Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 12

I wake up at 4am to the sound of my upstairs neighbors having a chat as if it’s the middle of the afternoon and the world hasn’t come to an end. They’re both young and beautiful and spend a lot of time on their exercise machine when they’re not sat on the front doorstep smoking cigarettes and drinking wine. I can often smell the smoke wafting in through our drafty bay window.

We live in a Victorian conversion, one big house split into four separate flats. Thin walls, creaky floors, drafty windows. Sound travels easily between us. Now that we’re all home all the time, I have become more aware of them. I can hear their every move. These sensations are quickly followed by an inner voice commenting on their every move. And it’s not a friendly one.

I notice the habitual urge towards annoyance, but I’ve been working hard on patience and acceptance so instead I smile at myself. At least they’ve got each other.

I do my well-practiced reframe. It’s good to have neighbors so close. There is something comforting about their presence. They’ve been making their own bread and homemade vegan cheese and have offered to give us some.

They are in this too and are suffering in their own unique ways. I decide to give them permission to be exactly as they are.

Need a chat at 4am and got no one but your flatmate to talk to? Go for it. Want to smoke cigarettes and drink excessive amounts of wine to get through this thing? Be my guest. Need to use your exercise machine at all hours to stomp it out? Not a problem.

We all need to do whatever it takes. No one’s ever lived through a pandemic and we’re making it up as we go.

I pop some earplugs in and eventually fall back to sleep. I end up sleeping in and miss my chance at an early walk.

After coffee, I get on Facetime with a friend who’s moved in with her sister’s young family. She’s helping with childcare. She tells me she’s been bringing White Tara to mind. A female buddha figure.

White Tara, unlike her green counterpart who is perpetually stepping out into the world to save all beings, sits in deep meditation. She holds the wisdom of stillness and receptivity. She asks that we pause, take our time, find less abrasive and dominating ways of being in the world. She is moon and night, softness and white light.

She is witness and healer, compassionately observing how we each carry our own version of suffering. She sees each of us clearly, without judgement, or comparisons, or any attempt to fix anything. She simply holds it all in the great open expanse of awareness.

I sometimes pray to her for a long and meaningful life. It’s taken me years to learn how to live into that prayer.

Later I go for a walk on my own. I’ve grown sick of Hackney Downs, so I head towards Abney Park. It’s one of London’s seven Victorian era cemeteries sat right in the middle of Stoke Newington. I’ve always loved old graveyards. I find walking among the dead strangely comforting.

 The gravestones stand close together, many crumbing, pulled apart by the encroaching undergrowth. Ivy climbs every inch of the park, weaving in and out of earth, wood and stone. Amidst all this death, spring pushes through daffodils, snowdrops, and crocuses. Buds are just starting to break on the tips of tree branches.

I look closely at a few stones, taking in some of their names and other details of their life. Beloved wife. Loving mother. Dedicated husband. True friend.

I stop when I reach the middle of the park and stand still. I’m surrounded by thousands of graves. All these people lived and died, and so must I, and so must we. This is a truth none of us can escape. It’s the great equalizer.

I thank them all for the teaching and head back home.

On the way I see people queuing for the corner store, keeping a safe distance from one another. I notice a man leaving the store with two twelve packs of Corona Light. Later, when I tell my partner, they comment that it was probably on offer.

Boris has tested positive and recorded a video on his phone about it. He’s got mild symptoms and is working from home. I immediately feel guilty for calling him a clown. He’s saying we’re going to beat this thing together.

I wondered why he hadn’t been on tele last night alongside the chancellor telling us all about their scheme to help the self-employed. At some point HMRC will get in touch with me if I qualify. I can’t tell from what they’ve said whether or not I qualify.

Later on I’m leading an online group of meditators in tonglen practice. The art of giving and taking. Taking in suffering, giving back relief. Afterwards, someone asks me what they’re supposed to do with all that suffering they’ve taken in.

I realise I forgot to mention about the transformation of the suffering. That in the great expanse of the open dimension of being suffering naturally dissolves into freedom from suffering. It’s hard to explain and I feel inadequate in my communication, but somehow she gets it and is satisfied. Phew!

Now I’m on a Zoom call with my family. It’s family cocktail hour and my Dad’s gone and invited three of his brothers and one of his sisters who are all in Santiago, Chile. We’re all talking over each other and it’s impossible but every once in a while someone gets a word in edgewise and its usually funny and we all laugh.

My Dad and sister are talking epidemics and healthcare and my uncles are talking politics and the economy. We avoid arguing as now is not the time. We marvel at the fact that China has managed to get through the worst of it and is slowly returning to life as usual, while the US and UK are a complete shit show. Chile is no better.

My dad admits that he was born a Republican but will probably die a Communist. I can’t believe my ears. These are strange times indeed.