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An old Beatles song about a blackbird using its broken wings to “fly off into the light of a deep dark night” has been churning in my head for days on end.
I live alone. I work alone too and have endured my second round of self-isolation – meaning solitary confinement. It took great effort to retain some grip on normality during those lonely weeks. I tried adhering to some sort of structured routine. And mostly I managed, but there were days that sloppily slipped one into the other.
On the good days, I faithfully attend to the smaller rituals of life: rising with the dawn alarm, forcing myself to make the bed, shower, do my hair and put some colour on my lips. I stroke the dog’s ears and she faithfully wags her tail. It knocks a gentle rhythm against the cupboard door. “Shall we make a little music, the two of us?” I ask. “You do the drums; I’ll play the pennywhistle.”
