It is now 8am Ontario time. The beginning of my fourth of fourteen days of enforced Covid-19 quarantine.
Just a few short days ago I bade farewell to Singapore, where I lived for the past seven years. And with that farewell, I left the golden afternoons for my friends to live without me. I left the warm thundering rain, the scents of the kopitiam, the quirky social order, the rides through the rich heavy air for my friends to live without me.
I can reminisce but I cannot complain, for this morning I awoke to the crickets, to the still predawn and greeted in the crisp, clear morning practising yoga overlooking a lush green river valley.
And yet there is something odd about being here, something that a friend wrote about not long ago. Despite being surrounded by my family, I sense a distance. I don’t mean a physical or social distance, but something more significant, more visceral, more primal. I sense that, despite what exists, despite that we are one world, something is not quite right. Time and Space.
It’s not the casual distance that we experience when travelling, but rather, a deep recognition that you, back there, are in a different time and space than I. That shared real experiences, that moments of connection have been lost.
Late last night, my daughter and I ensconced ourselves in fluffy jackets, took seat on our green resin garden chairs, faced north and gazed into ink-black star studded sky towards the Perseid constellation to marvel at the meteor shower that took place. Silence. Expanse. Awe.
What is out there? Who is out there?
But try as I may, social chat as I may, photos as I may, video as I may, this was not a moment I could live with you back there.
Time and Space.