And now, winter

The last of the confused roses, misled by last week’s high temperatures.

Friday came the first of the rain. Just a little, just enough to dampen the pavement and puddle under the drainspouts – but rain nonetheless. The wind rose, the sky darkened, and I was glad we’d gotten the shed built before winter swept in.

Because swept in it has – or at least, what passes for winter in these parts. I picked a full bowl of apples, the pomegranates are ripe, and it’s probably about time to gather in the last of the tomatoes (which will also stop them overwhelming the cabbages; one of the things I’m learning is when to plant things near to each other when I’m expecting the season to change, and when to definitely not). The peapods are filling up, the arugula is practically going wild, and I’m hopeful about the broccoli and carrots.

Perhaps even more than usual, this feels like a period of transition. The US election is finally, finally counted & in, after the longest period of suspense I can remember (other than Bush v Gore, where people were still dressing up as “hanging chads” the following Halloween – but back then, I was too young to care so much, or to realize how unusual it really was). Personally, too, I’m staring at change, and figuring out what I think of it, and what I want to do about it. Eight months of work-as-videocalls combined with some professional setbacks has caused me to regard the whole thing differently, and to think harder about what I actually want. I lost a family member recently, so mortality rears its head too.

If not now, when?

Default

Years ago I walked the Camino Santiago. In the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela at the end, the priest prayed that “now that we no longer have the flechas amarillas, the yellow arrows marking the path, to guide us, we are able to find our way.” 

This week feels like a time when I need that. This week: 

Google extends work from home as coronavirus cases surge

More federal agents dispatched to Portland as protests rise in other cities

In my more specific world, over the past few days I’ve talked to more people socially than I had in the previous few weeks; there are a bunch of incredibly cute baby lizards in the garden, and one larger but also cute rabbit, which so far (fingers crossed!) has not wreaked havoc on the vegetables I’m growing; I have half a flat of nectarines in the kitchen, thanks to the grocery delivery service that I really like; the tomatoes are not yet ripe but look promising. 

And at the same time: It’s hard to know where to go from here. It’s hard to make plans. It’s hard to not make plans. It’s hard to know whether to see friends in person but socially distanced, or not. It’s hard to figure out work (sometimes it’s also just hard to work; for half of yesterday, my video call connections were so flaky that I actually couldn’t do anything). It’s hard to feel so blah and at the same time realize that objectively, there is nothing wrong: I am healthy; the people I love are healthy; I have a job. The house remodel is ongoing, but it is ongoing, and I have a non-leaking roof over my head. I miss the people I miss, and I am very very worried about the wider world, but I in particular am … fine. 

Last week I attended a senior women’s get together, virtual of course, in the hopes of finding a sense of community. I ended up feeling wildly out of place. The things I am angry about were different than what others are angry about. I don’t have kids, and a lot of it was (reasonably enough) about the frustrations of unknown school schedules; I kept thinking that most of the topics would have been relevant to men too, and I wished the men I work with were there. I felt like an alien life form. On the other hand, the management discussion group that I accidentally signed up to lead did feel a bit more community-like, and I am reminding myself that I am optimistic about that. 

There’s a value to having a default plan. Years ago I had insomnia, and I learned that even after very little sleep, I could get a lot done if I already had a plan. So I planned: every day at the end of the work day, I laid out what needed to happen next. The Camino offered something similar: sure, there were interesting detours and side trips I could take, but in general, the path was this way. I could choose to deviate, but the road was known. 

So that’s what I’m thinking about, and what I’m trying to do. The world is uncertain and I don’t know what I’m doing or what’s important. But a while back I laid out projects and priorities. Dates and timelines exist. 

I’m reminding myself: there’s a comfort in having a plan.