I’ve stolen today’s ABBA post title from
last weekend’s Guardian, which asked a constellation of writing stars to share
lessons they’ve learnt from the past few months. Here’s the link:
I particularly
like this from Alan Hollinghurst: “Time itself was more precious, even if
enjoyment of the passing minute was clouded by the fear of being dead within
days.”
Sebastian Barry’s exquisite prose in praise
of nature are pure delight (“the sonic realm of the cuckoo” and countless other
gems). Do please take a look.
Mark Haddon’s piece is interesting too. He
says he’s more contented now and his life, previously constrained by a fear of
flying, feels less small:
“In ordinary times we are constantly being
made to want more. It’s how the economy works. Advertising generates a
constant, nagging absence which will be solved by spending more money. Except
that it isn’t. But something has changed. Those of us who can count ourselves
as lucky have more than enough. We can live with less: less eating out, less
driving, less international travel, fewer shiny new things.”
Amen to that. [And who knows, humanity
might even now be learning how to save our one and only planet if everyone in the developed world gets
that same message, but back to writing for now…]
So what lessons have I learnt from lockdown?
King James I and Anne of Denmark: Credit: Wellcome Collection. Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)
Perhaps the clearest one is just how
important it is for my mental health to write regularly.
ABBA, by setting a monthly deadline, has
been a genuine support in what has been an annus horribilis of family
bereavements and new caring duties. Writing this post, for example, proves I am who I think I am: a
wordsmith, with actual words to show for it.
I’ve also learnt how damn hard it is to
assert my right to set aside time to write, and how difficult it is to block
out the daily domestic dramas of shielding my frail and elderly dad in order to
devote serious mental energy to researching my historical work-in-progress.
The guilt that I’m not doing enough for him
(while also supporting my immediate family) means I can’t find the emotional
detachment or clear enough headspace for genuine creativity. But I can at least
(like now) examine half-formed thoughts and turn them into communicable ideas, which,
if I’m lucky, I get to talk about online and on the phone with writing friends.
I’m also learning the balancing act of keeping
up-to-date with the fast-evolving ‘story’ of Covid-19 without tipping into despair
about the cruelty of so many unnecessary deaths in the NHS and care homes or
feeling oppressed by anxieties about a second wave.
It’s okay, I think, even necessary perhaps,
to feel deeply saddened about what’s happening here and abroad, and what must
be happening in underreported place I’ve known such as the great slum city of
Kibera in Kenya.
It’s also brilliant to have had a moment of
pride in our nation when the Black Lives Matter protestors tumbled that slave
trader’s statue into Bristol harbour, even if we then displayed to the world those
shameful racist thugs attacking the police in central London on Saturday.
But this past weekend brought home a new
lesson of lockdown: it is now effectively over, which I believe means we are inevitably
facing a second wave later on in the year.
If so, next time around there won’t be the same
national consensus as before that collective action to protect the vulnerable
and the NHS at all cost is the right thing to do. There will be competition
between the needs of the old and the medically vulnerable and the needs of the
fit, younger population for whom Covid-19 is far less of a threat.
For carers like me and the vulnerable, we’ll
once again be on our own, as we were before the government belatedly ordered
the lockdown in March, sheltering those who need it, wearing face masks
despite the smirks of other shoppers and keeping our 2m distance whatever Boris
Johnson says.
This competition within society is probably
inevitable. As Professor Chris Whitty, England’s chief medical officer, says,
the 2m distance rule is a judgment about risk, and risk is an individual thing;
the young can’t be asked to sacrifice themselves for others for ever.
Which, as a parent, I agree with. Who wants
their child’s life blighted for a moment longer than necessary? Their mental
and emotional health, their educational and economic life chances, must take
precedence at some point.
Writing this on Sunday, June 14th,
2020, that pivot point looks to be happening about now.
If so, we are presumably heading for a twin-track
new normal, with carers and the vulnerable physically outside society as the
young and fit return to it. In which case, as an outsider, online support from
friends is going to be more crucial than ever, and the process of writing the
work-in-progress will become more deeply embedded in the survival layers of my
hierarchy of needs, like food, drink and shelter, not just an act of
self-actualisation.
It’s something I’ve heard said by many
writers who, for various reasons, are housebound or constrained in some other
way. Writing is a lifeline. Let’s hope it can keep us afloat for the duration.
@HouseRowena
1 comment:
Must say, I disagree with a major thrust of what you've said. From where I'm sitting those who've been sacrificed are the multiples of thousands who have died in care homes.
Young people ? What real sacrifices have they made ? Young people are adaptable, they'll get over the inconveniences.
I wear a mask into every shop I enter. And gloves. I've never seen any sign of a smirk in my direction. If there was, I'd just stare them down. I could hardly care less about other people's opinion of what I do to protect my life, whilst at least
making an attempt to care about the lives of others.
Yes, I gave a quiet cheer when that Colson statue came down. Hope Rhodes is next.
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