As crazy as it seems, I’ve been writing this column for almost 27 years.

When I started, I was mainly noodling over arts, entertainment, and all things pop culture – hence the title Rants & Raves, which stuck, even though I rarely do either anymore. At some point, a few years in, a friend said to me – and I remember this vividly – “You should really be writing about politics. You’re smart enough.”

This friend, who shall remain nameless – okay, it was Tom Davis – was just getting started in politics, himself, and the comment both stuck in my craw and intrigued me. I was a little insulted by the implication that I’d been wasting my brain on frivolous pursuits … but also compelled by the notion that I might have the chops to take on “important” issues.

It appealed to my vanity, I guess, which should have tipped me off from the get-go that it was a bad idea. But I was young and naive . . .

Thus began my love/hate relationship with socio-political analysis, both reading it and writing it. It held my interest through plenty of changes – in me AND the country – and was bordering on an addiction for many years. Of course, that was long ago, before everybody and their brother started writing about politics – on websites, blogs, and, finally, social media. And then came the bots, and the AIs, and they had opinions, too.

At some point, I began to suspect the political scene was every bit as petty and performative as the world of pop culture I’d been writing about before. Yes, the stakes were higher, but reading and writing about politics felt more and more pointless, almost like a game. Grappling with ideas had once been so compelling – thrilling, even – but had now begun to feel hollow. As Americans grew more deeply divided in their opposing camps, following politics started to feel like following sports. Without the fun.

My interest began to fade.

And since losing my husband, almost a year ago now, that interest is just about gone. The love/hate relationship has withered on the vine. With Jeff around, following politics was challenging and lively. We’d watch the news together, chat about the latest outrage, and, yes, sometimes we’d argue. He was a contrarian, and so am I, and even though we basically agreed on most issues, we couldn’t help matching wits, picking nits, sparring and debating. It was exhausting. God, I miss it.

Nowadays, when I watch the news or read political commentary, my mind starts to wander. It all feels so far removed from my reality, beyond my ken. And I’m never quite sure who to trust anymore; that goes for the politicians and those who talk/write about them. Do they mean what they’re saying, or are they just being good team players? I have a friend who says politics today is like WWE for educated people. He may be right, but I don’t watch wrestling.

These days, it seems I can only muster interest in what’s right in front of me. The tangible and the personal.

As I write, I hear the noisy buzz of tree work happening across the street. Not the familiar pillaging we’ve all witnessed lately, all over town – thanks, Dominion Energy – but an entire Water Oak is coming down, limb by limb, in my neighbor’s front yard. We have a lot of old ones here in Pigeon Point, and when it’s their time, it’s their time. A dead Water Oak is not something you want anywhere near your house, especially during Hurricane Season.

We’ve had to bring down five – I think that’s right? – since moving into our house 24 years ago, and it’s always sad, no matter how necessary.  When Jeff died last Hurricane Season, I was relieved that we’d recently had two trees removed – a couple of behemoths that really should have gone earlier, but I was too attached. It was one less thing to worry about in a sea of worries last year, but I remember crying when the tree guys sliced them up and hauled them away.

Today, as I listen to my neighbor’s tree being dismantled – and pop my head out the door occasionally, because I’m a masochist or, at the very least, a drama queen – I feel that old tug at my throat and the sting of tears behind my eyes.

So much loss. In the world, yes – this I well know – but in my own little corner of it, too. And my own little corner is just about all I can manage at the moment. That’s what grief has done to me, I suppose. Narrowed my scope. For now, anyway.

Here in my own little corner, there are neighbors. We pass each other on the street in the mornings – out for our daily walks – and we smile and comment on the heat. Or sometimes, the humidity.  This mundane weather talk comforts me.

In my corner, there is also choir practice. We just went back last night, after our summer hiatus, and it was wonderful to see everybody, and especially, to sing. Have I mentioned that choir singing is about the best thing I’ve got going? I think I have, a few times, over the years. Ha.

Here in my corner, there’s a book club… at least 17 years old now, according to a recent Facebook “memory.” It’s very small, and we’re very good friends. And unlike a lot of book clubs I’ve heard about, we’re still reading books… not just drinking wine. Though we do that, too.

Zooming in a bit, my corner has cats – Gilbert and Sullivan – who snuggle with me and need me and make me laugh. There are also birds at my feeders and butterflies wafting through my yard and a barely detectable shift in the light that whispers fall may actually come again.

In my little house – once so chaotic and full of life, now so painfully quiet – there is an orchid someone gave me after Jeff died. It was beautiful for two months, then abandoned its purple flowers and all but a couple of leaves. For almost a year, it’s been little more than two sticks in a pot. I’ve been nurturing it with no expectations – and when I say “nurturing” I mean plunking three ice cubes on it once a week, as per instructions – but just yesterday, I noticed a tiny new bud emerging.

Almost a year later, I have somehow managed to keep this plant alive. I’ve never grown orchids before, so I don’t know what to expect. Will there be multiple flowers? Just a few? Will they all be purple? Will more leaves come?

I feel a bit like the orchid, both as a writer and a human being. Almost a year ago, I lost an essential part of myself. I have felt like little more than two sticks in a pot. No flowers, very few leaves. But maybe, just maybe, a tiny new bud is emerging. I have never been through this experience before, so I don’t know what to expect.

But reader, beware. Whatever is to come – whoever I am becoming – it won’t be the same as before.