Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 26

I wake to the distinct clankity-clank of scaffolding coming down. Once I’ve got coffee in hand I remember that today we were meant to be flying to Spain. It’s a sparkly bright, clear, blue sky day, perfect for traveling.

Instead we’re up, showered and out of the house by 9:30am, determined to get an early walk in Abney Park after the disappointment of the night before stomping through Hackney Downs. On the way, we pass the scaffolding truck, all done now and pulling away.

As we walk we tell each other stories about what our day would have looked like in that parallel universe of what-could-have-been.

I’d have been excited to try out my new carry-on bag. Maroon with a combination lock and four swiveling wheels. We’d have gotten to Gatwick with plenty of time to tool around Fat Face and Super Dry, before boarding our flight. I may have bought myself a new bikini.

Our connection in Madrid would have been smooth, no delays, no running across the airport to catch our next flight. On the journey, I would have read Pleasure Activism by adrienne marie brown, my partner Wild Therapy by Nick Totton.

Once we got to Gran Canaria, we’d have eaten dinner in the airport because it would have be too late to go out. Then we’d have picked up the rental and driven to our Airbnb, a converted flat with a private swimming pool, nestled in the hills with a view of the sea.

We would have spent the whole next day relaxing on the beach. I would have fallen asleep to the soft sounds of waves crashing, while my partner went to get me a cold drink from the beach bar.

As we pass Stoke Newington Common we notice that someone has knitted a collection of rainbows and affixed them to the curved railings of the iron fence around the children’s play area. They are multi-coloured, some with flowers and bows. Perhaps a school art project.

A bit further down the road we see a sign in a window:

Thank God for immigrants.

I think to myself that God didn’t create immigrants, imperialists did. They built borders, named countries and then decided that if you weren’t from here you were an immigrant.

Thank God for the resilience of people to persevere against great adversity in order to create a better life for themselves. Sometimes so far from home it’s quite possible they might never go back.

We reach Abney Park just as people are starting to queue for the grocery stores on the high street. To get into the park we have to walk the long way around to avoid cutting in between the people in the queues.

The park is full of joggers, dog walkers, a family on bikes, and a couple of men on their own, drinking. Something about the layout of the paths means you usually end up passing the same people at least twice, if not three times.

Spring continues to unfold, the leaves of some trees just starting to burst forth from their buds, while others are a bit further along, almost on full display. The smell of wild garlic tangibly poignant.

I make a joke to my partner to look out for gravestones with their sir name, Robinson. Within a few seconds we spot one, and then another.  William, Lionel, Lily and Thomas.

The bright morning light is falling sideways, casting sharp shadows and turning gravestones and statues multi-dimensional. The angels have come to life, full of condolence.  

On the way home I remember we’re out of mayonnaise. We head to the grocery store but the lines so long we give up. I’ll make do.

Back at home I’ve got a call with a friend and we’re talking about the clap for the NHS. She says that she thinks it’s replaced football in the collective consciousness.

She’s the same friend who’s god-daughter, Eva, had come to stay after having to suddenly leave university a few weeks ago. She’s been sleeping on an air mattress in my friend’s front room. She’s gone back to her parents now. I guess that means enough time’s passed that she knows she’s not contagious. Her Dad is in the high-risk category.

Eva is 20. She’s upset because she had grand plans for her 21st birthday this summer which are most likely canceled.

I try and remember what I was doing the summer I turned 21. I had decided to rent a flat down the road from my university in Northampton, Massachusetts. I worked the night shift at a local gas station. I spent most of the rest of my time getting high. On hot, sticky days me and my flat mates would head to the local swimming hole, a quiet bend of the Connecticut River tucked in the woods behind a local boy’s school.

You had to swim across the river and climb a tree to access the rope swing. It swung out wide so when you let go you dropped into the deepest part of the river. You just had to be sure not to let go too soon, or you could end up in shallow water with a broken leg or worse.

I remember being completely infatuated with my flat mate, who I had inadvertently fallen in love with. At some point we started sleeping together, even though she had a girlfriend in Texas. Later she broke my heart.

I decide 20 is a messy age even for the most mature amongst us.

Later I’m back on Zoom leading a tonglen practice with about 40 other people. The art of giving and taking. I tell them about how I spent years burying my grief after my mother died. It was only when I finally managed to turn towards and fully feel the grief that I finally found relief.

This is what is at the heart of tonglen practice. In the counterintuitive act of moving towards suffering it is finally allowed to be felt and moved through. It is a completely non-egoic transformation that takes place in the open dimension of being and has nothing to do with us.

Except that is has everything to do with us. We belong to each other. This is one way I am getting through this. By practicing this simple act of not turning away and sharing this practice with others.

After dinner we watch one and a half episodes of Unorthodox, a true story about a young woman who escapes her Hasidic Jewish marriage to find freedom and friendship in Berlin. It reminds me of when I escaped my Roman Catholic upbringing at 21 to find freedom and friendship in San Francisco.

Of course, I wasn’t running from a love-less arranged marriage and was already out of the closet. But something in me still needed to get as far away as I could.

Now it’s family cocktail hour, which has become a Friday night ritual. My sister-in-law joins in from Sydney. She’s drinking her morning Joe while the rest of us are on beer, wine and manhattans.  Poor thing can’t get a word in edgewise until my father, always the gentleman, asks her a direct question of how things are going Down Under.

She says people are still reeling from the bushfires of last summer so it’s been pretty straightforward to go from one crisis to another. Everyone is complying with social distancing, no problem.

My 17 year old niece, Sarah, is making a lamb cake for Easter. She’s having trouble with the flowers. She keeps showing them to us, and they’re looking better and better. I would give anything to have a piece of her cake.

Meanwhile, my 4 year old niece is being ridiculously cute, crawling all over her father. I’m impressed with his tolerance, letting her tussle his hair and stick her feet in his face.

At ten to twelve I finally have to throw in the towel and go to bed. No staying on to shoot the shit with my siblings for another hour. Later I find out that in the process of holding the cake up to the camera the head fell off. Collateral damage in the world of Zoom.

As I’m drifting off to sleep I remember we’re meant to be in our Airbnb now. To be honest, I’m happy to be home.