Soon after arriving in Florida this March for an experimental month in the sun, I began writing a pandemic journal.
Many months into our altered reality, my diary reads like the early chapters of a book that promises to get much more fraught.
Great swaths of unscheduled hours unfold before us, time previously invested in a pleasurable, outward-bound focus. Is this a yawning chasm of boring days to be endured? Or are there jobs to do; people to help; books to read; recipes to master; and nest-fluffing measures to be undertaken?
Peter Rabbit, Mrs.Tiggy Winkle, and Jemima Puddle Duck sit in a sunbeam, watching me cook from their family room perch. A seasonal stuffed pheasant sits sentry on the mantle, while a ceramic turkey daintily dangles its beaded feet over a bookcase shelf.
Yes, our grandchildren are woven into the fabric of our lives, but it is not solely for them that I trot out this whimsy. It is for me. It makes me smile, when smiles are sorely needed.
Recently I spied a pair of bullfrogs swimming tandem in our pond, intent on attacking a baby bird.
Seemingly born off-season, the thirsty fledgling, for the frogs, presented a meal opportunity. I, on the other hand, felt protective of its life.
Awash in the dichotomies of 2020, this simple refresher on perspective arrived from nature. It was absorbed because I am staying home.
From home, I have made donations. I’ve cleaned my shed.
My office, however, remains a mess.
Unearthed from this bounty is a nine-inch stack of books. Bought with optimistic enthusiasm in seasons gone by, I laughed at the absurdity of that tower. Yet by resolving to read every day, the challenge can be met.
This year draws to a close, bringing us closer to a destination we cannot see. The story, though unwritten, takes form powered by collective intentions.
May gratefulness, fortitude and generosity be our guide. (c)
