HERE IT IS, THE EVENING OF THE LAST DAY IN MAY. THESE LATE SPRING DAYS SEEM TO SLIP BY LIKE PERFECT PEARLS SLIDING OFF A BROKEN STRING. AND NO ONE CAN TIE A KNOT IN THAT STRING. TREES, FULLY DRESSED FOR SUMMER, TWIST AND TURN IN THE WIND, EACH LEAF CATCHING ITS SHARE OF DAZZLING LIGHT, BOUNCING IT BACK TO US. THE LEAVES WILL ALSO FALL, EVERY SINGLE ONE, BUT NOT YET.
HOW IS THIS SPRING DIFFERENT FROM ANY OTHER? WHAT HAS COVID 19 TAKEN FROM US? LIVES, PLANS, JOBS, TOILET PAPER; YEAST, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE. I CAN’T FIND IT ANYWHERE. AND THEN I TURN ON THE NEWS IN MINNEAPOLIS, WANT TO CRY FOR THESE PEOPLE, AND REALIZE THAT I HAVE NOTHING, REALLY, TO COMPLAIN ABOUT.
WHEN AND IF WE COME TO A PLACE OF LESS FRAGILITY, WHAT WILL WE HAVE GAINED? WE CAN HOPE FOR A DEEPER AWARENESS OF OUR OWN MORTALITY, A SENSE OF OUR COMMON HUMANITY, A GREATER TREASURING OF EACH OTHER. NO MAN IS AN ISLAND; JOHN DONNE WAS RIGHT. AND THE LITTLE STUFF IS REALLY THE BIG STUFF. I WALKED IN MY WOODS WITH THE THREE ADORABLE KIDS WHO JUST MOVED IN UP THE STREET. I LISTENED TO CRAZY FAROUT JAZZ. I GREW RHUBARB FOR THE FIRST TIME AND MADE MY SISTER SHEILA’S RHUBARB MAGIC. TRY THIS: YELLOW CAKE BATTER TOPPED WITH 4 CUPS RHUBARB, 1.5 CUPS SUGAR AND (GET THIS!) 2 CUPS HEAVY CREAM, BAKED AT 350 DEGREES FOR 1 HOUR. YOU WON’T BE SORRY! WHO NEEDS YEAST ANYWAY? LIFE IS JUST PLAIN PRECIOUS.
