Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 3
Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash
In the dim light of early morning I wake up and have to pee. It takes from the time I get out of bed until my bum lands on the toilet seat to remember coronavirus. Those few seconds in between, just before the memories of the last few weeks come flooding in, are a strange kind of relief. What I imagine it must be like to have amnesia.
As the reality sets in, my heart sinks. A deeply familiar feeling. I had the same in that liminal space between the unconscious and conscious state when I first learned my mother’s cancer was incurable and when I myself was diagnosed with it last year.
Then the thoughts come. What will today bring? How is everyone else doing? Need to call my sister. Need to freeze those left-overs.
I remember my practice and take a deep breath. I’m still peeing and it feels so good.
In meditation I decide to rest in open awareness. Taking it all in with eyes wide open, soft focus. I’m gazing out my front window and something catches the light. And then I hear it. The gentle buzz of a bumble bee. And then I see him, bumbling his way through the geraniums on my window sill. He’s a big, fat happy bee. I covet his obliviousness.
I broaden back out again to include everything in awareness. Sounds, sights, physical sensations, thoughts, emotions. I relax deeply into the qualities of this awareness. Always receiving everything without bias. What a gift.
My day is full of Zoom mtgs. The first time this week that the topic is not coronavirus. Previously scheduled conversations about other things, things that are still important, things that are what we are about. I’m being interviewed by a student for his research on improvisation, adaptability and creativity in mindfulness teaching. We successfully avoid making it about coronavirus. Except it is.
I’m on a group call set up to support someone in their Buddhist practice. We are talking about coronavirus. And then about practice. And then about coronavirus. It’s become the new bookend to our social interactions.
The question “How are you doing?” has taken on a whole new meaning. Saying “Take care.” is a real directive now.
In the afternoon we go for a walk around Hackney Downs. We successfully maintain a 2 metre distance from everyone we pass by avoiding the main paths and walking on the grass. I notice how much softer and yielding the grass is compared to the concrete path. Why didn’t I think of this BC (before Coronavirus)?
My partner and I separate at the corner, me headed home, them to the shop. I take a shower while they enter a brave new world of shop keepers in gloves, contactless only, and hardly anything left in stock. But at least there are still crisps. They buy the crisps and some instant soup. And avocados.
I spend an hour teaching friends how to host mtgs on Zoom before eating a whole plate of nachos for dinner. I remember when I was in my early 20’s in San Francisco. Going out and getting drunk and then ending up at El Farolito’s on the corner of Mission and 24th for the best plate of nachos in town.
I wonder how they are all doing, the guys who work at El Farolito’s. In my imagination they are still slinging nachos. But I hope they aren’t now. They need to stay home, even though I know that probably means they will lose their jobs. They are most likely undocumented. What will happen to them?
Later I speak to a friend who is supposed to be going on a 3 month retreat to get ordained as a Buddhist. The culmination of years and years of practice, study, dedicaton. Its cancelled. Everything’s cancelled.
Right before bed I make the mistake of reading a report from the CDC outlining various scenarios of how this could go. I get into a right state and end up calling my dad who talks me down. He is the only one who can talk me down.
What will I do when he’s gone? Even if COVID-19 doesn’t get him, something else will. He’s old and not well. I’ll have to learn how to talk myself down. Or stop reading reports from the CDC.
“What if I can’t make it home for your funeral!” I say.
He laughs and says that he’s never understood people’s need to be at other people’s funerals. He reminds me that life is wasted on the living.