Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 25

A few days ago my partner was concerned about a colleague of theirs that had gone AWOL. He was meant to be counseling folks on Zoom but never showed up.

Today they found out he died of COVID-19. He was Black, in his 60s, with asthma. He worked part time as a counselor and part time for British Airways as a flight attendant. The last time they spoke was the 19th of March at which time he still had two trips booked.

When they told me, I gave them a long hug.

My partner spent all afternoon on the phone telling people he managed and worked alongside. We don’t know much about him, whether he had a partner, or kids. We don’t know if he died at home or in hospital. All we know is one day he was there, and the next he was gone.

This is the closest COVID has come so far. That’s two degrees of separation for me, one for my partner.

My partner is currently training as a counselor. They’ve got all sorts of people who would need to be notified if they died. Trainers, peers, supervisors, clients. They say they are going to have to put together a clinical will so I will have clear instructions on who to contact.

I wonder if I need to do the same.

I spend the morning on Zoom and the afternoon writing. I am interrupted by a phone call from a friend. She’s just been furloughed at work and is properly fucked off. I encourage her to make some lunch, go sit in her garden, and let herself feel all the feelings.

Coronavirus is hitting home today. It’s directly affecting more and more people we know and love. There is no way to avoid it. No where to run. No where to hide.

In the US people have been fleeing the cities to go stay at their vacation homes in places like the Berkshires, Cape Cod and Maine, much to the chagrin of the locals. There have been cases of rich city folk spreading the virus to their rural, working class neighbors. It’s become such a big problem that Massachusetts is considering closing the bridges to the Cape.

Another example of how coronavirus disproportionately impacts lower-income communities. A rich man’s escape is a poor man’s death sentence.  

Furloughing is another kettle of fish. From first-hand experience and accounts from friends, I’m learning that in the charity sector it’s the people on the frontlines who are being asked to stop working first. How can they do their jobs if they can’t be in the community, with people?

The dynamics are complex. For those left working, there is resentment. For those furloughed, guilt. Once this is all over, who will be granted a holiday first?

It occurs to me that we’re all going to need a holiday after coronavirus.

Later I’m on a call with a local shop keeper who is interested in partnering to offer online mindfulness. We’ll start with an interview, her asking me about my experience and what tips I can share with others to mindfully navigate life in lockdown.

She tells me that for a long time she’s thought about offering mindfulness at her shop. I tell her that for a long time I’ve fantasized about offering mindfulness in her shop. How wonderful that we’re finally connecting and manifesting something together.

It’s a positive, energetic exchange with lots of ideas and a sense of possibility. After the call I take a deep breath. Is it ok to feel grateful to coronavirus for bringing us together?

I decide it is ok, coronavirus led us here, but we would not have found one another if it weren’t for countless other conditions coming into play. My 20-year journey as a practitioner and deep intention to share these practices with others. Her life experience and growing interest in mindfulness and connection with the local community.

My Dad’s been trying to call me all afternoon and by 5pm I finally have space to ring him back. He’s trying to figure out how to schedule a Zoom meeting.

First step, do you have an account?

He thinks he does but can’t remember the password. I tell him to try a few of the usual suspects. He gets in on the first try. Once he’s in he’s too excited to talk to me so I leave him to it.

I get off the call and almost immediately into a fight with my partner. We’ve had a major breakdown in communication about who was going to make dinner when. I’m hangry and frustrated and say things I immediately regret before getting on Zoom to run week 3 of a meditation course.

On the course we’ve gotten into the habit of breaking at five to eight to clap for the NHS. I immediately seek out my partner and apologise profusely. Luckily they are also feeling conciliatory and all is forgiven in a matter of seconds.

The next moment we’re out on the front doorstep clapping for the NHS, me with a wooden spoon and saucepan which makes a higher pitched sound than I’d hoped for.

Our street has grown bold in our noise making and tonight more and more people are banging pots and pans and Deliveroo drivers are riding up and down honking their horns. There’s a whole lot of hootin’ and hollerin’ and I think to myself that this weekly ritual is as much about the NHS as it’s about giving us an excuse to let it all out.

After my class we go out for a walk. We are hoping for a repeat of last night but its later than the night before and the moon’s not up and it feels a bit edgier out. There are a few lone men moving erratically about. They make us feel uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I manage to snap a few pics of the cherry blossoms illuminated by the artificial light of the street lamps.

As we’re getting ready for bed my partner wonders if we’ll ever entertain guests in our flat again. I’ve been wondering the same while missing the feeling of having friends around.

We’ve started changing little things around the flat in light of knowing no one’s coming around for a while.  Like having a third chair round the dining table, which is now doubling as a desk chair in the bedroom.

Right before sleep I look my partner in the eyes, which are full of sadness. I ask them what’s up.

They say they can’t believe they’ve been leaving voicemail messages for a dead man all week.