The seedlings in the peat pots came up quickly, all sprouting in a day, leggy and reaching toward the high windows, following the sun. In the garden, the transplanted peas limp along, surviving the feedings of rabbits and snails, but none of the seeds there have germinated, in spite of the heat. Still the plants sit ordered for now; I can't imagine it will last. Entropy will win as it does every other year. Already dandelions shine their abundant yellow faces to the sun, and last year's kale opens more yellow flowers. Borage and calendula bloom. All in vain, in the two hours I spent planting lettuces, and tending to what remained of the transplanted cilantro, only a lone cabbage moth fluttered through the garden; no other pollinating insects. No bees. No flies. Nothing more at all. Most days I can count almost to a hundred.
I hurried back to a nature poetry/essay sharing on Zoom, arrived late, though not too late to read. There is always more to do, and when I get myself there, I enjoy the peace of the garden.
I don't sleep much anymore, last night less than usual. Someone ran a garbage disposal on/off for hours, a low pulsing buzz pushing against my ears from 1 am- 5am. Finally, went and slept on the floor where I could hear it the least, it was that or the bathtub. Now slices of sunlight fall down from the windows. Perhaps I should nap.
I have an appointment for a COVID-19 vaccination later on in the week. I don't know how I will get there and back. Still, at least it's in town, my co-worker is driving to another county for hers. I don't mind going in now, but feel unsure about crowds again in the autumn. Back to a time where doors are unlocked and people wander freely. The old daily schedule still sits at the conference rooms, announcing no meeting, March 13, 2020. On March 12, we locked the doors. Around there is evidence of a world without people at the center of it. Flowers growing in the cracks of the pavement. Nests above the doors.
I mostly only travel within walking distance (which can be far.) Happily surprised whenever I see the "Mountain" out, forgetting how common that once had been. Surprised by human enterprise, too, building has boomed on in the Downtown core, in spite of a lack of people to occupy them on a daily basis. Walking across a freeway overpass on a recent weeknight, I hardly recognized the skyline at all. Closer to home, the tent cities grow daily, and signs on light poles, and curbside collection points, announce the gathering of supplies, food, clothing, hygiene items, for those without homes. The dissonance is a screeching siren. The small house outside my window is for sale for almost $2 million, the price of the sky above it.
How do we meet ourselves again? Who will we be when we all return to the common space? What shape will our universe hold? This has been a year of seismic shifts, will any of that make a difference? Do we care at all?
