I am fortunate

We are into our second month of near isolation. Two months of keeping at least 6 feet away from friends, grocery store workers and strangers who are out walking as we are.


Two months of hand sanitizer, gloves and wipes. Two months of unsatisfactory Zoom connections and sadness as our family can only communicate through technology.

Two months recognizing again and even more fully how unbelievably fortunate I am: I have a life partner, a home, and the financial ability to care for ourselves and to give to others.

I have two daughters and their families who I love dearly.

I am fortunate:

-a citizen of Canada.
-a resident in Victoria.
    -a gardener.

My garden has always been my sanctuary, my oasis of peace, and never more so than now.  During April,  I repotted plants into larger containers, unfurled the rolled leaves on our apple tree, squishing those black worms hiding there, and then hand-pollinated the white and pink-tinted blossoms with a soft paintbrush.  It seems the bees aren't plentiful again this spring.

I've dug up some plants to share with my neighbour and with other gardeners.  This is like sharing a favourite recipe, giving enjoyment and leaving a legacy.

I've weeded and divided and trimmed back.

I am fortunate:
-a citizen of Canada.
-a resident in Victoria.
-a  gardener.
-a photographer.

I see things more clearly and feel more deeply when partnered with my camera.

Yesterday, I again visited my newfound corner of the Cattle Point area, where rocks meet the sea,  and where striations are reminiscent of magnificent and subtle abstract paintings.

I hurried down as I wanted to photograph while the sun was hidden by clouds.




When I returned home 1 1/2 hours later, I downloaded 250 images to my designated photograph-only computer. During the afternoon and evening I edited these down to 111 and that's only the first run-through!  I will likely weed the photographs saved to 50 later today.



It is not the photographs that are ultimately important, rather, it's the time I spent looking and seeing and being present in the moment.  Fully engaged. In isolation.

As I've heard from others, my lofty plans to tidy my clothes drawers haven't materialized. I organized my socks! A couple of partly-filled bins sit in our t.v. room, waiting to be topped up with more winter clothes and then stored. A bag of spring clothes deemed "good but not for me", were gathered mid-winter to go to a consignment store, now closed. And a table with 2 boxes is laden with goods for my participation in the Oak Bay Garage Sale - Garagellenium XXI, June 13, 2020 - which will most likely be cancelled.

On Monday, I arranged two phone call appointments with friends. While speaking on the phone is not something I relish, it was a real joy to connect.  A joy to listen and talk, with no agenda. I realize that email has nearly erased this pleasure from my life and I need to remember this even when this strange time is over.

Will I?

And, although I am engaging in activities that give me pleasure, I am still lonely.

I can't lean over the fence to chat with my neighbours. And while I've walked with a friend, with her following 6 feet behind me, it feels weird. I can't converse with the staff I've come to know well at For Good Measure, except by email when I order my food to be measured and bagged for me. And it makes me sad that I've chosen to curtail my twice-monthly volunteering at the food bank at St. John the Divine Church. I miss the clients I have worked with over these many years and especially now as the need is so great.

The vulnerable in our communities are always struck the hardest, and this pandemic vividly highlights the inequality in our city.  My donations to the Rapid Relief Fund and for bottled water for the homeless at Topaz Park seem almost like a cruel joke, in their minimal effect. While Prime Minister Justin Trudeau says every morning "We are here for you" the meaning seems to be that we are here for just some of us.

It is a sad time when a doctor on Victoria's front lines says, on radio, that the the homeless at Topaz Park need the oversight of Doctors Without Borders to be safely cared for.

I am very fortunate, indeed.

As Arundhati Roy wrote in an essay: “Historically, pandemics have forced humans 
to break with the past and imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it.”