One year out March 7, 2021

On the Friday evening of March 6, 2020, I went to hear Mahler’s 6th at the San Francisco Symphony. I sat in my usual Terrace perch, peering down upon our conductor Michael Tilson Thomas, feeling almost like a part of the orchestra. But this was no ordinary night out - it was the last night out. 

By the time I came home, an email was waiting for me: the Symphony would be shuttered for the remainder of the season and their tour was cancelled.  A similar notice from the San Francisco Ballet arrived, too. Within a day or two, everyone over 65 was advised to stay home. And so it began, this year of isolation and tragedy. 

None of us could have imagined that COVID would drag on for so long, and yet it has. When the “new normal” began, I really had only one goal in mind, and it wasn’t the one you’d think. Sure, I didn’t want to get COVID; like everyone else in San Francisco, I wore a mask and hunkered down, limited myself to lonely walks, lunch in the backyard, and the occasional visit to the grocery store. Given my precautions and my privilege (good health, a stable home, food security, and a major medical center just up the street), it seemed unlikely that I might die of the disease. 

No, my big concern was how I would survive the months ahead without falling into a major depression. Depression has engulfed me at least four times in my life, and it can take years to climb back out. So it was no small worry on my part. And yet, by letting go of any expectations, by slowing down to a lazy retired woman’s pace, by just putting one foot before another each day, I somehow made it. And though I was incredibly lonely, I didn’t make it all on my own. It really did take a village. 

So thank you Annie and Jordan for our holidays together. Thank you Laura and Kathy for our weekly walks. Thank you Sue for our art projects 6000 miles apart, and thank you Gail for those closer by. Thank you Jeannette and Yang and Kevin for weekends together, yet at a distance. Thank you Caroline and Ari and Cypress for short visits to Pi. Thank you ZOOM for book clubs and conversations, and thank you family and friends for keeping in touch. Thank you Pogo for trusting me with the last few months of your life. Thank you Trader Joes for your efficient and thoughtful service. Thank you supporters of trails and parks for allowing me to dip into nature. Thank you puzzle makers at the New York Times and Wall Street Journal and “Out of Left Field”, and thank you Mike for our thrice-weekly puzzle discussions. Thank you Yann Martel for your inspirational book on reading and the many authors I’ve explored this year. Thank you Point Reyes Yoga – Amanda and Nick, Katie, Devi, Mary, Maile, and Maya –  (and Wendy, too) for our daily practice. Thank you Marin County Library and local librarians for delivering book upon book upon book upon book. Thank you Netflix and Amazon for binge watching. Thank you Coursera for free online courses.  Thank you PBS Newshour for proffering hope that rational minds still inhabit our country. Thank you UCSF for weekly Grand Rounds and vaccine delivery. Thank you first responders of all sorts for fire control and medical assistance. Thank you New York Times delivery person. Thank you John and Anna and Juana for looking after my home in San Francisco. Thank you Spirit Rock and Zen Center for wisdom and resources. Thank you Bovine Bakery for bear claws. Thank you San Francisco Bach Choir for our weekly rehearsals and outreach. Thank you Julia Nielsen and delightful Co-Vo sessions. Together, you have made it possible for me to survive this year.

Meditations November 20, 2020

I have just finished reading Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, part of my self-imposed 101 books project.  I had purchased a copy a few years ago, based on the recommendation of my friend Carl, but I couldn’t get into it at the time.  Now, with nothing but time, I decided to dig in again, and what a goldmine it is!

Marcus Aurelius was considered one of the greatest Roman Emperors, but he was also a philosopher in the Stoic school. Meditations are his musings to himself, written in Greek, often while on a campaign in the dying days of Pax Romana.  Marcus continuously challenges himself on how to be a better man, a question that all leaders, and indeed all people, should explore.

What struck me is the similarity between Marcus’ principles and Buddhist dharma.  

Let’s begin with “everything changes”.  Marcus returns to this theme again and again, embracing change as part of nature and accepting death.  He goes even one step further, reiterating that as we are tiny specks in the continuum of time, it matters not whether we live one year or a hundred, because we will still be dead in the end and ultimately fall into obscurity.  (Of course, he didn’t!)

To this point, he invites us to imagine that we are now deceased and to view all our subsequent days as a gift to live in accordance with nature.  Given that life is brief, there is also an urgency; he says, “While you live, while you can, become good,” and “Perfection of character is this: to live each day as if it were your last.”  Since life can be interrupted at anytime, we must live in a continual act of goodness.

Marcus uses a story to illustrate his point: To the actor who is dismissed from the stage and complains, “But I have not played my five acts, only three,” he responds, “True, but in life three acts can be the whole play.” 

Not only is life transient, so too are the stages of life, and we must accept that. “Only a madman looks for figs in winter: just as mad to hope for a child when the time of this gift is past.” 

