I’m sitting in my bedroom on a chair brought in from our living room, a space which currently sits dismantled. Our couch has been separated and pulled off to the sides, the coffee table transformed into a stand for a tripod which holds my IPhone. I can hear my husband clicking his mouse in the small corner that is occupied by our dining room table, his new office. Our living room: now a virtual yoga studio.
This is what life inside our 700sq-foot apartment looks like every day during lockdown. He in his space, working away at his computer on a remote desktop; me, online, streaming daily live IG classes from our living room floor. I’m in a groove now. I wake up, have a tea, spread the couches to the farthest edges of our apartment, move a plant, set up a mat, position a tripod. Repeat.
It's our new normal, it's been this way for 21 days.
It feels pleasantly productive, this new set-up; I feel a sense of nourishment after each class I teach. Despite our circumstances, I feel a new wave of creativity has taken hold of me and I’m letting it run wild. This is the first time I have sat down to write something this honest in nearly 5 years.
Of course, lockdown hasn’t been all sunshine and productivity. The days, which seem to have melted into one long endless March, have varied in both energy and emotion. Some afternoons have seen me melt post-class into one half of our split couches, eyes glued to re-runs of shows like The O.C., something I’ve seen a hundred times now and never changes. Something I thought I should be past by now, but the rules don’t seem to apply in a lockdown. Even the appropriate hour for a that first glass of wine has become blurred.