Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 33

In the early morning I dream I’m caring for a newborn baby. Their fussing in my arms as I walk about, gently patting their back and bouncing my knees to try and get them to sleep.

Finally their head comes to rest on my shoulder, their breath steady and deep. I bend to place them in their crib, but as I let go, the baby’s head falls off.

I am flooded with fear and the feeling that I’ve broken something precious that can never be repaired.

I wake with the dream still fresh in my heart, feeling helpless and scared. It’s not a new dream. I’ve definitely had versions of it before, although the details vary slightly each time. But always there’s that feeling of irreversible loss.

The sky is bright blue, although the air slightly cooler than before. It’s meant to rain later, so we decide to take an early walk.

It’s time to return to Abney Park, check that spring is still on schedule.

As we walk I become aware of someone charging up behind us. Since the incident with the jogger a few days ago, I’ve lost my trust in humanity and taken my life into my own hands. I grab my partner’s arm and veer us into the road.

An older white woman, probably in her late 60s/early 70s thanks us as she motors past, dog on leash. My partner asks, what was that all about?

Since coronavirus I’ve gotten used to encountering people who walk through the world expecting everyone to move around them. Social distancing for some means they get to go where they like while everyone else has to get out of their way.

A Black friend recently commented that for her, life has always included social distancing. What for many white folks is a new phenomenon, having to be aware of how much space you are taking up and how your body is in relation to other bodies, is old hat for Black folks.

Here’s another lesson of living in the time of coronavirus. A deeper and more nuanced understanding of the politics of space.

When we get to the park spring has not disappointed. All the leaves are out now, and the bluebells in full display.

We weave our way through the cemetery which feels like a labyrinth today. Perhaps that’s because the new growth makes it harder to tell which way is which, to see as far ahead as before.

The paths are like a system of arteries, veins and capillaries. The main paths are wide and well maintained, with fresh gravel, wood chips covering muddy spots and the undergrowth cut right back. Off these paths are narrower ones laid with concrete.

Narrower still are the “desire paths” carved out over time by the passage of people who followed their noses and went where they liked. Some of these paths have become so popular that they are also maintained with wood chips.

On one of these desire paths a small, wooden cross catches my eye. I lean in to take a closer look. It’s the grave of a baby who died the same day he was born, the 7th of August 1961. Never forgotten.

I remember my dream. I breath out a prayer for all lives mercilessly cut short, and those who lost them.

Further along we spy our friend with the dog. She’s walking along a narrow path side by side with another woman of a similar age, heads down, talking close. My partner comments that she is not observing social distancing guidelines.

We’ve seen this before. Secret trysts in the cemetery.

My stomach contracts. I know this feeling and it’s the beginning of anger. But I don’t want to go there so I take a deep breath and focus on the new bright green life stretching in all directions around me. I breath out my frustration, asking the earth to hold it for me.

Eventually we end up at the centre of the park where the funeral chapel stands. Just to the south of the church is the war memorial, a raised stone platform with a cross in the middle, canvased by a cherry tree in full bloom.

It’s called the Cross of Sacrifice, twinned with a similar monument at St. Mary’s Church just down the road, built to memorialise the 371 service personnel who died in both World Wars.

So far 14,576 people have died of COVID-19 in the UK. I wonder what future monuments will be built to memorialise them.

There is a gentle breeze and soft, pink petals are snowing down all around us. Thousands of already fallen petals blanket the memorial, as well as the path and nearby graves. We stay here a while, taking it in.

We get lost trying to find our way out of the park. A young jogger with her dog stops to help us. She stays at a safe distance while pointing us in the right direction.

For the rest of the day I’m on FaceTime and Zoom with friends and writing my blog. My partner makes a gorgeous pasta with red sauce, which I wolf down just before 6pm, when I’m back on Zoom leading a meditation. We’re doing tonglen again, the art of giving and taking.

Every time I lead the practice, I discover new things about it. Tonight’s discussion is particularly poignant. We’re exploring how to experiment within the structure, feel into what works for us, notice the signs of overwhelm and how to take care of ourselves, not push too hard.

We’re noticing what the breath can tell us about how much we can take in and give back right now. Where the boundaries are and aren’t.

One practitioner shares a powerful image, all of us bobbing up and down together in the sea. At the end of the class I suggest that we throw a beach party together when this is all over.

I do the washing up because it’s definitely my turn and then get back to my writing. Before I know it, we’re back on Zoom for our fourth Friday night family cocktail hour.

My sister-in-law’s being driven mad by her little ones, 4 and 6 years old and completely out of control. A few days ago they had a big wind storm and lost power for two days. The experience broke her and she finally caved, got in the car, and headed to my parent’s. My niece and nephew ended up spending the night, giving my brother and sister-in-law a much needed respite.

My brother says they’re going to invest in a generator and look into getting a gas line put in.

Meanwhile my step-mother’s 94 year old mother has fallen and scraped herself up so badly that my step-mother is having to go over and re-dress her wounds daily. She still lives at home and has a number of carers coming and going throughout the day.

Both these pieces of information raise my concerns about my father’s health. He’s high risk, mid-70s, weak heart, cancer. I cross my fingers he hasn’t been exposed.

My sister’s anti-body test has come back negative which means she’s not immune. Everyone sighs.

Then we’re onto the topic of Trump. He’s been tweeting blatant insurgency, calling on his followers to rise up and rebel against their state governments, but no one is holding him to account. There’s no point.

My Dad is quieter than usual. Somber in fact. I know he’s not sleeping. I know he’s full of worry. I know he doesn’t want to die before this is all over. I can’t imagine being his age during all this.

With that thought, I’m flooded with guilt for judging the lady with the dog from earlier today. She’s probably doing the best she can. She’ll probably go crazy without her rendezvous in the park with her friend. It may be worth risking their lives to walk side by side, talking close.

After a little over an hour we head to bed. I take a quick shower, which I have forgotten to do today. I also realise I often forget to brush my teeth these days. At that thought, I scrub at them a bit harder.

As I lay down to sleep I notice how sore my back is. Sitting on the computer all day and not swimming is taking its toll. I commit to taking better care of my body, while also trying not to judge myself too harshly.

My body is the baby I’m cradling to sleep. I don’t want my head to fall off.