Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 61

Last night I had my first Zoom anxiety dream. I fear it will not be my last.

It’s time for the Friday evening drop-in meditation class. Except this time the stakes are high. I’ve got a guest teacher leading the class and we’re doing it as a fundraiser. There’ll be a crowd and things need to go smoothly. (This is in fact true and it’s happening today)

But for some reason I’m not home. In fact, I’m traveling with others, in some foreign country and time is quickly passing and I need to get on the internet to start the class.

I’m frantically looking for a quiet public place with good Wi-Fi but it’s impossible. I finally settle for a spot at an indoor beach. It’s a huge glass building built on an actual beach with people sat dining at fancy tables while others play in the “surf”.

There are huge waves crashing against the glass wall facing the sea, with just enough water flowing underneath it so people may swim safely.

I only have my phone on me and am waiting for the Zoom app to download, which is taking ages. I am cross at myself for planning an event like this while traveling and not thinking to download the app earlier.

Once that’s done, I frantically try to start the class but I can’t find the link and then none of the buttons on my phone are working. Time keeps passing and soon it will be too late. All these people will be trying to join, getting a message saying, “waiting for the host to start the meeting,” and then nothing ever happening.

Then I look up and a huge wave, bigger than the glass building, dark and threatening and moving fast, is hurtling towards us, growing and building momentum as it approaches.

I brace myself.

That’s all I remember. I wake up sweating and panting.

I drink my coffee, have a quick shower, make my green monster smoothie and before I know it it’s time to get on Zoom for the penultimate session of my retreat.

We’re exploring what else is possible when clinging ceases. When we are no longer bound up in indulgence or suppression of afflictive mental states.

What are the qualities of this awareness that are always available to us when we remember? How might we familiarize ourselves more and more with awareness as our true nature?

The class goes well and I’m pleased with how much people are seeing into their direct experience and gaining insights from what can be known and felt there.

I do a bit of writing and then it’s time to talk to a friend of mine who works for the charity for which we are raising funds in this evening’s class. Somehow she manages to convince me to set up a standing order with them. She’s a very good fundraiser and I delight in the skill and ease with which she goes about her work.

Then it’s onto the HMRC website to see if I can get any help from them. I’ve been waiting patiently, as someone in the self-employed category who has been affected by the lockdown, for my day to claim.

As an American I have to say that sometimes the British get it right. The process is so straightforward and easy I almost can’t believe it.

All I have to do is enter a few bits of information about me and up pops a page with their estimate of what I can claim. And that’s it, it will be in my bank account in 6-7 days.

I breathe out a sigh of relief. I wasn’t sure I would qualify because I have only been self-employed for a year and half and some of that I couldn’t work because of the cancer.

I’m again grateful to a previous version of myself who decided to do adulting right last year, setting up my business properly with HMRC and paying my taxes on time. A younger version of myself would not have been so on it.

I remember actually feeling really good about paying my taxes because of the cancer. I received excellent care from the NHS. If I’d still been living in the USA I would have had to pay 10 times as much for that caliber of care, completely separate from and in addition to also paying state and federal taxes.

I’m so excited about how easy it was, that I jump up without thinking and run to the bedroom where my partner is sat on their computer.

I burst through the door and they turn and look at me as I say, “Guess how much money HMRC are putting into my bank account in 6-7 days!”

They say, “I don’t know, but I’m sure all the colleagues on my counseling course would love to hear about it,” as they point at their computer screen.

I look to the screen to find a bunch of faces in boxes staring back.

I apologise profusely and quickly leave the room, shutting the door behind me. I can’t believe I’ve had such a lapse in mindfulness, forgetting they were on their course this afternoon. I feel absolutely mortified.

I send them a text apologizing and they quickly write back saying it was no problem, everyone was quite relaxed about it and it was fine.

In the afternoon we have our last session of the retreat. There is a lot of appreciation, and I have to do a lot of deep breathing to let it in, appreciate it, and not make it about me. I can feel the tension, the ego reaching out for a stroke.

But I know better than to indulge such silliness and I’ve learned over the years how to simply breathe through it and enjoy the delight in others delighting in me.

It’s a quick turn around before I have to get back on Zoom for the drop-in meditation class. It goes well, no glitches. The guest teacher does a great job and the fundraiser is off to a great start.

Afterwards I make myself a beyond meat burger for dinner and do a bit of writing while my partner is on their counseling course. While deeply absorbed, the doorbell rings.

I sigh. I know it’s not for us. We haven’t ordered anything that would be getting delivered at quarter to nine in the evening. I wait for a moment, listening for signs of movement from my upstairs neighbours. Nothing.

I get up and answer the door. It’s for a woman who lives on the 3rd floor. As I pick up the box and start closing the door my neighbour comes barreling down the stairs apologizing profusely.

She says that it’s hard because she has no way of letting in the delivery people or communicating with them from the top floor. She considers out loud whether it might be worth opening the window and yelling down. I say that’s not a bad idea.

Then it’s time for a late evening walk. It’s still not quite dark but it’s definitely getting there.

Hackney Downs is practically empty. We do a quick lap around it and then head home for family cocktail hour.

We do the usual complaining about how our respective governments are making a complete mess in their ongoing responses to the coronavirus. My niece, who lives in rural Maine and hunts for her food, is talking about the kinds of birds she can catch. Then somehow the conversation devolves into recommendations of who you can bring live animals to for slaughtering.

I announce my fundraiser and say good night.