return to our classrooms and coffee shops. Our borders will eventually reopen to freer movement. Our economies will one day recover from the forthcoming recessions.

Yet we are just at the beginning of that journey. For most people, our minds have not come to terms with the fact that the world has already changed. Some faculty members are feeling distracted and guilty for not being able to write enough or teach online courses properly. Others are using their time at home to write and report a burst of research productivity. All of that is noise — denial and delusion. And right now, denial only serves to delay the essential process of acceptance, which will allow us to reimagine ourselves in this new reality.

On the other side of this journey of acceptance are hope and resilience. We will know that we can do this, even if our struggles continue for years. We will be creative and responsive, and will find light in all the nooks and crannies. We will learn new recipes and make unusual friends. We will have projects we cannot imagine today, and will inspire students we have not yet met. And we will help each other. No matter what happens next, together, we will be blessed and ready to serve.

In closing, I give thanks to those colleagues and friends who hail from hard places, who know this feeling of disaster in their bones. In the past few days, we have laughed about our childhood wounds and have exulted in our tribulations. We have given thanks and tapped into the resilience of our old wartime wounds. Thank you for being warriors of the light and for sharing your wisdom born of suffering. Because calamity is a great teacher.

Aisha Ahmad is an assistant professor of political science at the University of Toronto and the author of the award-winning book Jihad & Co: Black Markets and Islamist Power (Oxford University Press, 2017). Her Twitter is @ProfAishaAhmad.”

— The Chronicle of Higher Education

From this article I have deduced that I am moving into Stage 2, which is the Mental Shift. When the author says that this work will be “raw, ugly, beautiful, and divine” I know exactly what she means. Right now I’m in the raw, ugly part of it and that’s why I feel so bad. I am hopeful that I will eventually be able to make the shift to acceptance, and I look forward to the beautiful and divine when I finally make that shift.

I shared this article with my Sunflower friends and we all felt a sense of validation and hope. My wish is that this (rather personal) post will find someone who is feeling as bad as I have been and help them to feel that same validation and hope. We all need to help each other feel strong right now.

Particularly Now

Lately several people have asked me, are you finding it particularly good to have a garden/homestead right now, with all that’s going on? Its a valid question, as we all try to stay away from crowded places like the grocery store. Even though Farmers’ Markets are outdoors, they are often crowded and many people are touching the produce before selecting what they want (though I’ve heard stories about local markets changing their practices so that doesn’t happen). Our favorite local pastured meat CSAs has had to put a moratorium on new orders for the time being, because so many people want to get their meat delivered. I imagine CSA veg box companies are likewise having a run on subscriptions. (On a side note, I’m so happy that this virus is causing folks to reach out to local farms!)

After the greenhouse dance this morning (moving the seedlings out of the greenhouse in the morning, and back in the greenhouse at night), I spent some time looking around at our crops and determining how I want to play it in the next month of so. An inventory, so to speak: What are we running out of, what will come ripe soon, and what will planting the summer garden do to those crops? I can see that things are going to be lean very soon. We’re reaching that thing called the ‘Hungry Gap,’ which in modern times isn’t the crisis it used to be, since normally we have plenty of everything at the store. But right now, with supply chains the way they are, who knows?

We’re out of broccoli and cauliflower. We are down to the last four cabbages. Nearly all the carrots are gone. We still have plenty of kale, chard, beets, and peas. The garlic and shallots won’t be ready to harvest for a couple of months yet. The parsnips and turnips should ripen in the next couple of weeks, and leeks are on the same schedule. Lettuce seedlings are still quite small, so it’ll be a couple of weeks before we can start eating them.

We’re getting 5-6 eggs a day, which is terrific since every time I go to the grocery I notice that the shelves are empty of eggs. I've been able to share a bunch with friends, family, and neighbors, and soon I will start freezing them (out of the shell, in packages of two) for the times when we are low.

The summer seedlings will be happy to go in the ground in the next few weeks, and it’s a hard thing to determine just when to do that. I usually wait until May 1, but with things the way they are, I might like to get going on that sooner (if only to put it on my ‘to-do’ list which I would love, being low on things to do right now).

Which brings us back to the original question.

