Notes from a Pandemic: Uncertainty

I’m feeling uncertain today about a lot of things, inner and outer.

Whether to go further inwards into books, meditation, yoga and writing or to engage and ‘stay outside’ with video calls,social media and news. The instinct goes towards both; swinging wildly back and fore; the desire to sleep a lot or the anxious ceiling staring hours of not sleeping, the calm mindfulness of presence or worrying about the future, the act of eating everything in the cupboards or having no appetite at all, of there being enough space in the flat for two and not enough room to even breathe alone, the fear of an unseen enemy and the desire to run outside shouting, ‘come on then, let’s get it over with.’ The yin and yang of it all. The balance of that.

A feel sometimes as if I am nosediving into nostalgia; re-reading old notebooks full of yearning and potential, feeling the empty space at my side of all those who have gone already, re-feeling things. Wanting to go home in the truest sense of hiraeth, that inexplicable longing for a place or moment in time that no longer exists; a time of safety, of grandparents and estuaries, sepia photos and bikes with stabilisers, playing in the garden and believing the stories we were told; before we knew better, before we knew that we we should have known better.

And curled around that. The deep peace of having arrived at this moment as I am. Of being here now and having to accept what is and what will come. Falling back into it. Trusting. Noticing small details; watching the birds each morning and evening over the rooftops; a flower has opened purple petals and is reaching for the sun; the voices of friends; the rise and fall of my cats breathing and the softness of their fur; a heartbeat –  mine or his that means we are still here. The feeling that all that has been lived has been lived well because I have learnt, survived, adapted and forgiven.

The simple act of putting of one foot in front of the other, no matter what is behind or in front that we as humans we are capable of; even after great loss or even with great joy; one breath, one step at a time – leaving or arriving or simply resting on the way home.

 

© Carys Shannon, September 2020. 

Notes from a Pandemic: The City

Birds. I heard birds in the city centre for the first time as I woke on day two of the quarantine here. Not just the odd caw that we hear off our balcony when the pigeons are preparing for the day or coming home to roost on the abandoned building opposite, but a full symphony of birds making their morning calls to each other. It was beautiful.

Anyone who has ever been to Andalucía will know that one thing you cannot get away from here is the noise. It’s not bad noise, but a low level hum and thrum of life; of animated conversations, traffic, shutters going up and down, glasses and plates clinking in bars, the odd moto piercing your ears, children and dogs. A cacophony of life. It’s both reassuring, you certainly don’t feel alone here, and also overwhelming, especially at times like Easter or Feria when most of the city is in the street at all hours. We live in the centre of this city and sometimes it grates but it’s a small price to pay to live a really good life.

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View of the city centre at breakfast time.

The absence of noise on that first morning after quarantine began was both peaceful and surreal. Andalucía is its people; the warmth and life of the city; an unstoppable energy that goes to bed at 2am and can get up again at 7am. I’m often in awe of people’s stamina and the insatiable need to be with other people outside; in bars, cafés, terraces, parks – life here is lived outdoors.

So, taking the majority of people off the street over these last nine days – the absence of noise is noticeable and has added a lovely peace to the quarantine. But there are moments. Moments for people to express themselves outside – on our balconies at 8pm we all go out to applaud the workers that cannot stay at home. It is jubilant. I’ve seen neighbours in the surrounding flats who I’ve never met but now smile and wave at every evening.  Living in a city is sociable but you tend to have ‘your’ places, the café or bar for breakfast, the fruit shop, market, the neighbours in your building, the bar below you; it’s possible to be greeting people all day here. Yet, all those faces on the balconies are unfamiliar to me. I’ve been wondering if we’ll recognise each other in the street after all this (if we’re lucky enough to make it that far.)

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These balconies are filled with people applauding at 8pm .

The atmosphere has also been subdued. We’re all scared and unsure. But slowly an untameable spirit is coming back – the applause at 8pm  has got longer each day followed by emotional shouts of ¡Viva! and ¡Viva España! There is solidarity. A sense of being in it together. Today I heard friends shouting from the street to a balcony; there was joy in those words; the jaleo and buzz won’t be away for long.

But what about the silence? I have heard owls at night too and this morning a blackbird was perched on the terrace singing. It hypnotised me for a few minutes – I’ve never seen one on the balcony before; in the park yes but not in the city. And that is what’s happening in so many places – nature is taking steps towards us. An entire flock of geese waddled across the Arenal bridge today and were uploaded to social media. We hear the canals in Venice are clearing. What other beauty is there to come from our absence? How long will it take for the concrete to start greening and will anyone really want to stop it?

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Cats enjoying the peace and sun in Parque Orive.

It feels like a wonderful secret; that although for the terrible reasons we are at home –  the wilderness is coming back and it doesn’t take long. Can we bear it? To take a moment to breathe in and know that we are not separate from this in the same way that we are not separate from each other? Can we turn towards it knowing what we have done, knowing it isn’t looking to forgive us, simply to envelop us in the net of symbiosis that we have opted out of.

Will we remember to listen in stillness to the birds when we go outside again?

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Notes From the Past

 

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These are my notebooks, if the building was burning I’d go back for them, they are years of pouring heart out onto pages, ideas, reflections, sketches, poems and writing. I return to them regularly, it’s a beautiful act of time travel to go back into your head before you knew what you know now.

I love reading them they are raw and inspired, honest, sometimes uncomfortable but always great tools for reflection, and the purest memories of feelings, sensations and moments that needed to be written. I’ve only every thrown one away… into the fire, an act of spiritual exorcism at the time, the first part of a chronicle of a mad, passionate and unhealthy love affair that nearly took me out, I’ve got the second part, and often wish I could re-read the first. Not for the memories, I’ve got those to work with but for the words, the choice of the words is everything, the shape of them, the way they were thrown onto the page, exhaled or bleeding, the form they naturally took, line breaks, space the gaps between things happening.

I couldn’t sleep last night so I got these out looking for a specific poem that I wrote and used to perform at readings, I didn’t find it but got lost in another dream of things written when life was all sea walks, music and night fires. I wrote another one looking from here to there and knowing a lot more, a blank page was filled, a little more expressed, and I found one, a recent one about dreaming of rain and I breathed some space into it on the pages. It feels full of something, a notion that’ll come clear reading it back years later, and so I write my truths, and for that life is good today.

 

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© Carys Shannon, September 2020.