Is lockdown harder or easier the second time around? I can’t quite make up my mind.
We settle into a familiar pace of life and quickly forget that we were ever allowed out of our houses to actually see people or participate in (what seems now to be) frivolous activities. Connection with ‘the outside world’ is conducted almost solely through screens, and our picture of reality is mediated by Facebook and Twitter feeds and raging comment wars. ‘Wear a mask!’ ‘How selfish!’ ‘COVIDIDIOTS’ ‘#Dansfault’ ‘#IstandwithDan’.
The days take on a predictable hue. We move through practised motions, pausing to yell out ‘wash your hands!’ every now and then. Screen time boundaries blur: ‘I’m doing a project, Mum!’ Can I please play that maths game?’ ‘It’s just a car tuning app!’ ‘Show me your screen.’
Food becomes colour and distraction. I bake incessantly. Salted pretzel caramel slice. Oat & raisin cookies. Carrot cake. Pumpkin cake with lashings cream-cheese icing. Star-shaped sugar cookies. Winter lends itself to hearty dishes – chicken cacciatore, paella, Spanish meatballs.
Voices rise and fall. We move chaotically through the same spaces. Frustrations explode more frequently. Apologies made and remade. Pages turn and stories return. We visit worlds through these makeshift portals – the only places left for escape in the midst of this tumult.
The stretch of footpath before our house becomes a runway to freedom – scooters and bikes spin lines into the grass. ‘Can we go across the road with our ramps?’ ‘Can you help me learn to ride my bike, Mum?’ ‘Watch me! Are you looking?’ Skills are mastered. Knees grazed, faces amazed at newfound abilities.
The fear seems more distant this time. The ‘refresh’ button has lost its allure. I relish the chance to escape for (the previously dreaded) food shopping. Even the little interactions reassure me that the world is still a familiar and friendly place. Laughter at the checkout. Stories exchanged. Smiles and commiserations. ‘That’s a lovely hat.’
When a sore throat rears up, the test seems less alien this time. A matter of procedure. We bunker down, repeatedly respond with ‘no news yet’ texts to concerned parents. What would have hardly been cause for attention now becomes a ‘what if?’ Relief cascades at the negative result. We’ve weathered another assault and emerged the stronger for it.
Outside, the world swirls and buckets. We shelter in this haven, thankful for the little things – food, shelter, screens, virtual connection. The birds squawk and cackle above us, seeming to know something we don’t. Trees bow and bend in the wind and then return to point towards the heavens.
We are growing armour. It is painful and messy at times. It doesn’t always look like progress. But the suffering is beckoning to us, ‘Won’t you let me refine you? Slough off some of those softer edges?’ We scream and protest, and then pause. For we are made stronger in the becoming. We are not consumed in the fire.
We are built for this.
