There’s a painting in the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow of ballerina Anna Pavlova. It’s one of my favourites and I’ve spent many an afternoon staring at it, taking in its beauty and its power.

Yet I can never figure out if Anna is in agony or ecstasy. Arms aloft, head thrown back, she is lost in the moment, but is it joy or pain that’s etched on her face? I just don’t know.

An art historian will know the backstory, but I don’t want the facts, or someone else’s version of them. I like to ponder my own interpretation. I like to stand in front of this huge painting and experience whatever emotion it makes me feel at the time.

To smell the mustiness of the museum, to stand a little too close, peering over the barrier at the brush strokes and thickness of the paint. I want to wonder what the flash of orange represents. Is it rage or liberation?

Mostly, I wonder who Anna is dancing for.

Is it a performance that’s been practised time and again or is she moving freely, dancing to the beat of her own drum?

I have looked at this painting hundreds of times in my adult life. I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I never thought it would be the vehicle to express my emotions whilst locked down because well, I never imagined this reality we find ourselves in.

Writing has always helped me to see more clearly. When the words pour out on the page I can shape them much more eloquently than when they’re forming in my head or tripping off my tongue.

I was doing a grand job of staying positive.

In amongst the onslaught of endless news and social media updates I was finding the joy in simple pleasures.

Like walking Dillan, my neighbour’s dog who bounds down the path to greet me at the gate. Or dancing in the kitchen to old albums and enjoying the comfort of the memories they trigger in my mind.

FaceTime chats with the people I love, feeling their warmth, despite the lack of touch.

Appreciating the luxury of having a garden. The first flower on the camellia bush. A sign of hope. 

And still having some form of income, a way to make ends meet until June.

I’m aware of how insanely lucky I am to have my health and to not have lost anyone I love to Covid19, yet.

But I also feel flashes of anger and sadness.

At times I’m finding it difficult not to ‘lose the nut’ when I see people trotting up the path to visit a neighbour, whilst my closest friends pull on their uniforms, leave their kids at home and go to work in hospital wards. I fight the urge to shout at both the neighbour and the visitors. ‘Stop being so bloody selfish. Stay at home.’

But that’s very judgemental. And probably not helpful. But it IS how I feel some days.

Then there’s the fear part. Worrying about the people I know who are vulnerable not just to the coronavirus, but to the loneliness and the impact that has on their wellbeing. I fear for the women who are tiptoeing around their abusive partners, trapped in a violent relationship.

And I fear for the men of a certain age who don’t talk about their emotions, who are cracking under the surface of a brave face as their business goes down the tubes. And I’m afraid for us all with the colossal sadness that will come when we wade through the fog of grief when this virus takes away someone we love, respect, or enjoyed sharing our lunch break with.

It’s all overwhelming.

I’m no psychologist but I believe it’s okay to feel whatever you are feeling. You don’t need to be brave and strong and have all the answers all the time.

One day I wanted to scream. Literally, I felt suffocated.

Then yesterday I went for a walk in the rain and felt alive and FREE and so very grateful. And I walked in the park as it was getting dark which is something women just don’t do. And I wasn’t scared which felt liberating!

I thought about my best friends and my nieces and nephews and how tight I’m going to squeeze them when we’re together again.

I decided that it’s pointless worrying about things that are out with my control.

I volunteered with the Red Cross with the aim of doing something purposeful.

I told myself that if I take a step back I might not find the answer, but I’ll find a way towards figuring it out. 

And I decided to write this blog. For me. And for the person reading this who it might help. I know I’m not alone on this emotional roller-coaster ride. Today I’m strapped in climbing high, next week who knows?

I want to remember every thing. I think it’s going to be important because we’re starting again. And we need to figure it out to build a strong foundation for whatever comes next. In fact once we’re through it, what comes next could be quite exciting. A new chapter. And I love those, even the ropy parts because you learn so much.

You’ll find the strength, you always do.

So yes. There are going to be moments of agony and ecstasy. Maybe accepting that is part of the way through. Take your time. And dance to the beat of your own drum.

Anna Pavlova by John Lavery is on display in the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow.

Things I’ve found useful:

Brene Brown – TED Talk – The Power of Vulnerability

Matt Lock – Maybe, Maybe not. Let’s see.

Lemn Sissay on twitter – a daily poem