Like the Buddha, Marcus talks about the need for a steadfast mind.  Retreat into yourself, he advises, as it is always available to you. (I swear I can feel him meditating!)  He refers to hindrances of the mind, that anxieties come only from internal judgments. To Marcus, life is a continual process of honing the mind.  He advises us to “See things for what they are.”  And he adds an extra perspective, that humans uniquely benefit from a rational mind, so we must follow reason in all things. (Leaders, are you listening?)

Another repeated theme is the harmony of nature and the existence of a world order, that everything is connected and that one must always consider the common good.  “What does not benefit the hive does not benefit the bee either.”

So much of Marcus’ Meditations is right out of the Eightfold Path playbook.  He talks about “right” acts and “right” path.  “If it is not right, don’t do it. If it is not true, don’t say it.”

And though it is the first of his twelve “books” that comprise Meditations, I will close with a recommendation to read his treatise on gratitude, a catalog of people who have influenced him throughout his life and why.  It is a moving reflection of the people who have made him him.  One of these days – soon – I will endeavor to take stock in the same manner and commit to paper my gratitude for the scores of people who have threaded their way into the fabric of my life and made it all the richer.

Reflections on a childhood November 7, 2020

This year, COVID has shattered lives for people all across the planet.  I was thinking the other day about the particular long-term repercussions for our children, who can no longer play with friends or participate in classroom learning.  Some of these children will have lost parents, aunts and uncles, or beloved grandparents to the disease.  Some will be victims of physical, psychological, or sexual abuse at the hands of their family members.  For many, whose parents have lost their jobs and source of income, there may be food insecurity and the threat of homelessness.  Surely most children have also internalized the fear of either contracting or spreading the disease, with constant mask-wearing and incessant hand-washing.  

This pandemic will be one of the defining features of their childhood, a time when the world stopped functioning, when stress soared, when existence seemed fragile.  And what of the murder of young black men and women at the hands of police?  Or the terror wrought by armed vigilantes and white supremacists, egged on by presidential provocation and rhetoric?  Or the threat of evacuation due to fires or hurricanes? Or even the threat to the rule of law and democracy in our country?  Surely our children sense that, too.

These ruminations led me to reflect on my own childhood and how incredibly safe it felt in comparison.  Yes, we boomers grew up with a lot of bad stuff: the continual threat of a nuclear war, the Cuban missile crisis, assassinations of three beloved leaders, and the Vietnam War, not to mention racial violence.  As kids, we saw all this on the nightly news, with Walter Cronkite or David Brinkley on a black-and-white TV.

But the truth is that my own childhood - as a white girl growing up in a middle class family in a small industrial town in southeastern Pennsylvania  - was incredibly stable.  I lived in the same house during my entire childhood, and I went to the same neighborhood schools from kindergarten through 12th grade.  My parents were kind to each other and never spoke harshly to us kids.  They never abused drugs or alcohol. They budgeted and saved their money.  My father had a good job as a structural engineer with Bethlehem Steel Corporation; my mother ran the household.  To my knowledge they never cheated on each other, and they stayed together for five decades until my mother passed away. 

I’m not saying it was a perfect existence.  It was a bit boring, one-dimensional, and far too conservative.  I always knew I wanted to fledge.

But last week I came to appreciate how very safe and secure I felt in my home with my family, in my particular neighborhood, in the United States, at that moment in time.  I am so very grateful for this childhood.  For me, on reflection, that stability is the foundation for all I have become.  Would that every child throughout the world could have the same.  

Wednesday night November 7, 2020

I hadn’t realized how stressful these past years had been until I crept under my covers on Wednesday night.  It was little more than 24 hours after the polls closed and election data were slowly dripping in, but I was confident that Joe Biden and Kamala Harris would emerge as the winners.  Data from Nevada and Arizona were looking good and their full count would surely push him over the top to 270.  Many votes from the Philadelphia and Pittsburgh areas were still waiting to be entered in Pennsylvania, and Georgia was still too close to call.  There, Stacy Abrams had worked her magic and the two Senate races would move to a run-off in January, determining the fate of the Senate.  

For four years our country has lived under the boot of a madman.  Our current president lacks the bandwidth, the curiosity, the introspection, the consistency, and the empathy required for leadership of a nation born of revolution for democracy.  We have lived on the cusp of fascism, as more and more governmental officials have bent to his will and the ugliness of hate and violence has been given free rein.

On Wednesday night, I exhaled.  I felt the coolness of my pillow and the breeze through the open window, the firmness of my mattress, the quiet of the night. I started to feel safe once again.

The 101 Books Project August 3, 2020

Several years ago, I purchased a book entitled 101 Letters to a Prime Minister by Canadian author Yann Martel.  Martel had gained fame with Life of Pi; with Letters he turned his attention to Stephen Harper, who was Prime Minister at the time of its writing.  Every two weeks, Martel sent Harper, an anti-intellectual in the vein of our current President, a short work of great literature along with a letter of recommendation for it.

