The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco

Attributed to Mark Twain

Everyone is bemoaning a summer lost to this endless pandemic. As the frosty fog rolls in every afternoon here in San Francisco however, summer is the last thing on my mind.

It gets chilly here in July and August (thus the quote) and I’ve spent the last few weeks bundled in long sleeves and puffy vests. It’s like we’re a season ahead, already moved on from the disappointment of a summer without beach hangs and barbecues.

There’s something I like about this weather, though, as the tops of buildings slowly disappear and distant trees become blurred. It feels a little wild, somehow, a little mysterious. I love feeling the fog blow in as I crest the hills in my neighborhood – it smells of sea and wind.

As the foggy days roll one into the next, I can’t believe it’s August. It’s hard to imagine that so much time has passed since the lockdown began. It’s hard to think about the time lost, the lives lost, the work and income lost, the visits and vacations lost, the concerts and festivals and tournaments lost.

These days instead of feeling anxious and depressed I’m feeling a little blank. I suppose that’s OK, although, knowing myself, I need to be careful about that blank feeling – sometimes it’s a precursor to withdrawal and ultimately deep depression.

But for now I’m enjoying being lost in the fog, the outlines of the world softened, the cool dampness enveloping me, as I gently fold into myself.