April Was The Cruelest Month Of My Isolation

But May is a new beginning.

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, etc., etc. The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot

He saw the pandemic coming, folks. April kicked my butt, isolation-wise.

I ended April making a loaf of bread. No news there, right? Everybody and his dumb uncle has taken to baking bread. It’s the pandemic thing.

Newsflash, I’ve worn out two bread machines baking bread. I started before most of you were born, almost fifty years ago. So, yeah. I got there first, playing Pioneer Patty with the kneading and the proofing and the rising. The disappointment of putting all that work into my loaves only to produce a couple of railroad ties or lumps of clay you could use to mend a stone wall.

But I persevered and uncovered the secret of light, fragrant, delicious bread. Whether by hand or machine, I’ve made hundreds of loaves over the years. I also have two pounds of SAF yeast in my freezer, not because I’m a hoarder, but the last time I ran out in 20 ought something, I bought two for the price of one. Pounds, that is.

So you would think I’d know something about baking bread and the magic ingredient that makes it rise. Yesterday, the last day of friggin’ April, I put my skill and years of experience to the test and tried a new recipe with many ingredients and processes that called for the bananas a dear neighbor left at my front door.

As luck would have it, I had many interruptions as I cracked the flaxseed, mashed the bananas, searched for the maple syrup I bought on my last trip to Vermont.

I measured the spices, chopped the walnuts, and, after answering the texts and phone calls from peeps who regularly check on me to make sure I haven’t keeled over unnoticed in my solitary confinement, I finally set my settings on my Cuisinart 200 bread machine.

Hours later, I checked on the progress of my daily bread. Shocker, it was still a wet lump of dough and I panicked. Had my machine kicked the bucket? It was a deal on Craigslist only a few months back. Brand new in the packaging for $40. Hardly broken in, as bread machines go. My oven needs repairing. It’s good only for storage right now, so if the bread machine doesn’t work, I’d have to resort to the spongy bread from the market.

But as I pondered the mess in the bottom of the bread pan, a light bulb went off. I’d forgotten to push start. No worries. The machine fired up right away. But a few hours later, same problem. A mess at the bottom of the pan. Only this time it was warm.

Then I remembered. I’d chopped and cracked and ground and measured and mixed all the spices. I’d done everything for this complicated Banana Walnut Spice Whole Wheat Bread…except I’d left out the crucial ingredient responsible for the alchemy, the magic, the beauty of a perfectly risen loaf. I’d done something I’d never before neglected in all my years of making bread.

I’d forgotten to add the yeast.

And that, my friends, is the story of my April in solitary confinement.

I can do this. An article in the paper said seniors are rocking quarantine like Mick and David Bowie dancing in the streets. So I’m up there with the old folks catching up on their knitting and organizing their heirlooms they plan to leave to their kin, happy and content to let the world go by while they stay safe and sane in their bunkers.

I figured out an exercise routine to keep me fit and strong, and when I reached for my toothbrush the other night, I saw something in the mirror that warm the hear of the NRA: guns. Michelle Obama has nothing on me, except for the hottest hubs on the planet for starters.

But biceps? All my training for my 8-minute plank is paying off. I’m up to three minutes and counting, but guns? I could stop now and die happy.

Except dying is not on the agenda, not after all this solitude.

Technology has been my friend since I discovered cell phones and the internet, so when I shut the door on the world, I already had my social network in place. I knew how to Skype, FaceTime, WattsApp and what have you.

I spend most of my time alone anyway, writing, reading, and editing, so back in early March, when the world began to shut down, not much in my life changed. I was already hunkering down with a mild case of shingles, so a couple more weeks was nothing.

In March, I grooved on rocking the quarantine. I’d get in my steps and cardio by finding a Youtube video and boogie with my broom. I wrote as before and was up for beating the virus. No worries about shopping, thanks to my neighbors delivering mail and packages, or picking up essentials for me on their shopping trips.

Let’s do this! I said. And I did.

But then, April arrived and with it my personal slowdown. It was taking me longer to write a page or edit a chapter. I couldn’t get my head in my work, though I wasn’t depressed or lonely. I just kept looking out the window, longing to pet the dogs people walked out on the street. I began to recognize the doodles, the Labs, the white — what was it, a malamute? Gorgeous, that’s all I knew.

