The Irony of Isolation
During the past year, I photographed the seasons of a cherry tree which hugs the corner of my windowed ofﬁce, a room not unlike a ﬁshbowl, from where I watch the world go by.
But the world stood still.
I became a servant of Covid, marooned in my bubble.
From my window, I witnessed the irony of isolation.
Sensing our absence, nature exploded in colors so painfully perfect and bright. Captive in our new normal, we talked of silver linings.
I photographed my tree through its timeline, capturing frothy branches as they dispatched April winds and did battle with summer storms as leafy arms were stripped down to modesty. Then came blankets of late winter blizzards.
In the snow, I saw a sea stretching far out to my imagination. And I dove in, baptized.
There’s nothing freer than floating in water, immersed in solitude. Alone, with senses heightened, moving forward, reminding me that the world is not standing still.
One year later, my cherry tree has come alive again. It might be my imagination, but it is more beautiful and stronger than ever.