Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 43

sky and clouds.jpg

I wake to a cold, grey sky, surprised that it feels like relief. I sense the habit to want to sigh at such a sky, being a sun worshiper and all. But day after day since the beginning of the lockdown we’ve had so many clear, bright blue skies that I’ve longed for some variety.

 

Today’s sky is therefore a welcome arrival. It’s also the first day of my period so it feels like the sky is mirroring my mood.

 

I remember this feeling. When I lived in San Francisco, after too many days of good weather I would welcome back the fog with open arms. A cool respite from the unforgiving sun, it blanketed the city carrying the soft, salty scent of the sea, moody and melancholic.

 

My relationship with the sky is a humbling barometer for my mental states. I remember being on retreat years ago in Scotland, lazily laying in the soft green grass staring up the sky, basking in the warmth of the sun.

 

Then a cloud would come by and I would immediately get frustrated. Then it would pass and I’d be happy again.

 

When I saw what my mind was doing, I immediately also saw that the problem was not the sky. The sky was just doing what skies do. The problem was my attachment to the sun. To things not changing. To having it the way I like it. To some idea of what my perfect summer retreat should be like, and what it shouldn’t.

 

Growing up on the east coast of the US, I am used to changeable weather, but I’ve never liked it. A large reason why I moved to San Francisco was to find warmer, more consistent climes.

 

San Francisco served as a temperate escape from the cold, harsh winters and hot, humid summers of New England. For the first few years I relished the reliability of an almost-everyday-forecast of partly sunny and somewhere between 12 and 18 degrees Celsius (55-65 degrees Fahrenheit).

 

 But after a while I got sick of having to check the calendar to remind myself of the season. My internal clock was confused by the foggy, cold summers. Whereas I was used to wearing shorts and a t-shirt comfortably until late into the night, now I always had to carry layers with me, even in July.

 

The rainy winters were also a shock. And even though it technically wasn’t as cold as Boston, it felt colder. My old, drafty Victorian apartment’s heating system couldn’t compete with the damp cold that came in on the fog. It got into your bones and stayed there. Boston winters, although cold, are dry and the heating systems are built for extreme cold.

 

London is somewhere between the two. There are definitely distinct seasons, yet not as extreme as New England.

 

Manchester is the worst, though.

 

When I first moved to the UK I lived in Manchester for three and a half years. No one warned me that it would rain for months on end, with no sun in sight, and that summer was not guaranteed. In fact, my first summer in England I wore my puffer jacket throughout the entire month of July.

 

Living in Manchester was a wonderful opportunity to remind myself of my training. That I actually know how to generate joy form the inside out, without relying on external conditions like sun and cake.

 

During my first year in Manchester, after focusing mostly on insight practices, I went back to meditations that naturally open the body to pleasurable sensations like energy, joy, tranquility and ease. I spent many mornings dwelling in the warmth of those sensations to make up for the missing sun.

 

I also went back to drinking coffee. Sometimes a few pleasurable external conditions can help move us along.

 

My first summer in Manchester I remember being out and about and noticing that there was a slightly brighter spot in the sky. In the hope that the sun may actually be emerging from behind the clouds I watched closely, with great anticipation.

 

As the clouds parted I became more and more elated. Only to see that behind the clouds were…more clouds. Different kinds of clouds, but clouds nonetheless.

 

I remember locals asking me where I was from. When I would tell them their mouths would drop open, eyes would go wide, and they’d ask me why on earth I moved to Manchester. I would tell them I needed a bit more grit in my life.

 

Over those three and a half years I grew to love Manchester. I used to say it was gritty and gorgeous. The people more than made up for the weather.

 

All this to say it is possible to have too much of a good thing, to start taking things like good weather for granted when you get it all the time, to start to miss grey, and rain, and cold. This is why I actually enjoy changing things up a bit, even if I complain about it when it’s happening.

 

This is why despite most of me resisting it every step of the way, I still followed my nose when the compass of my life was pointing in the direction of the UK. Something deep inside me knew it was the right move for me, even if I didn’t yet know why.

 

Changing things up every once in a while gives me a chance to check on my practice and see whether it’s actually working. And of course, we don’t have to try too hard, because life keeps throwing change at us, no matter how much we try and keep things the same.

