Diarytribe 1

Enclosure..

Being unable to go outside for an extended period of time is painfully difficult, emotionally challenging, spiritually disarming and an almighty mental head fuck. It has been around a year I think, since I last stepped over the threshold between indoors and outdoors. A whole year without feeling even the slightest westerly breeze whisper secrets to my skin, without an embrace of sunlight embalming my face with its effervescent glow, reminding my cells to develop, learn and expand.

I miss sitting in my garden absorbing the subtle scents of grass gratefully basking in daylight after long nights under the soil of our mini patch of lawn. I crave being able to sit in commune with the warm red bricks bordering the path, quietly observing sage buds as they consider blooming lilac to purple, minty stalks surreptitiously scrambling underneath, lemon balm attempting to remain calm whilst preparing for the inevitable shoot skyward, and the tiny leaved thyme bush singing its woody bittersweet song.

Moonwatch | 21^st April 2021

I miss watching my daughter drift back and forth whimsically on the wooden swing her dad built; gazing at a chalky sketch of moon adorning blackboard wide skies, blue with the promise of summer; regretfully admiring the efforts T puts into keeping our yards tidy; observing with tainted nostalgia the places where I used to plant seeds of potential, water tiny saplings through dry months, nurturing them carefully until harvest.

About now, under this April New Moon, the strawberries we planted some 14 years ago will be sending forth exploratory shoots, desperate to escape their current homes in search of new more exciting locations. The rocket will be well on its way to creating a fine emerald quilt across the raised bed, the fruit bushes will be expanding, taking up space along the fence line, negotiating territory with the wall. Tiny clusters of pale green currants will be dreaming of turning red and black, and pure white blossoms are probably perforating the lofty raspberry’s dark leaves.

The afternoon sun will have worked its way up above the chimney pots and will be throwing all sorts of shadows on the wide-open paving stones, cooling the cracks where beetles and ladybirds gather amongst dandelion and clover, melting the tarmac path as the ants skitter scatter across the surface.

Garden swing | April 2021

Meanwhile, over the last two weeks my insular world has contracted, leaving me with only a fragmented reflection of the outdoors. Part Goldilocks before she discovers baby bear’s delicious porridge, comfy chair and slumber-inducing bed; part princess trapped in a tower trying to sleep on a brutally uncomfortable pea hidden beneath a stack of mattresses, I lack the ability to sit up unaided without the constant prop of not-quite-firm-enough, not-quite-soft-enough, not-quite-in-the-right-place, not-quite-able-to-relieve-discomfort, cushions.

So, I bade a trepidatious farewell to my otherwise super comfy, super king size, organic mattressed bed and shuffled my fragile frame over to this single, foam mattressed, profiling hospital bed because it allows me to push myself up into various degrees of sitting and back down to lying, as well as raising my knees a little with the mere press of a button.

I am so grateful that I no longer need to enlist the help of another to perform these necessary regular tasks and I very much appreciate this reclamation of just a tiny bit of independence from heavy daily reliance. However, this magic bed only fits one way in my bedroom and that way is facing away from the window, with my back to the view which has played a huge part in keeping my sanity intact this last year.

From my new disadvantage point, I can see a rectangular sliver of sky above a neighbouring rooftop in the mirror leaning on the alcove on the opposite wall, and another mirror hung on the chimney breast, reveals a smaller section of sky and the topmost branches of our black bamboo swaying lime green in the afternoon sun. Sometimes, on blessed days, the sunset leaves a flickering square of golden light on the wall next to me.

The elegantly tall, moonlight pale, rough skinned silver birch two doors down, her limbs twinkling in their shiny new spring coat, will be wondering where I am. Does she regret that I am not there to admire her new attire? The way each leaf unfurls in delicate decoration and each strand falls like a weeping willow stretching itself toward the ground. Does it mean anything to her that we no longer pass the long afternoon hours together, watching the magpies, blackbirds, pigeons and blue tits scour her mottled skin for grubs.

Does she miss our conversations as much as I do? Does she think about all the times I was hurting and I would look up to see her arms stretched toward me, holding ancient space for my myriad feelings and trespassing thoughts? Does she think I have forsaken her? Or perhaps, given her longstanding, wide-open, somewhat-more-cosmic-than-mine perspective on the passing of time, she does not notice my absence or even think of me at all?