2020 has been a year of loss, but a change of scenery can help
From where I sit looking out the window, the trees rise tall and lush but without the exuberant dabs of fall color. Pine needles apron their trunks, brown against the expanse of green lawn. Just beyond, past the wooden swing set and the wire-and-wood fence, a stream gurgles over pebbles and rocks, and at dawn I wait for the deer to come.
They usually arrive at the first break of light, my son says, several of them at a time. They drink to their hearts’ content but are always on alert, ready to scamper off at the sound or sight of danger. Who could blame them? They live a dangerous existence, feasting on neighbors’ gardens.
I’m far from my Miami home — but, in a sense, at home, nevertheless. Now that three of my four sons live outside my metro area, I claim temporary domicile at different addresses. This has been the first of many adjustments, an essential one we must all make as we loosen our grip on the reins of family.
In hopes of restoration, The Hubby and I have worked our way up the spine of I-75, visiting children and grandchildren. My minivan has clocked in more miles in the past few days than it has all year. Because we remain skittish about traveling, I’ve set up a hygiene depot between our seats: hand sanitizer, Clorox wipes, paper towels.
We’ve hurried through gas stations and darted in and out of public bathrooms. We’ve worn our masks everywhere, even in the many places where others don’t.
Perils loom everywhere, often unseen. The deer know this, but surely this is one of the lessons we’ve learned during the COVID-19 pandemic. A simmering fear, yes, but also the realization that trouble can strike suddenly and at any time, shaking even the firmest of foundations. For all of us — and I know of no exception — 2020 has been a year of loss.
Loss of routine and ritual. Loss of health, jobs, money, a sense of security. Loss of life itself. And with every loss, we’ve adapted, some quickly, some slowly, most grudgingly. This is why I’ve headed north: to recalibrate. A change of scenery, not to mention spending time with three granddaughters, can ease along what feels like an interminable year.
“Let the boys take care of you,” a dear friend advised.
The boys are men now, with jobs, families, mortgages and dogs, but I took her advice anyway, knowing that an escape can be restorative. Allowing myself to be taken care of doesn’t come easily to me, though. It’s the type of surrender that leaves me at loose ends.
Much to the boys’ chagrin (and The Hubby’s disappointment), I’m awake long before dawn, lured by the promise of a fresh beginning. I sit across the window waiting for light, for deer, for something. But the beautiful beasts don’t come, and I lose hope of spotting them.
Maybe I’m not meant to see the deer at drink. Maybe they stay away because they know they’re being watched. Maybe I’ve already missed them.
But then today … today. After the parents leave for work and the children wake, I abandon my stakeout. When enough light filters through the dense canopy of tall pines, I go for a walk around the neighborhood. Three houses down I stop in midstride, shocked. Five deer are feeding in a neighbor’s yard. They are as startled as I am. For two or three seconds we stare at each other. Then they bound across the street, through several lawns and into the woods.
Awed, I race home to announce my encounter. Along the way I remind myself that sometimes you have to look in more than one stream, one yard, one place, for what you want. That one sighting, however brief, becomes enough.