So far I have not felt the life-threatening effects that many have endured in this time of COVID-19. No one I know has died or been infected. I have not lost my job. I am still eating organic veggies. The sky is a deep, stainless blue—the airplane trails are gone. It is quiet and peaceful where I live—just me, my husband, and a daily cast of birds, squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks. I can still get in the car and go into town to the grocery store or for a doctor’s appointment if need be. I have vitamins, supplements, herbal teas and coffee at my beck and call. Living off grid, I can get Netflix movies in the mail if I want.

Sometimes I wonder: How long will this calm before the storm last? And assuming it’s a temporary lull before the effects of global pandemic really hit home, am I prepared to live with a much greater simplicity? If necessary, will I be able to accept the metamorphing of life as I’ve know it?

On a practical outer level, the sting of the virus has taken shape for me in cancelling (possibly to reschedule) a speaking engagement at a seminar in northern Germany in May as well as my writing workshop in Fontainebleau, which was planned for late May, and a workshop, “Art as Inner Path” on writing and singing in early June 2020 with my friend Saraswati, in Avignon. Ah, to see the gorgeous south of France in late spring bloom… ! But, instead of getting on the plane on May 6, my husband Thomas and I are sheltering in place.

Now we have time to attend to many projects that have waited on the sidelines or moved slowly forward. We meditate and chant and cook good food. We haul stones and transplant wild datura and Western four o’clocks to our desert garden. Bird watching has upscaled—a few days ago I watched the intrepid ravens try to scare away a young but impressive golden eagle, perched upon a dead tree in raven territory. The eagle was supremely unperturbed, and at its leisure finally flew off to be joined by its mate. They winged toward the northern mesa and, catching the uprising air currents, effortlessly rose higher and higher, floating and soaring, until they became tiny specks against the impossible blue of the sky.

Now I have the opportunity to (after years of neglect) update my website. More importantly, I have the time to relax into a contemplative flow. I have rare, ample time to write. Immersed in more than one writing project, a flux of words come rushing out. I’m especially inspired by a project that I’ve not had time for in a couple of years—book three, When Swans Fly, in my trilogy, The Summer Country, soon to be available. Stay tuned for that…

Mostly I am aware of the gift that is this interlude of contemplative time—but not without heartbreak for the suffering of many that comes with it. I’m acutely aware of how blessed I am. Small things throw me into gratitude, open my portals to the movements of Grace.

The Juniper and Pinon Pine covered Mesas of Central Arizona

Sitting at my desk, I get up often, stretch and walk around, go outside and contemplate the pine and juniper thickets that plummet down the rugged ravine to a shallow canyon below. I watch the spring flowers blooming—although in the high desert you have to look close for these, but they do exist and are quite stunning when found. In a few weeks the rock rose will burst into creamy white, pale yellow blossom across the mesa. Our world will be suffused with the honey-sweet scent of wild rose. It’s an annual event of the high desert that lasts for about two weeks; it is here then quickly gone. Every year in May, this phenomenon reminds me to see the beauty in impermanence. It’s one of the ways we are fortified to live with dignity and nobility in the midst of reality…the subject of my next blog.