There is Beauty amid the Ruins of a Life Spent Bedbound in a Darkened Room

We are all in the gutter,
but some of us
are looking at the stars.
– Oscar Wilde

When health as you once knew it slips away under the cover of daylight and leaves you scrabbling, bruised and bloodied, through the rubble that remains, what else is there but to hold each fragment of joy – shimmering like a lacewing – in the palm of your hand.

I haven’t travelled to the kitchen in countless months, yet I have seen the sweep of constellations shift with the seasons. At night, the light does not hurt my eyes so much. The stars are closer than the ground floor of this house.

Friendships have blossomed across continents (and my phone screen) while I have lain here secluded, seeking kinship. Other people feel lonely too. They share their stories of survival and my cloistered confinement opens into a cathedral of possibility.

Tinnitus and its insistent din fill my ear and, still, birds fly by outside. The curtains are closed, but my heart and window are open: I hear the chatter of starlings after the rain, the blackbird’s burbling warble and a charm of goldfinches, their song like frozen honey.

Behind the blinds that shield me from the midday dazzle, sunflower seeds unfurl their wisdom on the windowsill. New plants open wide to the world, green with anticipation. One day, in a few months, they will feel the sun warm their faces, even if I can’t.

Through the forty score days, and more, since I last slipped my feet inside the laced-up embrace of scuffed-soled shoes and stepped outside, I am reminded – often – that there is beauty amid the ruins, if you are willing to look.

I dare you to join me.