Days have merged into one another since the lockdown. I fill them with reading, writing and walking along the orchards. Only nature’s relentless growth reminds me of the passage of time.
“To stumble over the edge of the horizon, forever slipping through the hours of a day.” My experience of time is different these days. It is not necessarily unpleasant, but I feel more detached from the world.
A few days ago I met a dear friend for a walk in the woods. We talked about everything and nothing, and I realized how conversations like these help place myself in the larger context of a world full of other people. William Wordsworth advocated immersing oneself fully in both nature and society to awaken poetic imagination. He found beauty in the mundane, in the banal experiences of daily life.
Like most of us, I miss half of Wordsworth’s recipe for a poetic life. I enjoy being on my own, but the desire to stay isolated is thinning away. I dream of small cafes and black coffees. To be amongst strangers. A friend sits down next to me and orders a tea. We talk about everything and nothing.