 

This is one of the gifts of coronavirus.

 

I’m taking it easy this week because I’ve got two weeks of at-home retreat leading starting on Sunday. It’s a blessing my period has coincided with my plans. This one’s been brewing for days and now I’m all cramped up, tired and bloated.

 

I spend the morning writing and following up on emails. Then it’s time to go out and pick up a few things for lunch. We’re mostly out of everything and our next food order isn’t due until late this afternoon. My partner’s on the phone doing interviews for work so I’m on my own.

 

I tie a bandana around my mouth and nose and tuck the knot into the back of my baseball cap. I look like a proper robber.

 

I head out the door and start walking towards the shop. Just as I get to the corner a shiny, black hearse pulls up in front of me. There are four Black men sat in the cab, all wearing black suits and face masks.

 

I can’t see the casket but I can see the bouquet they’ve laid on top of it; an impressive bunch of white lilies and roses.

 

There is no procession. Just the hearse and the men inside it. I can’t help wondering if it was COVID-19. I breathe out a prayer for them and their families as they round the corner and carry on towards the high street.

 

When I get to the shop there is only one other person inside and I am waved in. I quickly get what I need and make my way to the till. I say hello to the woman behind the counter and tell her that I’m smiling underneath my bandana.

 

She says she could tell from my eyes. I tell her how grateful I am that they are still open and so well stocked. She says the owner goes out every morning at 6am to get everything they need to replenish their stock. We talk about how this time has made us more grateful for where our food comes from.

 

She says she’s struggling to buy meat and I tell her I don’t have a problem with that as I’m vegetarian. She wonders out loud if now might be a good time to try vegetarianism.

 

I jump on the chance to be encouraging, without sounding too pushy. I tell her I never thought I could do it until I tried and that it was much easier than I imagined. That if she has already been considering it, why not take advantage of this time when it’s harder to get meat anyhow?

 

We both comment on how the virus is a clear sign that we are out of balance with nature and the animals.

 

She is genuinely animated by our conversation and says she’s going to give it a try.

 

After lunch my cramps are so bad I decide to do my next Zoom call from bed, which is alright as it’s a group of friends I meet with weekly and I know they won’t mind. Then it’s time to do some more writing.

 

At some point our Ocado food order arrives. I spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning out and re-arranging the fridge to make space for everything, rinsing all the fruit and veg, wiping down all the packaging with disinfectant and putting everything away.

 

It’s such a big order I tell my partner that we’re at risk of being hoarders. They say they were nervous we wouldn’t get another slot for a while so bought as much as they could, which is completely understandable.

 

My partner’s on the phone all evening for their psychotherapy course so I eat leftovers on my own and watch a couple of episodes of Good Girls on Netflix. It’s about three moms down on their luck who decide to rob a grocery store.

 

One thing leads to another, spiraling out of their control and eventually they have to deal with the consequences. It’s pretty predictable but also kinda funny. I’m appreciating the light relief.

 

My partner’s done by 9:15pm so we can finally go for our walk, a night stroll through Hackney Downs, which is pretty much deserted. The overcast clouds reflect the light of the streetlamps, buildings and houses making the park feel safer than the last time we walked here at night.

 

There is a soft breeze rustling the now full leaves of the trees. We stop to listen, the sound seeming amplified without the distraction of other people, dogs, traffic and the sun.

 

By the time we get home it’s definitely time for bed. It’s that time of the year when we’re too warm to sleep with the window closed but too cold to not have an extra blanket on the bed.

 

I am reminded of a song we used to sing at Girl Scouts (to the tune of glory, glory hallelujah):

 

I wear my pink pajamas in the summer when it’s hot.

And I wear my flannel nighty in the winter when it’s not.

And sometimes in the springtime,

And sometimes in the fall,

I jump between the sheets with nothing on at all.

Glory, glory hallelujah,

Balmy breezes blowing through ya!

And sometimes in the springtime,

And sometimes in the fall,

I jump between the sheets with nothing on at all.

 

With that, I’m smiling myself to sleep.

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Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 44

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Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 42