It’s the last day of March and the first day of another week. Like many of you, I’m sure, Monday’s, for me, were so often a day of dread; dread of going to school with homework not done; dread of going to work at an unfulfilling job. Today it’s the dread of entering another week of lockdown, the dread somehow amplified because none of us knows how many more weeks like this are in front of us.

I’m inserting a link at the end of this post that a dear friend sent me a few days ago; both Joel and I found it extremely helpful – actually make that present tense; we find it helpful each time we read it. It’s about the stages of grief and how to apply it to living in a pandemic.

Dread and grief. Just two of the many emotions that flood me every day: gratitude, sorrow, fear, loneliness, gratitude, hope, curiosity, surprise, terror, gratitude, numbness, anger, frustration, awe, boredom, fragility, shame, shock, gratitude. Shock is something I’ve been experiencing quite a lot this past week. It’s shocking to realize that I belong to the most vulnerable group of citizens with regard to Covid 19. I’m 73 with a compromised adrenal system. What the fuck? When did that happen? And how can it be true when I still feel like I’m 19?

I look up and out my window here in London. Ironically two socially distanced people pass by; one with an infant strapped to her front; the other pushing a wee one in a stroller. Aren’t they supposed to be the vulnerable ones…the babies? The deeper shock is realizing that at our ages Joel and I are in the most vulnerable group even without a pandemic. What a blow to the ego.

The truth is we are all vulnerable now, not just to getting sick but because everything, everything that was part of our everyday lives has been taken from all of us all at once. Even those of us fortunate to have a roof over our heads feel that the ground has gone from beneath our feet. And in the silence of our new world our minds try to expand into the enormity, not only the enormity of loss, but into trying to imagine what the lasting consequences of this time might be. Because aren’t we just now beginning to see the vast, empty plain of the future?

Hopefully some of us are not letting our terror completely paralyze us but are already thinking of ways that we can continue to do without some of the things that have been snatched away from us. What lasting changes for the good of the planet can we commit to – small and big.

For instance, I’ve discovered that it’s possible to use a single sheet of paper towel many times, just by washing it after each use and draping it over the faucet to dry. And when we think of our Tuscan home, which we dearly miss, it’s impossible to think that we’ll take a plane every six weeks in order to enjoy the best of both worlds. When did travelling by train for 13 hours become so inconvenient? Okay, so we’ll have to change trains three times between Florence and London. Big deal. Smaller suitcase, less stuff, travel-Scrabble and a couple of good sandwiches.

Suddenly joy returns. Joy! Remember that? Oh, and a bit of shame because who do I think I am talking about having the best of two worlds when so many don’t even have the best of one?

But joy is vital right now, however we can get it. The gardens in our neighbourhood are burgeoning with spring: daffodils, tulips, camellias, magnolia, hawthorn all pushing up and out. And winter clematis has been perfuming the air for two weeks. And check out the birds. No lockdown for them. Sweet evening song and mating calls can now be heard in the space where only two weeks ago traffic and planes filled the air.

And what about laughter? Boy that’s hard to come by these day but so essential. Mind you, Mother Nature’s having a good laugh right now isn’t she, now that she’s sent us all to our rooms for being so bad? We’d better be on our best behaviour when she finally lets us out, or back in we’ll go.

So, here’s the thing: we’re all vulnerable now and in our vulnerability we have the chance to experience compassion and practice kindness.

The other day, on our daily walk, the garbage truck came down the road. I watched as a worker emptied bin after bin. I called across the street to him, “Thank you for what you do for us.” He looked shocked. All these people keeping us alive right now – food shops, couriers, doctors, nurses, and in our case, as the elders allowed out only for a walk, the young friends and neighbours who are delivering our groceries, leaving them on the doorstep and ringing the bell. When we open the door there they are, six feet away smiling and asking us if we’re okay.

There’s something to be said for vulnerability and to be experiencing it en masse holds the opportunity of choosing to stay that way when we are allowed out again.

Here is the link I mentioned:

https://hbr.org/2020/03/that-discomfort-youre-feeling-is-grief.

I hope all of you and those you love are well.

With love,

Maggie

MOST VULNERABLE

PIECE BY PIECE

SPRING