Yes! Of course it’s great to have this bounty at our fingertips in times of scarcity; but honestly it’s ALWAYS great. I like to keep up with a homesteader in Tennessee who yesterday posted a video called “NOW the mocking of homesteaders will stop!” I’ve never felt mocked for growing our food, but that’s because even in the sophisticated, tech-rich Bay Area, we’ve always had the back-to-the-landers, and while we often get eye rolls, we are also looked at fondly, as one would look at a slightly ragged pet. I’m imagining right now a lot of people are looking at the practice more favorably. But as I’ve said for years, this is a great thing to do in ANY time and ANY climate. The benefits are huge - for our bodies, for our mental health, and for the earth.

And it’s not hard or expensive to do. You might have a little sunny, protected corner where you could grow a quick crop of radishes and lettuces. It doesn’t have to be an expensive project. Dig some old cardboard out of your recycling bin, make sure it’s free of tape or labels, and cover your patch of ground. Go to the hardware store (still open!) and get a couple of bags of the best dirt you can find - compost based, peat free, fertilizer free (not that brand that puts all kind of synthetic fertilizers in their dirt - you don’t need all that, just a little compost). Spread the dirt 2-6 inches over the cardboard, and put some seeds in it. If you need seeds, let me know - I have a few left and would be happy to mail them to you. Or order a few from a reputable seed house near you (I have several in my recommendations). Or ask your neighbors! If you live in an area that still has cold weather, you could start some things indoors. If you live in my neighborhood, I have several indoor light setups (with heat mats) that aren’t being used right now and I would be happy to lend them to you, if you want to try tomatoes and peppers. I promise we can stay six feet apart while we make the transfer.

Just having a project right now is a healthy thing. Doing this with kids would be even better (science and math included). Getting outdoors is really important for physical and mental health, and having a reason to go outdoors and putter is great. How about planting a little fruit tree in a big pot? How about making a little strawberry patch in a container? How about starting some herb seeds in little pots in your kitchen windowsill? These are all things you could do right now that will increase your joy in life, I guarantee it.

Particularly now, when the virus is ramping up in the states, and several cities seem to be under siege, protecting our mental and physical well-being is very important, and this is one way we can do it. And, if you live near here, and you can’t have a garden of your own, please reach out to me - Poppy Corners can be your refuge, too.

Essential Services

Our neighborhood is fairly tight-knit. This is a wonderful thing always, but especially so now. I started to see a flag or two going up in front of houses this past weekend, and I loved the idea, so I put ours out too. Slowly other houses are following suit. What more appropriate time to fly the flag of this great country of ours?

I’ve heard lots of stories of other neighborhoods, too - Little Free Libraries are being filled with toilet paper and canned goods, spontaneous neighborhood musical interludes are happening in the street. I cannot believe the amount of new-to-me people walking by the yard when I’m working outside. Folks seem hungry to get outdoors, to get some fresh air, to get some exercise, to get away from the screens. A couple of kids I’ve never seen before zoomed by on bikes, the youngest hollering “I love your garden!” What kid says that, in normal times?

Neighbors call or write, asking if we need anything. Old friends start group texts. Tom’s family has instituted a weekly Zoom session to keep in touch. I speak to friends on the phone for hours, something I haven’t done since high school.

Classmates (online) seem friendlier. We help each other out, sharing materials we’ve missed somehow. The kids’ principal has started sending video updates instead of emails. Some of the kids’ teachers are making very entertaining online learning videos. My neighbor who teaches first grade has made videos of herself reading books, stopping at appropriate places and saying, “Ok, what do YOU think happens next? Write that in your journal!” I’m amazed by the creativity of teachers and friends and families.

Who knew, in this disconnected world, that these are all still essential services?

Nature, too - essential. I’ve somehow gotten connected with a group on twitter called @gardenshour, in the UK. Every Monday at 2 pm Pacific Time (is that 10 pm in England?), gardeners share something interesting, a new bloom or a pile of manure, a hawk getting into a chicken coop, or a greenhouse getting ready for planting. I’ve come to really appreciate that hour.

The parks and open spaces and national seashores around here were packed this weekend, causing some to close. This is a shame, because the interest to be outdoors and in nature has completely revitalized. Somehow we have to strike a balance between isolation and the ability to get outdoors.

Speaking of essential, is anyone else appreciating their spouses in a new way? It’s a very strange thing to hear your partner in ‘work’ mode. I am so amazed by how many plates Tom has spinning and how downright cheerful he is anyway. He never sounds panicked or stressed. Focused, yes. I’ve found I like overhearing his work calls and meetings.

This morning our local paper (SF Chronicle) published a poem by a local poet, Jane Hirshfield., about sheltering-in-place. I loved it, and so I’ve included it here.

“Today, when I could do nothing,
I saved an ant.

It must have come in with the morning paper,
still being delivered
to those who shelter in place.

A morning paper is still an essential service.

I am not an essential service.

I have coffee and books,
time,
a garden,
silence enough to fill cisterns.

It must have first walked
the morning paper, as if loosened ink
taking the shape of an ant.

Then across the laptop computer — warm —
then onto the back of a cushion.

Small black ant, alone,
crossing a navy cushion,
moving steadily because that is what it could do.

Set outside in the sun,
it could not have found again its nest.
What then did I save?

It did not move as if it was frightened,
even while walking my hand,
which moved it through swiftness and air.

Ant, alone, without companions,
whose ant-heart I could not fathom—
how is your life, I wanted to ask.

I lifted it, took it outside.

This first day when I could do nothing,
contribute nothing
beyond staying distant from my own kind,
I did this.”

— Jane Hirshfield

Spring still arrives

Spring is here, virus be damned. The sun is shining today. The birds sing, hoping to attract a mate. Lizards are in every patch of chilly sun. They don’t startle when I come close. They’ll risk it. So do we, putting on warm coats and sitting with our faces upturned. I brought out the summer seedlings and they grow in front of my eyes. I know because I have time to watch them.

On Tuesday, we were ordered to shelter-in-place. We can only leave our homes for food or medicine. Tom starts the work day in his pj’s. I move some mulch and pull some weeds. The kids work on school assignments. I work on school assignments. I collect eggs from the chickens. Some days we cook dinner with whatever we can find in the garden and at the store. Some days we order take-out, hoping to keep neighborhood restaurants in business. We bake a cake. We dole out our favorite TV shows for the evening’s entertainment. We read books. We check the news twice a day. We write in our collective Pandemic Log.

We meet our neighbors outside in the street, sharing news from six feet away. We put our magazines out into the Little Free Library. We wave to the kids in strollers and on scooters as they go past. I tell them to come eat snap peas and carrots from the garden if they want. I watch the bees in the Forget-Me-Nots. I watch the Bewick’s Wrens make a nest in our telescope. I wait for the mail. Usually it’s junk.

Adam puts up his hair and goes to work at the bakery every day. He works in the back, making pastries and breads, that sell out quickly. The dishwasher is no longer coming to work, so he washes dishes too. They are down to a skeleton crew. Customers come in and pick out what they want, then leave quickly. No one is allowed to linger at the tables in any food establishment. The parking lots are so empty, the cities don’t bother issuing tickets anymore. The highways and bridges are so empty, the Golden Gate Bridge association is seeking government assistance because tolls are down. There is no traffic. The trains and buses have reduced their hours. No one is riding them.

Rin practices the ukulele, which she decided to take up a week ago. She goes with me to the grocery, and together we sigh over the empty shelves. We’ve ordered some canvases and painting supplies and hope they come shortly, so we can try to create. She comes and lays her head on my shoulder when she realizes she won’t be going to rehearsal anymore. Sometimes we make cocoa.

Today our governor said that he expects 56% of Californians to have the virus by June. The amount of cases here rises frightfully fast. My brother called and told me to wear a mask when I go out. I take eggs to an elderly neighbor and he hugs me before I can stop him. I wonder if I’m making other people sick. We think about getting a kitten, because we need one, but the shelters are closed for adoptions.

We wash our hands. We use the hand sanitizer my friend Buddy sent us from Missouri, when I couldn’t find any. I hope he can find some when he needs some. I text my friends. We make jokes about toilet paper. We mourn the loss of our seniors’ graduations. We wonder if our kids will be allowed to go to college in the fall. Some of my friends file for unemployment. Some close their businesses. The schools serve brown-bag breakfasts and lunches to students who need them. We watch Yo-Yo Ma perform Songs of Comfort. Sometimes we sleep.