Ruth Sancho Huerga on her terrace in Valencia,
Cabañal, Spain.
The lockdown in
Spain is taking its toll with many finding the strict isolation regulations
difficult. Ruth Sancho Huerga shares some poetic thoughts on the daily routine.
It’s half past two
in the morning and I’m still awake. We have kept very occupied during the first
two weeks of lockdown…doing yoga, dancing, learning how to cook desserts,
walking the dog, learning how to play the ukulele, walking in the house,
teaching lessons online, singing songs, dancing, walking the dog again…trying
to follow a routine.
I’m confused. We
all are. Bored, and sad too, so many times. My friend called yesterday, crying,
telling me that all her phantoms are visiting her mind.
And I cannot
sleep. It is impossible to be as I used to be.
At least tomorrow
morning the sun will rise again and, with its rays, it will warm our thoughts.
And I will see the ocean from my rooftop. And it will be so quiet, calm, and
huge, so beautifully flat, spreading, in its blue, a hopeful mirror shining in
the horizon.
The view from Ruth’s home, with a glimpse of the
Mediterranean Sea on the horizon.
Are the birds
noticing our absence at all? Is the breeze whispering our lack of freedom? Is
that green new branch of spring burgeoning our Renaissance?
The silence
rumbles and bells from the church chime. And again, the sunset will paint our
solitude with watercolors on the flouting clouds, to let us know that
“everything will pass”.
Waves of patience
flood the cities while the news says the same; that we should stay at home in
planet Earth.
Tonight, the cats
will lie on cars and benches and meow to the stars that are bright like eyes.
Eyes of repentance, of comprehension, big as the moon: a porthole window to our
soul through which we can talk to the ancestors. The ones who suffered hunger
and lived war. The vulnerable ones who stood up for our rights and built this
world. We are calling them again. Remembering their names, faces and
truth.
It’s four o’clock
in the morning here in Spain and I cannot sleep. No schedule, no rush, we have
forgotten the date. Still another three weeks to go. It’s tiring and
useless to complain.
It’s five. It’s
twelve. It’s nine… We will survive this nonsense.
