I’ve always loved to play with words, and I come by the enthusiasm honestly. My father used big words rather unnecessarily and pretentiously — he was something of a showoff that way. He quizzed us on definitions and spelling at the dinner table, and turned it into a game.

When peaches or apples or plums are ready, they’re ready. No excuses or delays or procrastinating diversions will prevent the fruit from continuing to ripen, and drop or rot if you wait too long. I call it the tyranny of the harvest.

Some were pink and squishy. Others were made of wire and bristles and you held them in place with little pink plastic sticks. I once even had some that were soft rubber domes, pink again, that folded over on themselves.

As a slender, curvaceous young woman, I took my body for granted. My health was good enough that it wasn’t something I thought about, and I was strong and fit enough to do anything I wanted to. Other than finding clothes that fit both my top and bottom,

We camped at Wright’s Lake for the first time when Austin was two, and returned every summer until a few years ago when sleeping on the ground and middle of the night pees in the bushes no longer appealed to me. Fred still goes, whether I join him or not.

I just can’t stand it anymore. I can’t. All through those four horrendous years of our previous administration, I followed the news. Not continuously like Fred did, but I kept informed about what was happening in Washington, and in state houses around the country.

Picture the tray that holds your cutlery. Picture it full to brimming with spoons. Now imagine opening the drawer and seeing only a few in each compartment. That’s Spoon Theory.

This past pandemic year has brought the small things to the forefront. Things in general have become less important, the big things especially. Who cares about what car I drive — I’m rarely in it anyway. Almost all of my excursions have been to walk the dog in my neighborhood. Passing another human on the street —

I recently attended, or to be more accurate, tried to become engaged in a Zoom presentation on resiliency during these troubling times. The webinar was offered by an organization I trust and by presenters I respect. And yet, as timely as the topic might be, it was not compelling enough for me to focus on it.

Perfection is a trap. Or rather the notion that there is such a thing. That we can achieve it or be it or find it. Perfection leads to paralysis, procrastination, endless indecision, or doubt. To perseverance in pursuit of it.

I’ve never been a fan of humiliation humor. I know that there are some brilliant comedians and sketch writers who are extremely successful delivering laughs out of embarrassing situations.

Maybe it was Leo the cat being put down, or Memorial Day teasing my subconscious. Or maybe it was selecting photos of Aaron and Merijane for the UCSF Meri Center Day of Remembrance, but I found myself reflecting on lost friends and family,

I realize now that, for me, the stress of the past year has been not so much the pandemic and lockdown, as it has been about the political dysfunction, and the state of our country and our planet.