Letter from Inessa

Letter from Inessa

Reflections on the strangest times 

 

Who knows when this is all going to end? Empty shops, restaurants, theatres. Virtual cocktail hours, virtual hugs, virtual concerts. Unrecognisably quieter world. And news channels' obsession with coffins and horrifying numbers.  

Every day. Jobs being lost. Lives being lost. 

 

Who knows when my home will cease being my one stop for everything. And Zoom will end being the main venue to host faces and voices I know. When the touch will no longer be hazardous. And 2 meters will be just metrics. 

I wish this invisible enemy was a bad dream that goes away in the morning. 

 

Who knows when I will travel again the mountainous roads of my spiritual home, Scotland. Or some other beloved place on earth. Hop on an iron bird and a few short hours later submerge my body in the Mediterranean warmth, melt into the quietness of the sea. And do all that without compulsively worrying how people around can harm by breathing.  

Even more so, like we all, worry about people I love. 

 

Who knows when we will queue up for a Fringe show again instead of queuing up for groceries. Or lose ourselves in the Notting Hill Carnival. 

I hope they are not gone forever. 

 

Who knows when my mum and I will take our short train ride to Glasgow or Edinburgh once more and see dancers, actors, musicians reveal their metaphors and send us to their magical fantasy. When we will witness bewitching swans flying over the imaginary lake with live sounds of instruments. Or be taken over by the atmosphere of a great play. Theatre-going is in my blood. I miss it. Not that I go very often, but I miss having the choice to. 

I miss freedom we used to have. 

I miss life as it was before this. 

 

Who knows if the lover of performing arts would even survive as a breed in a new strange world. If only a heavily masked one.  

I believe one thing though. 

Creativity is immortal.  

No matter what cards you are dealt with, it will always find a way to shoot through fear, soothe the pain and fill in 2 meters with hope.  

 

Who knows if I would otherwise spend a rarely balmy British night with candlelight and sweet sparkles of Negroni Sbagliato, dance with words, study their lines and curves and share my thoughts in this letter.  

Not perfectly but passionately.  

 

Who knows if these words would mean less or more in the language I grew up with. I believe human experiences are not defined by languages and distances. But one should never underestimate the power of a phrase. How gentle it can be and how bad it can hurt. 

Always an admirer of words and a sensitive spirit, here is hoping you will forgive my punctuation.  

 

Who knows if this uncertain time is our curse or our opportunity to dig into our souls deeper and survey what's important closer. May be this is our chance to start counting the blessings, we didn't know we had. And learn to be grateful for the gifts, we didn't know we were receiving. Sometimes by slowing down restless routines of our fleeting lives, we understand that what we see is not always what there is.  

It's in times like these, we find out who our real modern heroes are.  

We thank them every Thursday for what they do, for the risks they take. 

We thank them thousand times over! 

 

Who knows if this is a moment for us to realise that inner adventures can be more thrilling then the ones on the outside. In a mad rush of our daily lives we often forget our inner world even exist. 

Inside we can bring back to life memories. Dreams. Dialogues with the heart. People. 

 

Who knows when this small planet will start gaining speed again. I am sure, it will soon. When it does, let's remember now and again to interrupt our infatuation with fast living. Remind ourselves that death is always an imminent part of life, and the latter for sure doesn't last forever.  

Whilst time flies, stop precious minutes, grab life, authentic, unfiltered. Clap with fervour. Surrender to an emotion. Cry if can't help it. Breath in tender spring flowers. Feel soft rays on shoulders and wind playing with hair. Taste orange in an Old Fashioned. Notice colour of the moon. Talk about love. 

 

Who knows when we will see everyone together off screens, when we will mingle in crowds legally, when stages and arenas of the world will open their doors again. When we will have a haircut. Eventually, we shall be there. Like in a song, one more time. By all means you will have your own soundtrack to these strangest times we found ourselves living through. 

 

I will finish here. Sunrise is early in May. It is almost light. A new day will bring us a new snapshot of history. But this too will pass. 

 

Inessa White 

May 2020 

Tags: From Audience