Covid has arrived in my house and my body and life has become a cycle of moving from the bed to my sofa. On the way I stop at my tiny landing window and stare out at the daffodils dancing in the garden, drinking them in, trying to photosynthesise myself by proxy. I lie back and think about art, time, living, like it’s something I’m being paid to do and wonder aloud in a voice note if this is my surrealist phase whilst sounding high (which sadly I’m not) and then I dream about being able to understand a cat talking to me, which my friend deciphers as untangling the mystery of a vaginal ailment and I love my life very much. I screenshot because I am. I pick up my camera and think of Freida as I click the shutter. I watch the sky change from brilliant blue - full of light, to a dark grey that’s all of a sudden filled with WTAF ? snow ! and I call to my people and we all move poorly bodies sluggishly outside in collective awe. I try to remember to feed the kids and am overwhelmingly grateful for a friend across an ocean who sent chicken soup and as we all sit down to eat it we talk to our children about the miracle of good people who we’ve never even met irl but can still show up for you in the most nourishing of ways. I zoom into Now Now class every day and am awed and lol and in love with these women and reminded again and again how glorious it all can be if only we let it. And I let it. I let it over and over again even though this body is low on energy and low on movement and after two days I forget about my stupid fucking steps watch which lies abandoned on the floor as the app tell me 38 STEPS TODAY! I write COMPASSION AND SURRENDER in my notebook. I invite the sensation of illness in and look for the glory in it and remember the words of Stephen Levine. I am so grateful with every fibre of my being because how could I not be ? I collect my daughter from school and listen to her tell me about her life happening out there when I’m not and am so damn grateful. I think about the way Bridget and Darcy kiss in the snow and how nice guys really do fucking kiss like that, and I listen to Harry Styles sing and wonder whether he really was in a ‘morning pages group of song writing’ with Maggie Rogers and Patti Smith during lockdown, which is one of the more niche TikTok holes in to which I have fallen. On very good days I open the back door and go and touch the life growing, and on more than one occasion I follow the overwhelming urge to plunge seeds into earth. Calendula, and only now am I thinking about how I sowed those seeds that have the properties to heal and if that’s not some living as art I don’t know what the fuck is. Sometimes I read (it’s not gone well tho let’s be real) and I try to write my morning pages (it’s not gone well tho let’s be real) and I try not to be a dick to my family (it’s not gone well tho let’s be real). However none of those things have gone as badly as they could either so let’s celebrate whilst we can.
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