I’m looking at the liriope [lih-RYE-oh-pee] we planted a couple of years ago, and I don’t know what will happen.

Also called monkey grass, these clumps of leafy plants make good border vegetation, and the plants are pretty hardy.

For two winters, I have cut back the leaves that died in the cold, and I did it with the loving care of a weed eater—just whacked all the clumps down to the nub. And then in spring, little green leaves just shoot up and grow.

The liriope was greening up nicely this spring, but then we had a couple of hard freezes, when temps dove into the low 20s. There’s warmth and sunlight now, but those cold nights took a toll on the liriope. Big sections of rich and verdant growth are now quite pale, even white.

So now what, I wonder. Will the pale leaves linger? Die off, even? And will new, green ones grow in their place? Or maybe the entire plant will spiral down to die. Some plants are doing better than others, so maybe some will recover and others won’t.

You probably guessed where this is going. There are other worries on my mind.

In the same way I’m looking at my liriope, I’m wondering about my country, my state, my neighbors, and my family. Will the virus that put our economy in the deep freeze ruin our way of life forever? Or can we recover and resume where we left off? Or maybe new jobs and opportunities will replace the ones that didn’t survive the COVID crisis. And, worse, will the dreaded virus strike a loved one?

I flat-out don’t know.

To learn the liriope’s fate, I could ask a botanist or a horticulturist—or probably even the lady at the lawn and garden shop. They would know, as they’ve seen that situation before.

But diagnosing a nation’s recovery from the coronavirus crisis is not as simple. While there’s no shortage of experts in economics, virology, and public health, there are no sure-fire answers. Unlike a mid-April freeze that cripples plants, a pandemic like this one has never before been faced in the modern world. Those experts can build models and make predictions, but their projections are just educated guesses. And many educated experts have already guessed wrong.

It’s also easier to look at liriope because I don’t have to suffer a stream of uneducated guesses—other than my own—like we’re all enduring through this COVID lockdown. The fear and distrust and hatred that spawn all sorts of corona-crap don’t really play into plant life.

Of course, while doctors and economists can’t forecast with certainty what will happen in six months, they can deliver solid expectations of what can happen in six days to people who don’t heed warnings about catching or spreading the coronavirus. (Hint: They’ll catch it or spread it.) But it’s the sixth months and more that worry me.

Time, I guess, will tell … both for my clumps of monkey grass and for the global economy. There’s a lot more riding on the outcome of the latter, but pondering all the upshots and outcomes of the coronavirus disaster—week after week—can weigh a man down.

I don’t want to close my eyes to further threats, but I can’t think about the whole world just now.

Today I’m going to look a little longer at my liriope. Maybe I’ll see some signs of life.

What’s your quarantine theme song? As all Facebook and Twitter devotees know, it’s the title of the single that was the No. 1 song on your twelfth birthday.

I am no stranger to social media silliness. I rarely pass up the chance to complete a Facebook survey—but only if it sets up my signature smartassery. And I always respond to copied-and-pasted posts that beseech friends to answer—with one word—“how we first met.” I invariably reply “prison.”

The process of determining your quarantine theme song, though, isn’t the type of Facebook game I usually play. That’s because it offers no room for creativity; you simply report the fact. I do like music, though, especially—and I make no apologies—Top 40 tunes, so I Googled April 16, 1970.

I was lucky. “Let It Be,” the beautiful Beatles song, checks all the boxes for this exercise. The phrase sets an appropriate attitude for these weird and daunting days. And the song has enduring appeal and popularity. Two years ago, Paul McCartney explained the origin of the song to James Corden during an emotional episode of Carpool Karaoke. The former Beatle had written the song following a dream in which his deceased mother came to him and said everything was going to be OK. “Just let it be.”

Plus, like the millions of music-lovers who made it No. 1, I really like the song.

But to truly earn the role of my personal quarantine theme song, the tune has to do more. So on a day leading up to my sixty-second birthday (a frickin’ half-century after I turned 12), I looked to the lyrics to see how “Let It Be” measures up as a leitmotif for a time when we huddle at home to diminish the spread of Covid-19.

“For though they may be parted …”   This viral scourge has wrecked our world. People have had to say goodbye to loved ones, to their jobs, to the milestones of life, and so much more. And to make it worse, parting words can only be said through windows or on Zoom and other electronic connecting points. Some of what we’ve collectively lost can be regained, but so many lives and events are gone forever.

“Speaking words of wisdom …”   If we have learned nothing else during the pandemic, we should all take home the lesson that scientists offer solutions. Some politicians—and Kentucky Governor Andy Beshear is a shining example—have heeded the words of epidemiologists and public health professionals and insisted that their constituents take safe and sane precautions, But other officials have delayed such measures or have taken political posturing to absurd lows.

“I wake up to the sound of music …”   I’m forever seeking solace and inspiration in music: I constantly listen to songs from the decades of my life; ideas and phrases frequently come to my mind in rhythm and rhyme; and I often do a deep dive on particular songs, artists, or musical experiences. Just this week, I have zeroed in on the early music of Chicago (watching a concert video) and on the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar (viewing a modern-day version of the musical on YouTube). Notably, both the concert video and the original Superstar were created in 1970.

“And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me.”   I’m afraid of catching Covid-19; my asthmatic lungs might not fare well against the virus. I fear the loss of my job and for the livelihoods of millions of Americans and scores of neighbors, as I also grieve for those who have already lost their jobs. I’m angry that our leaders won’t learn from this catastrophe and create a more affordable health care system—or that foolish citizens will again be fooled by con artists in power. There is much about this crisis that makes me think we won’t emerge from our dark days with any semblance of a functioning, decent society. And yet I believe we will. I’m not a religious man, but I believe in the light.

“Let it be.”   Perhaps the only phrase of this song that doesn’t ring totally true with me is the title itself. Paul McCartney interpreted his mother’s words in that dream to mean “don’t worry about it.” And it’s true that much of the damage done by the novel coronavirus is out of our control. But what happens next—in our lives, our communities, and in our nation—is up to us. We can show compassion, we can offer help, and we can vote. Believe what you will about a scripted future, but do what you can to make it better.

I want to listen to words of wisdom. I want to believe there will come an answer. And I want that light to shine on until tomorrow.

So yes … Let It Be.