How are you faring?
I'm somehow in Pacific Grove, California. Totally randomly, the place I rented is a three-minute walk from my sister-in-law Ludmilla's. We lucked into a fire place, windows that look out onto a water fountain that attracts finches, hummingbirds and a stellar jay, and a ten minute walk to Asilomar beach. Today, after a Mother's Day lunch of barbecued hamburgers with homemade buns, the kids have retreated to their bedrooms. The puppy has gone from chewing on a deer antler, to wrestling with a shoe, to sleeping on my lap.
Peter, as essential personnel at the embassy in Muscat, won't leave unless the Ambassador does. He's one of the few going into the embassy to work, as everyone else is, like me, on mandatory telework. Back in March when Covid19 was first a thing, during our morning commute, I'd report to Peter the day's statistics. When we reached 8000 cases worldwide, Peter said, "It'll be ten thousand by the end of the week," and he was right. Today's number is over four million. I miss Peter and his predictions, and not being with him every day is the one thing I don't love about this situation. I mean that and people's loved-ones dying.
I feel bad admitting it, but I'm enjoying being forced to stay home. I never liked leaving the house anyway! So, at the risk of sounding grossly over-privileged, I thought everyone would discover the pleasures of staying home, throwing in a load of laundry between phone calls, checking the birds in the water fountain while writing emails. I feel like I've been given permission to live exactly how I like, to sign in to the computer in the morning with a puppy on my lap, go for a lunch-time run, work on a project, check the mailbox in my slippers, then respond to emails. In the evenings watch Schitt's Creek with Camille, or draw the Matillija poppies Ludmilla brought over. I live in my Allbird wool slippers. Stefan, sheepskin-muled feet propped on the coffee table, complains about an art history class on zoom. On the weekends, I put on real shoes and go for hike, to Big Sur, or yesterday to Garland Ranch in Carmel Valley. Life is fine, and I'm not sure I want to go back to the beforetimes.
But after a couple months of only being able to go to the grocery store or for walks, and then being forced to wear masks, (like that's a hard thing,) Americans are bored and angry and want everything to reopen. If I weren't working, maybe I'd feel differently.
The first thing I hear in the morning are the pair of crows that live on our street. I'm seeing spring in California for the first time in fourteen years. I'm in the same time zone as my mom, which makes phone calls so much easier. This was the first mother's day with both my kids in at least seven years. I walk around the yard in my slippers, trimming the cala lillies, wrapping the budding rose plant around the trellis, collecting mint for tea. Camille loudly thumps down the stairs like she always did and picks up the puppy and demands for him to tell her why he's so cute.
When I was five my Aunt Edie got married in Las Vegas. We all stayed in a hotel, and then, after a few days my parents announced that we were going "home." What home? I thought we'd moved to the hotel. "I don't want to leave!" I said, "I like this place with the baby pool and the walk-to breakfast!" Story of my life.
Coronalife. Bottom photo, my friend Gina doing her thing--getting me out of the house.