Here in New York, we are wrapped in a blanket of winter cold. This is good. It will encourage our neighbors to stay put. We are in day 11 of self-isolation, and we have done all the things.
By we, of course, I mean I. I have cleaned vigorously. I have baked (though the fresh yeast packets are still waiting to be torn open - yeast is daunting). And I have opened up a new garden bed. 4 by 16 feet of compost, blood meal, bone meal and leaf mold. All that dead, rotted, organic stuff of life. Sifting through dirt is more curative to me than sifting flour, it turns out.
The day after I stepped back from my dance with the dirt, a blanket of wet, heavy snow settle over it. And that seemed appropriate.
It is too early to plant seeds. Too soon to set in motion the next season. Too soon to make plans. It is too soon.
The earth has stopped spinning. No cars passing on the street. My calendar wiped clean. No need to remember if it's a work day or a weekend. There is nothing to do except , perhaps, turn our attention within. In the quiet moments which stretch on and on. It will be uncomfortable. And that will be good. Good for each and for all.
And so, today I will get out of my pajamas and focus on feeding my family. Today I will sit here in my quiet morning house and think with a hot cup of coffee in hand. Today I will see what happens. It is too soon to make plans.