It's snowed here most days this week. The ephemeral airy fluff of an April snow that melts in a day is so far from the unmeltable glooms of stubborn February snow that I wish there was a different word to describe it instead of flailing adjective strings. Still, while light on the mind and heart, April snow is hard on flowers. One morning, the inches had piled up, so Hugh and I spent our morning walk digging out the daffodils. At four, Hugh loves flowers, maybe more than people, and he patiently went from clump to clump in our small village, crouching down, serious and gentle, brushing the petals free with his bare hands. Some of the stems had broken already, but he cleaned them anyway, and others sprang back. Daffodils are sturdier than you think.
We didn't see anyone on our walk. Most days, we don't see anyone other than the delivery people. There are 18 people on our street, and since this began, I've maybe spoken to three neighbors and seen one more. The rest are mysteries, shut up in their houses. I don't know how they manage to stay in, but I rarely saw them before, so really it's not so different.
On our morning walk, we usually make our Toad lists. In "The List," one of Arnold Lobel's Frog and Toad stories, neurotic Toad writes out everything he plans to do that day—wake up / get dressed / eat breakfast, etc. Out walking with Frog, the wind blows his list away. Toad can't chase after the list, because chasing after the list wasn't on his list of things to do; Frog runs after the list but can't find it, so Toad and Frog spend the day sitting still because Toad can't do anything without his list. Finally, the sun sets, and it is time to go to sleep—something they can do, because Toad remembers that it was on his list. We (mostly) eschew comical Toad-like rigidity, but we admire the practice of listmaking. Hugh's sometimes is "pick a daffodil / play dogs;" mine might be, "frozen ramen noodle lunch / take walk." Shorter is better, and if we forget them or lose them, we'll think of something else.
I told my friend Mike that this whole experience—this virus-induced pause—feels like being catapulted to the Moon. It seemed clear to me from the beginning that applying Earth rules to Moon existence was a recipe for frustration and heartbreak. So we went ahead and ignored all the wise and well-meaning advice about keeping to established routines and patterns. Those were never for us, anyway—just things we had bent our lives to fit. We'll have time to recalibrate to Earth life again if we ever find ourselves back there.
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We've been trying to dress like flowers or fields; this outfit was inspired by daffodils. Norse Projects beanie / Rodjeber Argan quilted coat / Nili Lotan cropped pant in camo / Block Shop Rosehip scarf / J. Hannah fauna nailpolish / Bonne Maison sunbeam socks / Veja Riobranco sneakers / Laura Lombardi mini bead hoops / pocketable Sakagen clippers for flower foraging.
