Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 40

My partner’s got Zoom mtgs all day so we decide to take our walk in the early morning. We have a bit more time than usual so head to Abney Park. Time to check on how spring is springing.

There is a new sign at the entrance to the park. In big letters is simply says:

Keep walking through…

The small print goes on to explain the decision of the trust to keep the park open as a place of “urban peace and tranquility in these troubling times.” Nevertheless, they have had to cancel all their revenue generating activities like tours and grave searches and are concerned about their future survival. They are asking for donations.

I think about all the other causes I support. It doesn’t take long to decide to add Abney Park to the list. I can’t imagine the neighborhood without it.

As we walk through the gates we notice cow parsley in full bloom competing with the ivy for prominence as it blankets either side of the main path like carelessly cast aside lace doilies.

We decide to head down a path we haven’t taken before. I am immediately struck by a statue of a clocked figure, kneeling with head in hands. I know they’re meant to be in prayer, but it looks more to me like resignation.

The figure has fallen to their knees and dropped their head in their hands as a final act of surrender. Head in hands means they are no longer looking ahead. The best they can do is close their eyes and brace for whatever comes next.

Next stop is the memorial at the centre of the park. The blossom tree that just a few days ago was in full bloom is past its prime and the fallen petals strewn across the memorial have withered to brown.

I take a few more photos of interesting blossoms and headless angels before finally noticing the chorus of songbirds above and all around us. We stop to listen and feel. It seems the birds are both welcoming us and warning us of something. But it’s impossible to understand so we simply relax into the cacophony.

Although technically we are in the middle of a cemetery, spring has now come on so strong that the colour green stretches around and above us in all its infinite textures and hues. Only here and there the scant remains of gravestones are faintly deciphered in amongst the voluptuous growth.

We linger for a short while and then remember the time and move on.

On the way home we talk about our hair. For both of us now it’s well past the time for a cut. Bushiness abounds.

I remember an article I read the other day that listed hairdressers among the first businesses to be re-opened when they begin to ease the lockdown. I wonder if it’s worth waiting until the 7th of May, when the government will next be assessing our situation. I immediately decide it’s not.

We make a decision. Tomorrow we will cut each other’s hair. I secretly wonder to myself if our marriage will still be intact by the end of the weekend.

Perhaps the reason hairdressers are considered so essential runs deeper than simply ensuring everyone gets their dye job before reality sets in. Maybe it’s about mental health.

There’s something about sitting in that chair, facing yourself in the mirror. Talking to someone who is focused on you, but mostly not looking at you, and when they do it is also through the mirror.

There’s something about that conversation that takes place in the mirror mixed with the intimacy of the occasion. Sometimes I can feel my hairdresser’s breath in my ear as she works carefully around the lobes.

A lot of people talk to their hairdresser about things they don’t talk to anyone else about. Maybe for those people, not going to the hairdressers is as detrimental as not seeing their therapist, or worse.

Another group of people to add to my meditation. Those who have no one to talk to but their hairdressers.

I spend the rest of the day on a couple of Zoom mtgs and planning and getting the word out about various upcoming teaching gigs. Before I know it’s five o’clock and the doorbell’s ringing. I remember my exchange with Christian from the night before.

I head out the door and to my delight, he is exactly as I pictured him; a warm, bright smile, kind eyes, and an easy-going manner. It feels strange not to shake his hand so instead we work harder with our eyes.

He’s a free-lance photographer who’s lost most of his work. He started the project as a way to stay busy and keep taking photos, something he can’t imagine stopping doing anyhow. He asks me where I’m from and I tell him and then we’re on to the topic of Evering Road. He wants to know how long we’ve lived here and what we think of the neighborhood.

My partner’s only got a 30 minute window between Zoom mtgs so we quickly strike a few different poses out on the street, in front of our building, and on the doorstep.

Towards the end he’s got us sitting on the cement piling to the right of the doorsteps, my legs out in front of me, my partner sat behind with their arms around me and we’ve finally relaxed a bit and are smiling and laughing. He gets some good shots and is happy.  

As he turns to walk away I tell him that when this is all over we’ll have to have him and his girlfriend over for dinner. He lights up one last time.

As we walk back into our building our upstairs neighbor’s stood in the hallway. She’s got her hair done in cute little braids and is fixing a horn to the handlebars of her new, turquoise bicycle with a basket at the front. She tells us the horn was a gift and gives it a squeeze.

We have dinner, watch half a thriller and then it’s time once again for family cocktail hour. My Dad’s gone and invited my step-brother who lives in Maine and voted for Trump. He’s telling us all about the half a pig and half a cow he’s recently purchased.

My Dad mentions that the death rate in Massachusetts is not going down and wonder’s out loud if this thing is ever going away. My sister looks pensive, sat with her arms crossed, lips pursed. They’re not on stay at home orders yet, but could be soon.

Meanwhile my four-year-old niece has changed the name on their screen to every letter of the alphabet mixed with every number on the key board and is laughing hysterically. Her mom and dad have taken to joining the call from separate rooms. A sort of divide and conquer strategy which doesn’t really work when you have two kids. The next thing I know my 6-year-old nephew is running around naked in the background.

It’s almost mid-night when I finally throw in the towel, make my sister the host, and wave my family good-bye.

Until next week, folks.