The first real gut punch of loneliness during this pandemic came just the other day, with a swiftness of realization that took my breath away in the manner of eighth grade gym class. My lungs clenched enough that I had to stop my run, slow my pace and take in long breaths as I walked on my favourite trail. A trail to which, I had taken pains to remind myself, I was blessed to easily access.
I’d spent a lot of time reminding myself of my blessings during this pandemic. The people I love are safe and generally healthy. I was already used to the work-from-home life as a freelancer and my income has been steady. I have a house that’s my sanctuary, with a cat inside and land with trees beginning to bud and robins pecking in the yard.
I had a lot to be grateful for, and I’d spent the past two months of lockdown being just that, grateful. I’d also spent a few months assuring myself that my years in Ghana had prepared me for a pandemic, for this uncertainty.
Except I had forgotten about the number of nights in Ghana that I’d flee a power cut and spend it at my friend Miriam’s house for good food and company. Or the hours I’d avoid the evening traffic chaos and hang out in the office with Moses and Ekow, talking about politics and religion and family and anything else we felt like talking about. I’d forgotten about the fufu lunches with Agnes and the cocoa farm visits with Joseph and the dinners with Shalu that her mom made.
I considered myself to be alone in those years I lived in Ghana, but I wasn’t. And I felt like I was alone for the first time in this pandemic, but it’s fitting I had that wallop of self-pity on a Wednesday. Because that day, more than any other, is the weekly reminder of how not alone I am. Just after I picked up the pace and ran back home, grateful again for my trail and my house and my cat, I fired up Zoom and settled in for Spicy Scribes, the South Shore Scribes offshoot that’s less of a writing group — although we do talk plenty about writing — and more of a catch-up club. A support group for life and writing and pandemic management skills that was the lifeline I needed.
The South Shore Scribes also Zooms every other Wednesday, bringing a regular dose of word prompts, short stories and chapters of works-in-progress from our sheltering-in-place members who’ve been just as upended as I am: bouts of creativity will be followed by days of shattering unproductivity. But still we meet, virtually as we did in reality and as we will do again. Unlike in Ghana, I am alone now. But alone isn’t lonely and I know there are writing groups just like mine who are keeping the words flowing, breathing life into this time and reminding all of us there are stories on the other side.