The birds are louder than ever, for once there not competing with the sounds of traffic or overhead planes. There is nothing in their airspace but the sounds of the morning; a dog barks, another down the block answers it. I suppose there both in quarantine behind their fences having their usual morning conversation. The chime of church bells tolling the hour sounds prophetic and sad rather than celebratory.
I skip the headlines and pick up where I let off in the New Yorker with morning tea.
When the breakfast dishes are clear, I lay out my mat for a morning yoga stretch and follow with an extended meditation. It helps to have structure, and it grounds me in grace and quiets my impatience.
Depending on the weather, I take my daily bike ride through empty streets. I cross over the 10fwy and think how wonderful it would be if the freeway were closed to traffic for one day. I could ride to the beach and back again without looking over my shoulder for cars.
Due to climate change, our arid hot California spring has been swapped for the wet ones of Michigan, where tulips are allowed to sprout slowly, brown lawns which used to look like rusted kitchen Brillo have turned to a luscious green, and the fruit trees around the house are bursting with blossoms and fruit. With the rain and the reduction of cars on the road, the air is fresh and sweet with the fragrance of spring blooms.
I call my oldest friend, who has contacted the virus. I worry about him because the nature of the virus is that one has to tough it out by yourself. I wish that I could be there for him.
I have a full beard now…..it seemed like something to do.