It's been tough, these weeks in isolation. Endless time alone. The same routine over and over, I feel like I'm spinning in place. No touch, no affection, no sex, not even any face-to-face conversations. There have been some walks with friends, each of us awkwardly keeping our distance. There have been trips to the coffee shop for take out espresso and kind, funny baristas. Visits to see my parents.
In the Before Time I signed up for a writing workshop that I haven't been able to finish. I wrote poems in April, but not a full 30/30. I took a workshop with one of the poets who publishes with the Press. I am writing in my journal. Every once in awhile I draw. I do my job and zoom with my colleagues. I zoom with my friends. I talk with my boyfriend and count the weeks since I had a date with him (10). I text with my son. I try to keep up with my exercises; I try to walk. I cook and I eat. I am fortunate to be able to complain that I am bored. I try not to worry about my parents, about my son, about myself. I try not to drink too much. I drink too much.
It's an endless Zen retreat that I don't remember signing up for. It's breathing in and out. It's crying. It's watering the plants, and talking to them. It's walking into the back yard to smell the lilacs. It's looking up through the branches of the white pine. It's walking out after sunset and seeing Venus, the only thing that ever seems to give me hope.