Household under self imposed CWQ (Creative Winter Quarantine). A few rituals for hiding beneath the surface of regular life:
Chain oneself to a work post and pray that gestation will evoke some magic.
Go down to the Grotto in the woods, listen to the water fall. Fill as many bottles as you can carry, drink the rest. The water is soft and sweet and tasting of round minerals.
Crisscross under the stone ridge heeding the sound of chipping. Discover John under the cliff, chisel in hand, searching for essence in an enormous oak limb. We agree to break silence. Discuss the brazenness of foxes.
Climb back to the top, embrace an ancient oak. Contemplate the power of their root system via the mirror of their crowns.
Hop on bikes. Geneviève and I revel in the anachronism of our neighboring hamlet. We never run over the geese.
Meditate in the late afternoon sunlight.
Encounter Henri emerging from music or writing. Examine the progress of soil working in the dark, under the surface of nicely decomposing wood chips. Marvel at the miracle of mycorrihizae.
Chain oneself to a desk again. It takes discipline to avoid doing the important things one should be doing.
End each day with a late night walk along the ridge. Air is loamy and sweet. Acorns crunch underfoot. Lights from the village below twinkle like a fairy tale.
Tune into the oak boughs in the wind, just audible above the velvet silence. No talking necessary.