Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 28

I wake to the sound of the phone ringing. Its Easter morning, 1993. My mother’s been dead for almost four months. I can hear my father’s voice, soft and low, but I can’t make out the words. From the way he’s speaking I know we’ve got more bad news.

My heart sinks.

My dad’s youngest brother has been found dead in his car. 30 years old, a heavy smoker, over-weight. Obese actually. He had never moved out of my grandmother’s house, living with her until the day he died. He was her youngest out of eight.

When I was nine I struck a deal with him. It was simple. Each day he would smoke one less cigarette until he got down to none. Based on how much he smoked, he’d have quit by the end of the month. That was the year Stevie Wonder’s I just called to say I love you was at the top of the charts. I remember it playing on the radio when the deal was struck.

He agreed but the problem was I could never follow-up with him. We’d made the deal during a Christmas visit to Chile. Once back in Boston, I had no way of knowing whether he was keeping his side of the bargain.

We’re pretty sure he was gay. Being gay in Chile in the 80s wasn’t an option. I’m convinced it was suicide but my dad is pretty sure it was a drug overdose. It was probably both. To this day there is no official cause of death.

His name was Miguel. Named after St. Michael, the archangel who heralds the second coming of Christ in the Book of Revelation and leads God’s army against Satan.

When this whole thing began I remember staying up late one night researching the seven signs of the end of the world from the Bible. The following week I found myself sat with a friend in a church in rural Wales reading out loud from the Book of Revelation. It’s a chilling read including fires, plagues, poisoned water, hailstones, earthquakes, blood moons, thunderstorms and locusts, to be brief.

Lately I’ve been wondering if the Catholics were right after all and maybe I should repent, confess all my sins and beg for forgiveness to save myself from being dragged to hell. Problem is I don’t believe in God so there’s no one to forgive me.

So that takes care of that. I guess I’ll have to forgive myself.

The Buddha is said to have taught his disciples to be an island unto themselves. That the only place true refuge can be found is in awakening. That sounds good to me. I’ll keep working on it.

It’s warmer in London today than Gran Canaria, so we decide to go sit on the “beach.” We’ve grown bolder since our epic bike ride through central London and are pretty sure we can get away with a picnic in Springfield Park.

As we approach the park we notice a sign that says no sitting on the grass but once in the park we see lots of people sitting on the grass and no one telling them not to. They’re all sat at a safe distance from each other in 2s and 3s. We walk round for a bit and then find a quiet spot to sit and have some lunch.

We know we’re breaking the rules but we don’t care anymore. What’s the point? We still have to navigate grocery stores and walk past our neighbors who now live on the front doorstep. It’s actually safer in the park.

I ask my partner what all the fuss is about. They say the authorities don’t want people sitting around as it encourages others to do the same and eventually the parks will get so crowded people won’t be able to walk through without coming too close.

We decide that isn’t the case at this exact moment in Springfield Park. We’re well off the path, tucked into some shade under a line of trees. The closest people to us are two women meditating together about 50 metres away.

 It’s our own personal beach for about 20 mins or so, complete with seagulls circling overhead. I can almost hear the waves lapping on the shore.

Once we’ve eaten it’s time to move on so we cross the canal and weave our way through the Walthamstow Marshes.

Eventually we cross under the railway tracks and take another break, laying down in some tall grass at the edge of an almost completely empty, open field. Within five minutes a very friendly ranger comes by and politely informs us that due to “the virus” they’re asking people to keep moving.

It’s all done in an incredibly British way. We don’t have to go immediately but he’d appreciate it if we did.

All of a sudden I feel terribly guilty. I’m one of those people everyone’s complaining about on social media. I’m one of those people I’m complaining about on social media. We watch him get back into his truck and make his way across the field to tell the three other people in it to move on.

We decide it doesn’t matter anyway because to the northwest there is a big, dark rain cloud coming our way. We head home. Just as we walk through the door we hear the first clap of thunder, then another.

I can’t help but feel the excitement of a late afternoon thunderstorm.

I grew up in New England where thunderstorms punctuated most summer days. Throughout morning and mid-day the humidity rose until the sky couldn’t take it anymore. Then you’d hear it coming, rumbling its way towards you as the wind picked up and the skies turned dark. You always knew when it was just about to start raining, all suddenly going quiet and still.

We were often in the car when it would begin, rushing home from the local pool before the deluge.

There is nothing like bright green leaves against a dark grey sky, gently rustling as the rain begins. First in soft splutters, the scent of raindrops on hot pavement, sizzling. Then in big, heavy drops pattering against leaves, windowpanes, the car roof.

Once home I’d sit on our front doorstep getting completed soaked as I relished the whole wondrous, cacophonous display.

But today we are afforded no such performance. The storm passes with little more than a few rumblings.

I speak to a friend on FaceTime for an hour before dinner. I’m telling her that I think coronavirus has resolved my years long mid-life crisis. I don’t need to worry anymore about what I’m doing with my life. I just have to do it.

Now Boris is on TV telling us how great the NHS is, thanking the doctors and nurses for saving his life. Jenny from New Zealand, Luis from Portugal, who stood watch over him all night when he could’ve taken a turn for the worse.

He’s out of the woods and a changed man. He ends by saying the NHS is powered by love.

I aspire to be powered by love. That is the world I want to live in. I breathe out a wish, may it be so.