My daughter started a quarantine bird art club and every day we paint or draw a different bird. Today it’s the osprey. We all submit our paintings and drawings by cell phone at the end of the day, and the group (8 of us at last count) shares comments and laughs. My renditions are inconsistent, often artless and unrefined. At first I had no enthusiasm for this daily assignment, but now I am hooked and if I haven’t been informed of the bird of the day by 9 a.m., I impatiently text my daughter with an “Ahem� message to wake her up. Her boyfriend posted photos of his bird drawings but also his freshly made loaves. Now the group has evolved with the development of a new offshoot interest: sourdough bread-making.
I’ve always liked a hot bubbly soak in the bath.

Paired with a good book to read, there’s nothing more luxurious. My reading is inattentive. I can’t always remember the title, the plot, and characters are confused, perhaps because I keep nodding off in the warm water. Recklessly extravagant, after a bath the other day, I rubbed expensive YSL Opium Body Cream on my arms and body and went for a hike. My husband would buy me a bottle of this from time to time and I only ever used it on special occasions because it was so absurdly expensive. But the other day I wondered what the hell I was saving it for, rubbed some on my arms and body and went for a hike alone. I smelled heavenly. I felt like Cleopatra of the mountains.

In the evening as I watch TV, I knit for my grandchild, due in October. My knitting has always been sloppy. The pattern is inconveniently in another room. It makes no difference as I don’t feel compelled to follow the instructions anyway. Besides, I read once that quilt makers of the past deliberately made a mistake or two in their beautiful creations so as not to incur God’s envy. I’ll borrow that excuse.

I futilely weed my garden. Grass has sprouted in flower beds and between paving stones so I pull out the weeds. I trim the sharp pointed ends of agave cactus. It makes no difference whatsoever to the appearance of the yard, but with no one at home to touch, I connect to life at a basic level, grooming the land, as it gets a break from our industrial onslaught.

My writing is erratic. I could be working on my book. But thankfully there’s always tomorrow, and a long string of empty tomorrows after that.
So far, so good. I am comfortable pursuing inconsequential activities, meeting low expectations, and filling time unproductively. As long as there is a supply of tea, I am perfectly adapted to the current situation. Survival of the fittest!