Solitude

I’m now in my sixth month of isolation. The coronavirus pandemic has required me to spend all my time alone. The only breaks have been for groceries, and then I war a mask and stay at least six feet away from all others.

This morning, the outside temperature is in the fifties, but it has been down in the forties some mornings. That means it’s time to bring in my potted plants from my deck and arrange them next to the sunny window on the eastern side of the piano room. The change in weather reminds me that my seclusion began last winter, before I put the plants out when it got warmer in the spring.

How long will the pandemic last? Since the U.S. under President Trump still is doing nothing to combat the covid-19, I presume I’ll still be sequestered six months from now. More than a year in isolation.

I’m fortunate that I’m a loner by habit. I normally spend little time with others. I’m a writer, a profession that requires many hours working alone. My diversions are weight lifting, reading, playing the piano, a little gardening, and working on my house—all activities I do by myself.

But under normal conditions, I have a heavy schedule of readings and presentations to assembled groups of readers. Barely a week passes that I’m not out appearing in public. All that is, of course, on hold. And so far, I’ve only managed to arrange one remote reading. More will come.

More tomorrow.

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