How habituated we have become to the pandemic life. Masks hanging from the turn signal rod in the car, always at the ready, masks in the handbag, masks folded with dog poop bags at the ready, in the pockets when I do the laundry.
Once or twice we have dined out in public indoors. There was a moment when it seemed we could give up the masks. We ate by the door, eyes upon all who entered, hearing the alcohol fueled laughter with the dismay of having heard too many times that laughter and singing spreads the virus more effectively than casual conversation.
Some time ago I stopped checking the statistics every day. Then I stopped listening to the talk and separated myself from social media. Now my only reminders that we are still living in the time of plague are when I leave home. I leave home nearly daily. This is a big change.
There are parks here where we now live. There are vast outdoor spaces dedicated to matters of eating and mingling. Some call the revamping of the center of the city gentrification. I experience the change from boarded up old motor lodges to white stucco tap room and international food court, all outdoors, as homage to place, as acknowledging human requirements and preferences.
This part of town is a hodgepodge of style, decrepitude, grand older houses with venerable trees and gardens, and the renovated, rebuilt, and newly constructed dense residence structures with too few parking places. The purpose is to encourage public transportation use.
Here in Albuquerque it is called ART. Rapid transit one imagines. All I see is Art. The Art district. I feel myself to be within the Art District. Behind our house upon our property is a never finished addition to the garage. It looks like part of the garage but is more like a barn, inside. Or it used to be, before the moss green concrete floor got poured. The millions of spider webs are next to go. Cable studio lighting, a heater cooler mini split, drywall, and voila, an art studio. We have a nifty air purifier that is sized just right for the space. Does that make it covid safe? Doubtful. Everything is doubtful. Safety from virus is a matter of personal practice, wearing the masks. Choosing the outdoors to linger.
Perhaps the best part is that the studio has an outdoors. Already, an outdoor room, with a bar and barbecue and sink, a fire table, seating for a small group. There is an old elm. I read up on elms. They are a tree people are not encouraged to plant. This one is so far past its prime that it is potentially near the end of its life. It has dead branches. I would prefer an oak, a sycamore, a cottonwood. But, such thoughts are best abandoned. This elm provides beautiful shade, and makes the entire back area an expression of Bosque beauty.
Soon there will be a pond back there, and a hot tub surrounded by a wooden platform with container plants upon it. This is a time of becoming.
Were it not for the pandemic, would this chapter have been inserted into our lives? There is no answer. Like the weird twist of fate that took us all indoors before it thrust us all outdoors, what prompts we take to action are not to be anticipated. Like earthquakes in other places, these large events happen upon the earth stage, and we take them in stride. For me, better without the opinions of the world strewn like autumn leaves during high winds.
