Why Living a Constrained Life Feels Safer Right Now
I have endless free time, but I’ve set a schedule, and it feels good
This essay was inspired by Kris Gage’s article, “We All Want to See Everyone Else’s Real Quarantine Moments.”
So here’s my quarantine life. But it’s not weird; it’s just kind of obsessive.
Two years ago, I retired and decided to go live as an expat in Thailand. I loved living there for a year and a half, but started getting itchy feet, so in January I gave away all my stuff except for my laptop and camera in my daypack and some clothes and a few art supplies in a rolling suitcase, and hit the road … just in time for the Great Pause.
Mid-March found me in Kuala Lumpur, and when the Malaysian government announced on March 17 that it would close the borders the next day, I fled to Bali on one of the last flights out on March 17, because I already had plans to spend my birthday there, and it felt more like a place I’d be happy staying put for a while. In April, the Indonesian government kindly granted visa extensions to any tourists who couldn’t get home or who wanted to wait out the pandemic here, so I’ve got a semi-safe feeling of some permanence until the world opens up and it’s safe to travel again.
But there’s that underlying anxiety we all have, and it was ruining my digestion when I was surfing the news and worrying about distant family and friends. I lost too much weight last spring and got too skinny. I also was hardly doing anything creative, even with all that free time every day.
So I set myself a schedule. At first, I was exercising three times a day and conking out at 8:00 p.m., so I cut back to exercising twice a day. Now I have three patterns that I do twice each week: 7:00 a.m. jog & noon aerial yoga; 7:00 a.m. jog & 5:00 p.m. swim; 10:00 a.m. hatha yoga & 5:00 p.m. swim. On days I don’t jog on the beach in the morning, I watch the sunset on the beach. Sundays are without plan, open for whims or art or being a couch potato.
Now I get up every day at dawn.
If it’s a jogging morning, I let myself read news before my run (and that’s the only time I read the news), then I jog for 3 km along the beach, and I feel liberated and sleek when I run. (I’m still thrilled the water is warm, after the cold ocean off California.) On the walk back, I pick up plastic trash as my way of thanking Bali for sheltering me.
If it’s a day for 10:00 hatha yoga, I write poetry before breakfast.
Either way, every day I have breakfast about 8:30, and I read poetry while I eat it. I eat the same thing every day: three pieces of bread with toppings (banana bread with peanut butter, coconut bread with coconut butter, and sesame bread with pineapple jam); a plate of fruit that includes papaya, watermelon and banana; and two cups of black tea with soy milk.

If it’s a day for 10:00 hatha yoga, after breakfast I answer e-mails from friends for an hour. If it’s a 12:00 aerial yoga day, then after breakfast I write for two hours, either short stories related to my novel or essays for Medium. Yoga makes me feel peaceful, strong and really happy. (I LOVE hanging upside down in aerial yoga — it’s my new favorite relaxation pose.)
Just before lunch, I practice French for a half hour, because my original plan had been to spend this summer in France. Maybe next summer.
At lunch, I read short stories or essays, and almost every day I walk down the street to eat at a little restaurant staffed by two friendly women, partly because I’m not vegan and they make good chicken and fish dishes, and partly because I like to support women. They kindly let me do my first-ever interview with them.
After lunch, I work on my novel for three hours, trying to write 1,500–3,000 words a day. I take a midpoint break to learn and practice a new song every week.
If it wasn’t an aerial yoga day, in the afternoon I swim 1/2 km in a pool with a dolphin yin-yang at the bottom. I feel liberated when I swim; I feel like a dolphin playing in the sea.

After swimming or beach sunset, I read novels while eating a giant salad for supper, or brown rice and stir fried vegetables, or vegan nasi goreng, a Balinese specialty. After supper, I either continue reading, or watch a movie.
That’s it. Sounds a little boring, right? But having a repeating schedule seems to calm my inner basket case. The thing is, I’ve given myself permission not to do anything on any day I don’t feel like it, but I don’t let myself skip two times in a row. That way, I do each type of exercise at least 3x/week, and I write something nearly every day (plus do a little music and art on the side).

Having a schedule keeps my heart-rate down, but then blowing it off gives me a lot of fun, random moments. One time, I sat on the balcony and tried to separate the bird calls. I don’t have a Bali bird book, so I sorted them by musical phrases, “oh, twice repeated ascending full-tone; monotone triplets; falling glissando across a fifth; fast repeated descending half-tones, like grace notes.” I don’t know what the birds look like because of all the foliage, but I’m friends with them now.
Another time, I thoroughly enjoyed sorting all the books in the loaner bookshelf by language, and realizing there were several books I couldn’t even figure out what languages they were, but I gained enormous satisfaction by grouping them correctly based on diacritical marks. (Yep, still a nerd.)
When coronavirus first hit, I lost a lot of weight worrying about the world and worrying about family and friends, because I’m half-way around the world from them. Now I stay in touch in a way that’s not frantic, I’m eating and sleeping well (oh! the rain on the bamboo roof!), and I’m making some progress in my writing goals: I’ve published 60 articles on Medium, written several dozen decent poems, and I’m a third of the way through my first novel, which I will finish by year’s end.

I’ve always wanted to be chosen as a guest writer for a month at one of those fancy writers’ retreats. Now, I’ve had my own home-made writer’s retreat for three months and I’m finally starting to think of myself as a real writer.
It’s because I moved to a new place in July, away from the isolated jungle hostel. Now I’m staying at a yoga resort that I never would have been able to afford under normal circumstances — it’s like Club Med for yoga, because it’s got 10 yoga classes per day on offer, as well as on-site massage, a vegan restaurant, the pool, and a small garden, so mostly I just stay here, with outings to the beach, lunch out, or walking my laundry up the street. There are currently only 15 guests, compared to their usual 85, and everything is open air, so it feels pretty safe.
I’m in two of the at-risk groups, so even though Bali opened up for domestic tourism last month, I decided not to go to any tourist places right now, but instead to come back next year to see all the sights. With most tourists coming from Jakarta, where Covid numbers are high, this has proven to be a wise choice, as Covid numbers in Bali have doubled the last two weeks, and there’s talk of going back into lockdown in October.
In the past, I was always keen on hiking or visiting museums or going out for live music, and was always the one organizing adventures for my friends to join in, but staying still feels like an internal adventure. It’s been a long time since I’ve explored my internal landscape thoroughly. I’m not bored and I’m not lonely, because there are lovely people I see every few days for short conversations, and I often have wonderful, long conversations with family and friends.
My life feels sort of monastic, and sort of like adult kindergarten, where I have creative activities but no strict rules. I’m incredibly grateful for the privilege of having Social Security to live on so I can afford to live here without working. That gives me the freedom to explore what it’s like to be a real writer, and be happy and healthy at the same time.
I’m determined to make the best of this weird curveball life has thrown us. After all, there are no guarantees. The women in my family are long-lived, so I might have another 30 years, but I could also be gone in a month, as happened recently to a friend who was diagnosed with cancer near the end of May and passed away four weeks later.
Every day is precious to me. Somehow, by having less and doing less, suddenly everything is opening up. The possibilities seem endless.
