There’s no doubt that my exterior world (and indeed, my exterior self) has shrunk, contracted, become smaller. And I don’t really know how I feel about this. Have I made it happen? Do I feel happier for it? There is much that I miss. Like travel or should I say escape? And the joy that comes with that – like those first steps on the Millennium Bridge as we make our way towards the Tate Modern and London in all its murk and glory pans out on both sides. Or being in the hot sun of Italy and Spain and lazing on chairs or sunbeds like lizards. Or just being on the move anywhere but here where all my fears and dreads live and flourish. And yet, here is where I have chosen to be and the grounding and my bed and my love are what keep me safe and sane. And I am grateful, profoundly so, to be fed, dry, warm and safe. And there are small joys, like that smell of toast yesterday morning when I went down to collect the parcel outside the front door, or the aroma of coconut from the tea lights I was burning at breakfast. I drink these in. I must and do. I know how fortunate I am and how sorrowful so many others are. I feel for them, always.
