Circling Back: A Loop Trail through the Pandemic (Sabol)

                                                                                                                Oh that magic feeling

                                                                                                                nowhere to go

                                                                                                                                ―The Beatles

On the back deck of our small ranch, under a winched-out awning, I savor a second mug of dark-roast at my private sheltered-in cafe. For the first time since moving to our new home three years ago, time expands, unchecked, to allow such leisure. I'm gradually adjusting to an early retirement, complements of the Covid-19 virus. My wrist watch now among the knickknacks lining the kitchen window sill.

A short two months ago, the AM routine would have been a 180 from this relaxed tempo: after jumping into scrubs, a quick breakfast carb, I was off. Thirty-eight years of this routine. Now my work as a speech therapist posed just too great a risk. Every instinct articulated, retire already!

This new tempo was initially unnerving. Rare is the occasion we engage in nothing, conventionally defined as the opposite of doing, our national pastime. Unstructured time felt nearly as disorienting as the steady uptick of Covid cases and the nightly newsreels that mimicked a disaster film I wouldn't have watched a second time.

But new routines developed after a week or so of aimless wandering about the house, contemplating a jumble of domestic and global concerns. What now? How will the country get through this? Can Tom and I live amicably 24/7? Is this the time to finally learn to speak Spanish, play guitar? What about these bangs?

When I was a girl my parents' go-to punishment for numerous minor and a few notable major offenses--playing hooky, breaking curfew, getting busted―was to be grounded. Depending on the nature of the misdeed, the grounding would last anywhere from a day to a month. I felt like a caged thing--a feisty, rule-bending girl with schemes up her sleeve, and a surplus of imagination. I felt live-trapped; released back into the wild after a prescribed interminable number of days.

Eventually seclusion offered valuable lessons about solitude, and the fruits of introspection. Where do we go when alone, cut off? The fledgling writer discovers how to travel into herself; give voice to her musings.

When I was about ten, I began to write poetry―pretty awful poetry―but I was in love with words, with the clicking into place of sound and sense, and that was what mattered. I would shove my door closed, just short of a slam, sprawl across my bed, and journal lines full of hearts and their breaking; wings and their clipping. Poetry was the elixir that transformed the hours of punishment into an awareness of my passion. Into joy. Getting grounded, while still a drag, was also a tutorial in how to transform isolation into a path.

Sunrise quiet in the neighborhood, I observe the lie of the yard against the sweep of morning sun across the lawn. Just me and the backyard birds, taking in the morning. Doing nothing, which involves a study of the gradual spread of light, becoming acquainted with the coordinates of my refuge. From the northeast corner, the sun passes over the green canoe, belly-down on the boat trailer, then spreads low, under the awning. I turn my back to its brightness. Its warmth rests on the back of my neck, as I bend over my journal.

Due east now, daylight brightens the white fence, over which children's voice will soon rise. In a blink, southeast, through the tall arborvitae that borders my neighbor's property. Then south to the crab apple whose pink blossoms drift to the ground, drop into the bird bath. The fire pit, that chunk of wood still smoking from last night's fire, suggesting woods, pup tent. garden, on out to the street. The yard is fully lit. Day opens before me―a blank page, full of promise.

Writing demands solitude, an undistracted inward journey. Though abrupt and disquieting, pandemic seclusion has become a source of solitude, a generous parcel of time. If only the circumstance necessitating isolation were not a national health crisis. That, too, compels me to salvage something purposeful: use this quarantined time to venture inward, and return with words worth sharing.

And so I have circled back to isolation, writing in solitude. Willingly, with a wink to the trailblazing girl, shut in her room. Untethered by professional and social expectations, and with no schedule, no place to go, I am granted all the time in the world to note my compass points at each day's reckoning, figure my cardinal direction. I relish the sugar settled in that last swallow of coffee, and add a finer point to a line in my journal, then push myself up from the Adirondack chair, and head directly to my study. I plant myself at the desk and roll my sleeves, ready to travel.

Barbara Sabol's second full-length book, Imagine a Town, was awarded the 2019 Sheila-Na-Gig Editions poetry manuscript prize. Her poetry has appeared widely in journals and anthologies. Barbara's awards include an Individual Excellence Award from the Ohio Arts Council. She lives in Akron, Ohio, with her husband and wonder dogs.