Two Weeks in Quarantine: Day Eleven

It would be very easy, stuck in our quarantine room for eleven days, to only see the negatives: the loss of freedom, the isolation, the noise from the building site opposite…

So I decided today that I would deliberately look out for the goodness, truth and beauty around.

And here is what I found:

  • The goodness of four young adults enjoying a game of Four Square in the middle of the exercise yard
  • The goodness of the armed forces, security guards and hotel staff doing their jobs diligently and with friendliness and grace
  • The goodness of Mma Ramotswe’s kind words to her assistant Charlie in Alexander McCall Smith’s latest novel (yes, I know that the traditionally-built proprietor of the Number One Ladies Detective Agency in Botswana is only a fictional character, but she is portrayed so well that her goodness still shines through!)
  • The goodness of discovering that the 24-storey building site across the road is actually a gutting and recycling of an old building, thus helping to reuse resources and reduce waste, rather than demolishing and starting from scratch
  • The truth portrayed in a couple of research papers submitted to our journal
  • The truth that is slowly coming together as I think about a paper for my PhD
  • The truth embraced by the precision engineering on the building site – how it all holds together securely and safely
  • The unusual stunning beauty of the spikey flowers on the big red bromeliad on the exercise deck (alcantarea imperialis)
  • The pristine beauty of three white gardenias after Lois and I had gone round dead-heading them
  • And yes, even the ordered beauty of a well-constructed building

I am going to start living like an artist

Art is not

just an expression of beauty:

soft, green pastels

watercolour meadows on misty hills

leading me to lie down by peaceful waters

and rest.

 

It is an expression of truth

in its brutal reality,

cruel brutality.

The darkness that surrounds

the anguished cry of a mother separated

from her child;

the screams of a young man on a waterboard;

the groans of our mother

earth ravished, exploited.

My pen and my brush

longing for justice

when there is none.