Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 41

Right before waking I dream that the tree in my neighbor’s back garden, which I can see from my bedroom window, is being blown about by the wind. Each time it sways, it comes a bit closer to snapping, until it finally comes crashing down.

Over coffee I read an article about Boris’s plans to return to work next week. It’s mostly about the tough decisions that lie ahead. His decision-making may be impaired by his experience of almost dying of COVID-19 so he’ll have to work really hard to try and put that to one side.

I sigh deeply. This is where we’ve got to. The leader of the land can’t even consider his own experience of almost dying in deciding what to do next. He can’t let his emotions get in the way.

This is the world that is dying. The one that negates emotions as irrelevant, having no role to play in politics or the economy. In this world, those with power privilege bottom-lines over lives. In this world, “good” decision-makers are the ones who can put their personal experience and feelings to one side.

I’m so completely and utterly done with that bull-shit. It’s high time we put this narrow, unbalanced strategy in the ground. Its wreaked enough havoc for generations. So many lives lost, so many dreams squashed, so much exploited, wasted, tossed-away.

We need to build a new world that includes the whole of us. As embodied beings deeply connected to the earth and each other, everything we feel, everything we know to be true in our heart of hearts is calling to be fully seen, recognised and placed on the ceremonial altar of our political stage.

Apparently one reason why PPE has been slow to get to people on the frontline came down to a question of pallet size at the warehouse where the PPE is stored. This is clearly a system built on something other than care. My guess; greed, hatred and delusion.

To balance my media intake, I go back to my saved items on Facebook. Over the week I’ve flagged a number of interesting videos, articles and interviews that looked inspiring.

The first is a panel discussion between San Francisco Bay Area social justice activists about an article by Indian author and activist Arundhati Roy called the Pandemic is a Portal. A few snippets from the panel I don’t want to forget:

The pandemic is a portal between this world and the next

Hurry up and slow down

Stop the extraction

Be your own little drop in the river

You can’t fix the political or economic without a spiritual revolution

The pandemic is collapsing the lies of separation and supremacy

Evolution is an energetic process and that energy is love

We all have our part to play in taking sacred responsibility for the whole of humanity

Re-establishing our relationship to the land re-establishes our relationships to each other

Imagine an economy with care at the centre

We can only give our gifts freely when we’ve healed ourselves of ancestral trauma

We’re way-finding together

The portal is open and the possibilities are all around us

As I finish my coffee, I breath deeply, taking in the deep wisdom from the panel like medicine for my aching heart.

My partner has been patiently waiting for me so that we can begin the hair cutting extravaganza. We get ready.

First, the clippers. We’ll need an extension cord since there are no electric plugs in the bathroom.

Second, the scissors. We’ll have to use the extra sharp kitchen ones.

Third, a comb. I go through the entire cabinet under the bathroom sink, organizing and cleaning as I go, and can’t find one. Finally, I look in the clippers box and not only is there a comb, but also some actual haircutting scissors. Wala.

Fourth, a chair. Our new swivel desk chair will do. We cover it in plastic.

Finally, we need to know what we’re doing. We watch an eight-minute video on Youtube and then we’re ready.

My partner goes first. I blend the back and sides with the clippers, moving carefully from a number 4 attachment down to number 1. Then I start to chop away at the top.

I have to work slow, as it’s hard to hold both the scissors and comb, which I have to keep passing back and forth between my hands, while also holding bits of hair between my fingers while I snip away.

A few times I drop the comb. I’m worried I’m going to stab my partner in the eye with the scissors. Instead, I manage to cut at my own skin a couple of times.

My partner is the most patient and easy-going person I know. There is a problem we are calling the “shelf” where the blending I’ve done meets the longer hair on top. I try different methods to fix the shelf and some work and some don’t.

The whole time I’m watching the shelf on one side of their head get higher than the shelf on the other. Getting things even is impossible but eventually the shelf seems to magically resolve itself and we are done.

Now it’s my turn. I’m not an easy customer and I also don’t want to get into painful mental states, so I tell myself that I’m going to let my partner have a go for a little while and then when I’ve had enough we’ll just go ahead and shave it all off.

And that’s exactly what happens.

They start with the blending, which goes relatively well. Then it’s time to cut the top. My hair is longer than theirs on top and they are not as dexterous with their hands as I am. They keep grabbing big chunks of hair and erratically chopping away at it. Finally I say I’ve had enough and beg them to just shave it all off.

We start with a number 4, then the 3, then the 2 and by lunchtime we’re done. The bathroom is covered in hair and there are tiny bits all over me. I jump in the shower immediately.

I can’t help but think I’m channeling my inner Furiosa from Mad Max.

In the afternoon we decide to go for a walk. We head towards Springfield Park through the Hasidic Jewish part of the neighborhood. Outside a boarded-up building we see a bunch of posters about a man who has died of COVID-19.

At first I think it’s an ad for a theater production because of the dramatic poster design, the number of posters and the way they’ve been put up, covering most of the boards. Most of the signs are in another language, Yiddish or Hebrew, I think.

One is in English. At the top in big letters it reads: Tragedy!

He was 43, same age as me. Left behind a wife and 10 children. They are asking for donations. I breath out a prayer for this man’s wife and family.

We carry on to the park and then across the canal to the Walthamstow Marshes. We decide to lay down for a bit, under yet another cloudless blue sky.

While my partner talks to their mom I lazily watch dandelion seeds floating through the air above. I remember something the American activist adrienne maree brown wrote about dandelions. That their seeds can travel up to five miles on the wind. That they are medicine. Not just a weed, but a sign of a healthy, happy earth.

We head back home so I can get on Facetime with a friend in the US. As we approach our building we see our upstairs neighbor sat on a white folding chair on the sidewalk opposite a friend of hers, also sat in a white folding chair. They are at a safe distance and are drinking what I can only imagine is champagne out of champagne glasses, laughing and chatting.

We say hi as we pass and turn towards our front steps. There our other upstairs neighbor is entertaining a male guest, who we assume is her boyfriend. They are sat on the pilings either side of the front door, also at a safe distance. She’s dressed up fancy and is even wearing black, high heeled shoes.

We squeeze passed.

We have leftovers for dinner and finish watching the thriller from the day before. It’s an anticlimactic ending to an otherwise pretty good film about toxic masculinity.

It’s called The Gift.