“One of these days,” I thought to myself when I perused Martel’s pages, “I am going to read all of these.”

That day has come.  What better time to delve into a book project than when one is stranded by COVID?  I have nothing if not time these days – no job, no family living nearby, no destinations.  So in late-June, after our public library opened up for curbside pickup, I launched into the COVID reading project.

To date, I’ve read 20 of Martel’s recommendations, not counting the ones I had read in the past.  What I like about this process is that I’ve committed to reading all of them, regardless of whether I think I will like them in advance.  This isn’t the usual way I would select a book (more on that another time, perhaps), but it has the virtue that it is opening my eyes to new authors, approaches, and ideas.  Also, since the books are generally short, reading each one isn’t a huge investment in time if it fails to excite. 

And what a rich collection it is!  Martel’s commentary tells me why he chose the book and what to look out for, and this is all part of the adventure. I know that you might not want to take on this kind of a crazy challenge, so I’ll recommend a few to you:  Bonjour Tristesse by Francois Sagan, Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, The Cellist of Sarajevo, by Steven Galloway.  There were books I somehow had missed in school, like To Kill a Mockingbird (what a great read!), or somehow avoided because they just seemed too out-there (Kafka’s Metamorphosis or Becket’s Waiting for Godot).  It’s quite a literary marathon, and I wish there were someone doing it with me.  Any takers?

Athena to the Rescue June 13, 2020

In a previous post, I alluded to a book entitled “Goddesses in Every Woman” by Jean Shinoda Bolen.  I discovered it on my daughter’s bookshelf while prowling around for something to read.  After my “well-being” course and after spending some time trying to make sense of the enneagram, I was intrigued by the idea of archetypes and what makes each of us tick.  I was starting to appreciate how very different we all are from each other in terms of our motivations and what brings meaning to our lives. This realization was beginning to have a deep effect on me and on my relationships with those closest to me.

Bolen explores seven Greek goddesses, and I immediately saw my reflection in Athena.  Athena, who sprang fully formed from the head of Zeus, knows what she wants, and she knows what other people want – or should want – and dons her amour, ready to assist.  She is the ultimate strategist, a force to be reckoned with.

I hadn’t realized I was so Athena-like, but certainly people around me can see it.  My friend Yang commented on a hike recently that I’ll never be happy until my daughter Annie finishes college or my friend Jeannette finishes her will.  These are no wispy wishes on my part; I inflate myself with the wind of logic and try to breathe sense and motion into family and friends.

Now that I recognize Athena, I see her in so many of my interactions. Injustice? Let me help you!  Can’t decide about a retirement community? Let’s sit down with a cup of tea.  Painting your house? Here’s a palette that would look nice.  You voted Republican?  I will lead you out of the dark side.

I am comfortable being an Athena, but I wish I could invoke her for myself.  I need someone fearless at my side to guide me in making decisions.  But I have to say, once I pick up that spear and shield and don that helmet, I do know how to fight for myself.

The PhD in Loneliness May 6, 2020

Nearly two months ago, at the start of the coronavirus pandemic, an op-ed appeared in the New York Times that sadly resonated for me. The author checked in on his elderly mother by phone to gauge her health and happiness.  She replied, “Don’t worry about me; I have a PhD in loneliness.”

That’s it!  I have lived alone for so long now that I know how to do this. No one to touch. No one to share a meal with. No one to share a life with. No one who is checking in to tell me how his day went or to listen to mine. 

This is a PhD that is neither striven for nor craved; it is awarded out of sheer endurance.  I remain alone, unwilling or incapable of jostling myself out of the trajectory that an unintentional course of life events - divorce, death, drugs – hurled me into.

This is not COVID talking.  This is real, every day, pervasive loneliness.  COVID just gives me, and many others like me, the unhappy chance to experience it more fully and, perhaps, the permission to say it. 

The Curriculum under COVID April 17, 2020

Tomorrow I enter my seventh week in isolation from the COVID-19 pandemic.  I am no stranger to loneliness, but this stretch brings new meaning to the concept.  No physical touch, no casual hug, in fact no face-to-face greeting whatsoever, other than the crinkled eye above a mask in recognition and gratitude to a grocery worker.  Everything – the symphony, the ballet, choir, and a visit from my daughter over the Easter weekend – has been cancelled.

So, in an effort to remain calm and focused, and maybe even to accomplish something, I devised a daily curriculum for myself.  (I’m guessing you have, too!)  I even developed a physical map for my activities so that I could more fully appreciate and enjoy my home, not to mention avoid falling into in a spatial rut. (You may not have gotten this geeky!)  Indeed, I have started to feel fully 4-dimensional. 

