Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 5

I wake up gasping for air. I’ve been dreaming that I’m sobbing uncontrollably. My mental state has now proliferated into full-blown grief.

I remember that before CV I was working on a piece of writing about the climate crisis. What I wrote about grief then, applies aptly to the moment we are in now:

“For grief to arise in the midst of the situation we find ourselves in is not only a natural response, but a necessary one if we are going to shift from overwhelm to action. We must be willing to fully feel our grief, allow our hearts to break, and create space for something new to emerge from the wreckage.

We can’t necessarily know from our current vantage point what will manifest from such an intentional and deep turning towards. But to not do so is to give in to passive resignation and an inertia that threatens to annihilate us all. The grief we must feel is for ALL that’s been lost, not just what we are currently facing, but the complex web of conditions that have led to this moment in time.

Grief can be so overwhelming that most of us initially resist it. Over time it is not so much the grief, as the resistance to it that causes us suffering. Grief is tricky, as it often emerges in its own way, its own time. It refuses to be controlled, ignored or suppressed, although most of us initially employ these strategies from an understandable need to feel safe.

In the long run they do not get rid of the grief, but only serve to mask it for a while. The grief cycle[1] can help us to make sense of our grief. For most of us, the process of grieving will include denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Although, depending on our conditioning, we may not experience every stage, we may move through these stages at different paces, or we may experience them in a different order.”

My grief has immobilized me. As I lay in bed, unable to move it occurs to me that for the first time in human history we are all grieving in unison. We are in a collective grief cycle, but because we’re all at different stages, it looks more like a child’s art project, circles and swirls and wiggly lines all crossing over each other in various colours of various depths.

I ask myself what qualities are needed now. I remember patience, with myself and others, and empathy. I intuitively slip into a loving kindness practice, saying to myself over and over, “may we all find our way through this, in our own time, in our own way.”

I remember a news article that came across my Facebook feed the night before. The governor of California, Gavin Newsom, was quoted saying:

“A state as large as ours, a nation-state, is many parts, but at the end of the day, we’re one body. There’s a mutuality, there’s a recognition of our interdependence that requires of this moment that we direct a statewide order for people to stay at home.”

I can’t help but smile. Politicians are finally teaching the Dharma.

The use of the term “one body” reminds me of something my friend Balajit often brings up when we are co-teaching meditation. That as awareness deepens we may become aware of different parts of us at war with one another and that meditation can help these different parts to get into relationship and harmony with each other. I wonder if maybe CV is our opportunity as a global community to do the same.

I get up, meditate, and start working. My emails are full of things getting cancelled; holidays, work, retreats, visiting friends and family. The reality that I don’t know when I’ll see my family again is sinking in more and more fully and I’m scared.

Other emails try to pretend it’s not really a big deal. They start something like this:

“Hope you’re doing well during these strange and uncertain times.”

And then go on into something that doesn’t have anything to do with CV. I realise no one knows how to send an email now. Emails about regular things that don’t have anything to do with CV come across as inane.

No, I’m not doing well, thank you very fucking much. Is anyone?! How could we be? It’s crazy to expect anyone to act natural, get on with things, take feedback, be productive. I want to tell the whole world to just fucking stop.

In the late afternoon we head out for our daily walk. A short one this time as I’m leading an online meditation at 6pm. Just around the block.

We go out the door and look right towards blue skies, left towards dark clouds. I instructively turn towards the dark clouds. My partner gently reminds me that we might get rained on. I tell them I don’t care. I want to go towards the darkness.

The local shop which usually has fresh fruit and veg out the front is shut, the stands empty.

The clouds become more and more ominous. A magnolia tree is working its way to full bloom, the white of its petals appear as if painted against a canvas of grey sky. I stop and take a good long look because I know that taking in beauty is a proven antidote to our habit to focus on the negative. But this time, it hardly makes a difference.

As we turn towards home my partner is on their phone getting the latest update from Boris the clown. They are ordering all pubs, bars, cafes, and restaurants to close. For some reason this news hits me hard and I fight back tears.

Later that night I see a photo of a bright red sunset a friend has posted on Facebook. It reminds me of when I was a child and my grandfather, who served in the Chilean navy, would teach me various sailor songs and sayings:

Red sky at night, sailors delight.

Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.

Amidst all the uncertainty, at least I know tomorrow will be a calm, sunny day.

[1] On grief and grieving, Kulber-Ross and Kessler