Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 9

Tree in Hackney Downs

I’m awake at 3am racking my brain to remember the last friend I’d hugged before going into self-isolation. And then I remember. We’d been out to dinner for fancy vegetarian in Hammersmith. Broiled eggplant, gyozas, and mushroom risotto. We’d shared everything. Later, parting at the tube station, we say goodbye the same old way.

She gives the best hugs. It was long, warm, and comfy, just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of time. I start down the stairs but intuitively turn back to wave goodbye one last time. I’m hoping I haven’t given her coronavirus. She’s got diabetes.

It was after that hug that I decided to go into self-isolation.

In the early morning hours I dream that I’m driving my dad’s bright red pick-up truck. The one he bought when he retired from work. 45 years of surgery. Bent over a table every day, fixing people.

He’s with me in the cab of the truck. But something’s not right. The steering wheel and gear shift are in the wrong place. In order to operate the truck, I have to look away from the road ahead.

My dad takes over driving but can’t do any better than me. We drive off the road and I watch him falling into an abyss. I don’t know what happens to me. I can’t remember what happens next.

He almost died of a heart attack six summers ago. I was on a plane within 24 hours. I was on a plane. I got to him right before his surgery. A quintuple bypass. They’re supposed to stop at four but the surgeon knows my dad, so throws an extra one in for free.

Three years ago he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. They can’t operate because of his heart. He has radiotherapy and hormone treatment instead. It’s being managed. His bloods are good. In January his genetic test came back negative.

It’s so quiet. London is supposed to be waking up and going about its business, but I can’t hear a thing. No cars, no motorbikes, no kids babbling away on their walk to school. No bicycle wheels, no footsteps, not even the soft sound of someone’s music from their headphones as they walk past the house.

The silence reminds me of the places I love to practice most. Remote, wild places where the silence can be deafening. Where you can see the stars. In those places it’s easy to drop into the qualities of awareness; openness, clarity and sensitivity.

I remember that awareness is always available and that it is enough. Right now, right here, it is enough.

This morning I’ve got a tight chest and a cough. Coronavirus or allergies? I take a deep breath from my inhaler and breath out slowly. I take an antihistamine and cross my fingers.

Another cloudless blue sky. When I lived in San Francisco I used to tire of the cloudless skies, day after day. I longed for texture, variety, a bit of weather. Now I relish it. A gift from the gods.

In meditation I start to pray. It’s called giving and taking. From the great open space of the deep blue sky I start to breath in my pain. All the anger and heartache, sadness and confusion. I breath in the stomach knots, and tightness in the chest. I breath in my tense shoulders, clenched jaw, blocked throat. I breath it all in. Taking it all in.

Then I breath out ease and release. I breath out into the great, open, limitless space that is all around me. I breath out spaciousness. I breath out warmth, clarity, and gentleness. I give these qualities to myself.

Again, for all those suffering right now. I breath in their pain and anguish. The sick, their families, the healthcare workers, their families, those who’ve lost their jobs, their families, those who are worried, anxious, fearful, angry, in despair. Those on the receiving end of other’s unskillfulness, racism, oppression, hatred, greed.

I take it all in. I won’t turn away. I take it all into the space of my heart which is the space all around me which is limitless space. From this space I give back space. I breath out space.

Later we go for a walk. We don’t have much time so we head back to Hackney Downs for a quick stomp across the grass. On the way, we walk past abandoned playgrounds and shuttered shops.

People are still playing basketball. People are still jogging past, too close for comfort. But we’re all in this together, so I breath in their suffering, whatever it may be, I take it in. I breath out space.

I can feel a shift from depression to acceptance. I remember that awareness has got me here. Staying with my experience and allowing it to unfold in its own time, its own way.

Later I order pizza. The delivery man is supposed to leave it on my doorstep but when I get to the door he’s there, waiting for me. He hands me my pizza across a 2 metre expanse. I can only see his eyes. I say thank you and wish him well. As I shut the door I immediately regret not giving him a tip.

Next time, I tell myself, next time.

After dinner we’re back on our laptops and my partner’s asking me what happened in the world today. I tell them nothing’s happened. Nothing’s happened today except that more people got sick and more people died.

We try to watch a movie but it’s so boring we decide to go to bed early. And even though I’m exhausted I struggle to fall asleep.

I toss and turn for a while before sidling up to my partner. I hold them close in my arms.