Something about the heat, when combined with the (in)elastic sense of lockdown time, made me wonder if July would ever end. When I remembered the beginning of July, it seemed like it had been years ago, and yet here we were, years later but with so much time left before the month ended. I had also been thinking about time in a more functional way after reading a piece by Edith Zimmerman about running. Edith is relatively new to running and has a gift for it -- and for writing (and drawing comics) about it -- but recently found herself running slower than usual. Instead of worrying, she resolves to focus on the process of becoming an athlete, which doesn't have anything to do with speed or time. I found this message reassuring, given that I, too, have been running a lot slower than usual, something I like to attribute to the humidity or technology -- me, after every run last week: 'I wonder if my watch is broken?' -- but which (let's face it) is part of getting older. As someone who's been running for my entire life, there's no question that my speed is on the wane. It could be depressing to consider (and sometimes it is), but I always remind myself that I don't need to beat anyone, including my past self; I don't need to set a 'PR' to be 'a runner.' There's no reason I can't go out, the way I did this morning and most of the ones before that, and turn north onto the Hudson River and feel overwhelmed with insignificance and gratitude at the sight of the George Washington Bridge -- six miles to the north, miles that will slowly disappear as I approach -- floating across the water, its aura of industrial ambivalence bathed in the pink haze of the dawn.
It's a lesson I've also tried to bring to the garden, which has entered a phase I call the 'doldrums,' this year made worse by the fact that we did not take our usual trip to the suburbs to buy annuals. But there are always new things to appreciate in the garden, such as these native begonias, which have finally established themselves in the shadiest corner. I even transplanted a few sprouts to another shady spot, and they seem to have taken, which makes me look forward to next year -- or maybe the one after that -- when they will presumably be as big as their parents.
And, somehow, finding something new to appreciate makes it easier to also appreciate what we have, such as our toad lilies, which seem to be doing well and, going by the past few years, will bloom in the fall.
I also like this little strand from a clump of coreopsis we planted a few years ago, when we were still pretending that the garden gets more light than it does; somehow it's managed to survive and has a few flowers.
I spent some time watching ants rush up and down the trunk of the birch tree. Where were they going and why? It was the same question I asked watching cars on the West Side Highway, or -- sometimes -- when I looked at myself in the mirror.
I never feel lost when I look at our ferns, which exude confidence and certainty about their place in the world. If only I could be a fern.
Another nice thing about this time of year is that the birch tree starts to shed seeds and leaves, which gives me an excuse to sweep the path. That way, when I'm on a video call and someone asks what I did over the weekend, instead of saying 'I scrolled through Twitter and felt very stressed out about the imminent collapse of society at the hands of greedy Republicans and oblivious Democrats,' I can say, 'I swept the path -- it was very satisfying.'
Our potted dwarf conifers don't have quite the same effect, but they're getting by in an imperfect world. A few years ago, they were really struggling and we moved them out of the ground and into pots to maximize their exposure to the sun. Now, they seem healthy and comfortable (if not as exuberant as the ferns, but really, what is?).
The cats are always with me in the garden. Here's Clio asking for permission to climb to the top of the wall, which I never give to her. 'You just can't go everywhere,' I tell her. 'Especially in 2020. You'll get lost or beaten up by the police or catch something you don't want.' Lecturing the cats like this makes me relieved that I never had children.
Recently, a new stray showed up and has been watching us from its spot on the wall. My heart always breaks a little when I see friendly ones, because I want to adopt them all and we're already maxed out. (But if anyone's interested, let me know: my gut tells me that this one would make a very good pet. Or let me go full-on Cat Lady and say it has 'an old soul'.)
There are actually four cats in this picture (our three and the little black stray, on top of the wall), everyone -- at least in my imagination -- trying in a very uncertain world to figure out where they belong and how best to get there.