Stations of the lost

Station one, day one, condemned to our dens, self-isolation begins, crucified by the thorns of our chosen lives, our own minds, some will whither, some will thrive.

Station two, the dining bench has become my work bench.

Station three, the kitchen, breakfast, three pasture-raised eggs with avocado and Frank’s. Or dark rye bread with caraway seed soaked in two pasture-raised eggs, fried, served with red onion and tomato, avocado, salt and pepper. I could have this as my death row final meal. The cupboards are strictly stocked with only the healthiest foods during this time of solitary sedentary confinement.

Station four, the chaise lounge beside the antique chest is for the glorious reading of old-fashioned, paper bound books. I don’t even listen to music, sublime silence as I fully focus on the wonderful tales and the ways of telling them, adventures to sustain me while the world detains me!

Station five, the roll top desk. It’s where I keep the song book and the ukuleles: the soprano and the concert. It’s where I strum and sing, new songs, old songs, their songs, my songs. Music always helps the soul and the mind to which we are now so very confined.

Station six, the shower, symbolic these days, we aren’t washing the dirt away, we are washing the day away.

Station seven, back to the kitchen for lunch. Peppers and hummus. A cup of spinach-pineapple-pea-protein shake. Coconut curry lentil stew. One of these delicious and nutritious three.

Station eight, the forty inch portal of selective distraction, the television set. I am vigilant about keeping the ratio of films watched to books read at two to one. Watching a film is like reading, but lazier, with the added disservice of instant gratification. Books are better, but take longer, hence the two to one ratio.

Station nine, back to the kitchen for dinner. Rice or soba noodles with wild-caught tuna, frozen vegetables, and sriracha sauce. Or wild-caught cod with vegetables. Homemade kombucha. Maybe a clementine or two.

Station ten, I leave the den, like a sneaky, slithering snake, I shed my skin, my prisoner’s clothes, and don protective layers from mud and wind. Guiltily, I walk with pretended purpose, abolishing the bloodsuckers in my brain with the open air atmospheric therapeutics, movement medicine, the tonic of trees and the breeze and bending knees, the only thing that distinguishes day from evening, this hour walk outdoors in the late afternoon.

Station eleven, in a corner, my makeshift gym of bars, dumbbells, step, mat and stability ball. One upper, core and lower body set.

Station twelve, to bed for a sweet little taste of death.

Station thirteen, morning coffee and cigarette on the balcony.

Station fourteen, my precious sanctuary, my tomb, my sliver of pie in the sky. It has morphed into these stations of separate business and function visited in rotation, each with its own physical area and in each I am fully focused, immersed and gone, far from here, deeply content, some reprieve from the world, heaven sent.

À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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