Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 54

Over my morning coffee I realise I’ve scheduled too much in today. I’m leading the morning Zoom session again, starting a new retreat mid-morning, closing out the current group this afternoon, and leading a drop-in meditation in the evening.

I take a deep breath. I can do this. On retreat I would easily be that busy, alongside team meetings and one-to-ones with retreatants.

But I’m not on retreat. I’m at home. I’ve got emails to respond to and phone calls to make and a partner to pay attention to. I’ve got my blog to write and my walk to go on and the grass to lay lazily in for as long as humanly possible.

Running retreats from home has revealed something about myself I never really noticed before, or perhaps it’s more honest to say it was always there trying to break through the surface of my consciousness but I never fully let it in. I may have given it a brief nod, but no more than that.

And it’s this. That I am still split. That there is a me who goes out into the world and gives and gives and gives and also a me that comes home and takes and takes and takes.

From time to time, when this dynamic has shown itself, I’ve remembered something my father used to say. That I was so nice and engaged and available to my friends (although he wouldn’t have put it in those exact words) but when I got home I was different. Not so nice or engaged or available.

I remember as a child finding family life stifling. Too much was asked of me. To pitch in with the chores and take care of my brothers and be nice and engaged and available.

To deal with the resentment of this, I often hid, in closets or under my bed, or ran away, to the forest just behind our house. To take refuge in the trees and the sky.

To this day I don’t know why I found it stifling and resented it. Perhaps it was because my mother was infinitely unavailable, chronically depressed and often lost to us, sat in a distant stare. And because of this maybe a part of me wondered why I needed to show up in a way she wasn’t able or willing to.

My father, like me, gave fully of himself to the world, stitching people up and healing them. When he got home he was often too tired to play. And I don’t blame him for that. I understand. He was working hard to provide for us. And he loved what he did. I imagine at times his work was also a welcome refuge from family life.

Reflecting on all this now I feel a deep sadness, stretching across the whole of my central diaphragm. I feel into it and surprisingly what I also find there is gratitude.

My partner works hard to take care of both of us. They do the majority of the cooking and cleaning while I sit on Zoom calls and talk and teach. Every once in a while I pitch in by hoovering or tidying or doing the washing up, but I can’t honestly say things are equally shared.

And they get the brunt of my grumpiness. Sometimes I’ll be on the phone helping a friend in need and then within minutes in the kitchen silently grumbling to myself that the washing up still needs doing. I’m sorry to say that sometimes those grumblings get verbalized.

Lately I’ve been experimenting with bringing my “retreat mind” into my home life. When I’m on retreat, I’m quite happy to muck in with whatever needs doing, delighting in the opportunity to be helpful. At home, not so much.

So now I try turning towards the pile of dishes and thinking, if I were on retreat this wouldn’t be a problem. I’d just do it, mindfully, carefully and even enjoy it.

This simple reframe seems to be making a difference so I keep experimenting with it, even when a large part of me isn’t interested. Old habits die hard.

So again, like so much of practice unfolding over my life, something new is emerging and calling out for attention. Calling out to be integrated. Another gift of coronavirus.

In the afternoon we decide to go out for our daily walk. I open the door to a gift. It’s a tea cake our neighbor has baked. It's wrapped in tinfoil, still warm and fresh. I put it on the dining table and make a mental note to thank her the next time I see her.

We do as we’ve been doing most days this week and head to our favorite spot with a picnic lunch. After eating, I lay down for my afternoon nap in the grass.

We head home just in time for my afternoon Zoom session. Halfway through I feel a headache coming on and by the end of the call its pounding. I take painkillers and lay down for 20 minutes before my evening meditation session.

Thankfully, I’m starting to feel much better, if a bit queasy from the pills. I lead another tonglen practice. I’m grateful for the opportunity to feel into my own suffering, which feels so close to the surface today. Breathing it all in and breathing relief and ease out into the earth and the space all around me.

My partner makes a beautiful red sauce for dinner, which they serve over pasta. I have a quick bath, inhale my meal, and do a bit of writing before getting on our regular Friday night Family Cocktail Hour.

My sister is markedly absent. I text her and she texts back saying she’s working. She’s not in the COVID ICU today. Instead she’s back in her regular unit taking care of all the other critically ill patients. One has gone and spent all their stimulus money from the government on alcohol and been on a bender that’s left them half dead.

My Dad’s asking me what it means to be the Zoom host, which is what he’s agreed to be for his woodturning group tomorrow. I give him the basics, assign him as host, tell him if he gets sick of my brothers he can put them in a breakout room, and head to bed.

I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow.