I’ve been dreaming about open spaces. Verdant fields dotted with wildflowers that I walk through barefoot, with grass scratching my shins and dirt clods breaking under my toes.
Sometimes the vast expanse is an absence. The Grand Canyon. The nothingness is so wide I can’t see the end, like bobbing on a ship in the middle of an ocean. I did that once. A ten day journey where I couldn’t see a shoreline. I didn’t sleep well then either.

I’m baking. I’m embarrassed about it. I feel the need to acknowledge the cliche of it all before I can admit that returning to these basic skills has made me feel useful. I need to find a clever hashtag to let people know I’m not taking myself too seriously when I post a loaf of bread I baked on my Instagram stories. But I take it so seriously. I made a loaf of bread! My grandmother would be proud, I think. Or she’d be embarrassed that at age 34, her granddaughter’s big accomplishment was baking one loaf of bread.

I read and watch tv and try to work and have a nap and stare at my phone. I think about all the times I’ve been in a yoga class, and the instructor has told me to silence the rest of the world and be in the moment, and I’ve snickered in my head because who can actually do that? I guess I can, when I have to.

My partner made the bandana-mask for me with their favourite flagging bandana and two rubber bands. I take the dog up the steepest hill first. I’ve started letting him lead the direction. Outside, the animals are so bold! At the wrong times. A skunk earlier that day, at 8 A.M., shuffling down the street like one-half of a comedy duo. Mockingbirds fly so low to me, I don’t know if I’m there.