And if you think this is a very boring blog post, I couldn’t agree with you more, but it’s all I’ve got for now.

I leap out of bed around 6 am, shower and change my clothes (very important!), feed the cat, make the coffee (also very important!), grab the newspaper (yes a real one!), make some breakfast, and curl up with the cat in my study’s enormous white canvas-covered chair (from IKEA) for a few hours of contented news-digesting, crossword puzzling, and email corresponding.  Sometimes, I even write a real letter to my daughter or a friend. 

Midmorning, I climb up to my newly cleaned and re-organized attic to take a ZOOM yoga class through my Point Reyes Station studio.  That brings me to 10:30-ish, when I descend back into my study and settle into my desk to work on my latest Coursera class.  Right now I’m taking a course in Ancient Roman Architecture, and I started a fresh sketchbook to make quick drawings of the monuments as we encounter them. It’s this month’s moon cycle project (see post of March 8), so I have to be diligent to fit an entire semester into one month. 

Next is lunch in the garden (my first moon cycle project!) with the cat, followed by more coffee (very important) and reading.  For this module, I re-position myself (and cat) in my quiet attic, which is refreshed by a breeze through casement windows at its lengths. Now four stories above the street, I have a lovely view of San Francisco when I look up to relax my eyes and settle more deeply into the afternoon.  With so much time to explore, reading can get kind of crazy up there.  In addition to our book club selections (this month’s were haiku poet Basho’s “Narrow Road to the Deep North” and “The Pine Islands” by Marion Poschmann), I’m taking in Jean Shinoda Bolen’s “Goddesses in Every Woman” (possibly more about this in a future post) and Brian Greene’s “The Elegant Universe”, two books that just happened to be lying about (and now I have no excuse not to read them).

Then, if I manage to stay awake through all that, I might pull a few weeds or tidy up one room or another before venturing outside for a late afternoon walk, uphill to the Sutro forest trails, downhill to Kezar Stadium and Golden Gate Park, or comparatively flat to my neighborhood in Cole Valley or the Inner Sunset.  Later, it’s whipping up some kind of dinner on my beloved indoor grill followed by the PBS NewsHour online.  (Miss you, Gwen Ifill.)  And after all of that, I give in to mindless sloth as I crawl back into bed with the cat, a jar of almond butter and a spoon, and succumb to binge-watching one series or another – Chernobyl, recommended by my daughter (it is amazing!) or my personal guilty pleasure, The Big Bang Theory.

OK, I’m just rambling now, but when one has been doing this for six weeks, perhaps she can be forgiven.

Meeting this Moment March 27, 2020

As I sat down to meditate the other day, I set the intention of meeting this moment. 

I love that expression, “meeting this moment”.  It is a call to the present, echoed again and again by teachers of mindfulness.  I can even hear the voice of Jon Kabat-Zinn, with his distinctive way of lingering on the word “moment”, as if to savor it, then drive it home. 

And what a moment this is, with coronavirus transforming our lives.  It has both captured us and captivated us, stripping us from the richness of our interactions with art, music, sports, work, religion, and culture, but most of all, from each other.

How do we meet this moment?  How do we maintain calm and adapt to this new way of living?  How do we see this moment for what it is – a challenge that peels away the inessential and brings us closer to our truest selves.  A moment that maybe brings out the best in us.  Can we use it to dig deeper?  I am taking this moment to breathe in the goodness of our lives with gratitude. 

The Toll March 20, 2020

Lately my friend Laura and I have been enjoying a bevy of explorative walks in the Bay Area, checking out architecture and other points of interest.  Last Thursday we were supposed to have done the final third of the San Francisco Crosstown Trail, a 17-mile pathway through parks and neighborhoods. 

But that morning I got a call from her, and her voice immediately told me that she was in a little distress.  Laura suffers from asthma and other lung issues, and she is well into an age demographic that is vulnerable to coronavirus infection.  I could sense some worry as she told me that she was not feeling so well and we needed to postpone. 

I hung up and found myself with an epiphany.  Someone I know, maybe even someone I love, may not survive this epidemic.  I went through the mental list of the people who seemed the most vulnerable to me – friends in their 70s and 80s, friends who had bouts with cancer, friends who work in the medical profession, mothers and fathers of friends.  Some of these people will undoubtedly get sick.  They will suffer and some may succumb. 

Of course, loss is inescapable.  People in our lives will leave us, unless we leave them first.  But thoughts of loss don’t come to the front of our mind unless something happens to jostle them into that place, and this is what coronavirus has done to me.

The thought of losing Laura frightens me.  As close neighbors, she and I raised our daughters almost as sisters.  We have shared all of our hopes and frustrations with each other over the 28 years of our friendship. 

Laura, get well and stay well.  The hike will still be in our future.