Then a day went by when I didn’t post an article. Then another. My stats were good because a couple of articles had gone viral, and I was riding that tail. I’d sit down to write but get nothing. No ideas, no inspiration.

My client work became a chore, the work in March I could do in my sleep.

Nothing wrong with my mood, though. I’d dress up in my fancy clothes and put makeup on every day to change up my routine. I was wasting time like a champ but wouldn’t let myself read or watch daytime TV. I was “working” but not getting anything done.

When almost a week went by without publishing, I knew I had a problem. This wasn’t me. I was a boss at churning out work. It was what I lived for, what made my life worth living. At least one of the things.

I always felt so lucky I had creative work to energize me, no matter how old I got. Working and creating requires learning, if only about yourself. And that’s what keeps you young. What does staring at the page do? I was trying to figure that one out.

I blamed my writing slump on lack of input from the outside world. My protestant work ethic that wouldn’t let me engage in anything escapist during the day. Only, I’d never been a protestant. I just was hard on myself.

Methinks I was afraid to turn on the TV. Afraid I’d never turn it off.

I got a few pieces written, but by the time the end of the month rolled around my productivity had officially tanked. I began to worry I’d never write again.

And then the bread disaster.

I wasn’t infected with the virus, which was and is my objective in staying completely isolated, but I suffered collateral damage. I learned I’m not as tough as I thought. The pandemic crept into crevices and cracks of my psyche and took away my focus and inspiration.

Though I’m never depressed, the enormity of it all hit me on occasion, and I’d break down in tears for all the suffering, the realization of what could happen to me and to those I love if we let down our guard.

Okay, so April ate my lunch. But what did I expect? A global pandemic would be a walk in the park? I’ll let April have its due. I bow down to all those we lost, all those who suffered beyond measure, more than they deserve, and to all those who rose up and battled for us.

But today is the start of a new month. If Wendy is listening on a galaxy far, far away, May Day is lei day in Hawaii. I said it first.

I turned the page and published an article today. And I will tomorrow. And every day in May. Just like in the before times, even though those times are dead and buried. Even though I’m still in solitary confinement, I’m getting a head start on the new normal. Starting today, I’m setting my goals, and if the virus is coming for them, it has to go through my resolve.

If March was for denial, and April was for hitting the wall, May is for new rules. New goals.

I recall receiving a letter from the writer Barry Lopez. He told me of the great responsibility he felt in writing for the public.

His words came back to me with a punch today. In the year I’ve been writing on Medium, I’ve been trying to figure out my genre, my niche. What does an octogenarian have to say of interest to anyone, and who is my audience?

Lopez’ words helped me see I’ve been asking myself the wrong questions. In writing for the public, I made a contract with my readers. I’ve said in so many words, I’ll be here for you, day after day, to explain the world as I see it. That’s the point of my writing, the nature of my responsibility. To just show up.

Perhaps it took the isolation, the pandemic eating at my sense of security to help me see it.

So I’m starting a new month with a new perspective. I’m keeping my challenge — an 8-minute plank to occupy me (up to 3-minutes and counting). And as long as I’m here for the duration, I’m going to edit the last chapters of my haunted hospital novel and finish knitting my daughter’s sweater.

And as long as I started it, I’ll finish bingewatching my Netflix series. What, you’re going to tell on me?

But before I entertain myself with pumping iron (or water jugs as the case may be) and following the nailbiting escapades of Better Call Saul, I’ll remind my few readers I haven’t fallen off the edge of the earth. That I’m here, holding up my end, of what? I guess my daily drivel. Nothing new about that, except for my perspective. Why was I so bothered by not writing in April? It wasn’t the money, though there’s that.

It took the pandemic to help me see the contract I’ve made with you. I’m a writer and you’re my reader. It’s my job to show up for you and do my thing.

Will you read me? Who knows? That’s your thing.

#Stayhomesavelives. #Staysafe.

I’m an editor and writer on Medium with Top Writer status. I’m also an editor for the publication, Rogues Gallery. I’ve published 55 titles on Amazon and edit for private clients. If you’d like to hire me as your editor for fiction, non-fiction, or business writing, please contact me here. If you’d like to read more of my work on Medium, click here to sign up for my newsletter. I’ll make sure you don’t miss a word. Thank you for reading.