Getting Out; reflections during lockdown

“I'm alright as long as I can get out.”

This was my mother's regular refrain some 10 years ago when she was still a sprightly 90 year old. When she said this, I used to wonder what would happen if and when a time came that she could not get out. Little did I ever imagine there would come a time when none of us could get out.

“Getting out”, for my mother, meant her daily walk (with the aid of what she called her “pusher”) through the nearby park, to the local shop where she bought her newspaper and milk and chatted with the woman at the cash desk. The route took her past some ancient horse chestnut trees, where, on crisp autumn mornings, she enjoyed picking up a few conkers to put in the corners of her rooms, firm in her belief that they would help keep spiders away. Each time she walked past those trees she wondered how long they'd been there and what they had seen in their long lives.

My mother has seen much. Now in her 102nd year she has lived through two world wars, the death of her husband and now a pandemic. With the help of regular visits from her two carers, she continues to live a fairly independent life at home. She says she is never lonely. She is not able to walk to the park as she once could, her milk and her newspaper are now delivered, and her way of “getting out” has changed: “I'm alright...” she says now, “...as long as I have my newspaper”.

I admire my mother's courage, her capacity to enjoy her own company, and her ability to value the small pleasures which are left to her as her world steadily shrinks. By the time Corona came along she had already lived many years alone. Gradually, she had developed the skills and resources she needed to keep her going in isolation, while the rest of us, faced with sudden lock-down, had to scramble and surf and zoom to learn how to do it. Who could have imagined, before Corona, how life could suddenly appear to close doors and shut windows on us, as, bewildered, shocked and afraid, we all suddenly became more aware of our mortality, our vulnerability, and just how much we had previously taken for granted the pleasure of simply being able to get out?

*****

Recently I received a Facebook post from a very dear friend in her 80's who lives on another continent. Her world, like that of many people in residential care, became very much smaller, and more lonely during Corona. Already infrequent visits from family and friends were reduced to none. With the exception of minimal contact with care home staff, she saw no one. Then she had a fall and was moved around to different hospitals for various treatments. She is now back home, receiving nursing care 24/7, and in constant pain.

This Facebook post contained a blurred photo which looked as though it had been taken by mistake, and a capital C. Just the letter C, followed by an inexplicable space. I stare at the photo, the C, and the empty space which follows, trying to make sense of it.

Some of her Facebook friends, doubtless unaware of her physical condition, have posted puzzled replies asking: What is this? What does it mean? Others, probably more aware of her circumstances, have responded with a weepy face, or a red heart.

This dear friend of mine is a person who has always inspired me. She has given her life to teaching; to passing on her passion for literature, her love for language and her delight in the subtleties and nuances of meaning. All of which makes the irony and pathos of this solitary C more acute. And it touches me that even now, despite the pain in her joints, and the numbing, disorienting effects of drugs, she is still struggling to communicate.

I watch my finger hovering uncertainly between the weepy face and the red heart. And then I pull my finger back. There is something more in this unfinished Facebook post; something which must be more deeply seen. So I sit still, considering this C, and what it evokes in me.

C…, she says, ...just have the courage to maintain your awareness here. Resist the temptation to scroll on down to other, more comfortable posts.

It is stark, this message.

C… Remain here with your discomfort. This is the reality of now. Don't turn away, pretending you don’t understand. Look at it. Honour this emptiness and search for the deeper perception.

This is, after all, what my friend has always stood for: the courage to honour what you know to be true, however uncomfortable, whatever the cost. So this is what I have to respect, despite my feelings of inadequacy and utter helplessness.

Slowly it begins to dawn on me that this aborted message is speaking more clearly than any more coherent post could. This C is as naked and empty as a buddha's teaching; as bold and bewildering as a koan.

See, she says: This is the impossible, incomprehensible place where you can't get out; the place where you can't even get one short Facebook post out.

How to get out, when you can't get out?

How do you respond?

*****

When the art galleries open again I take the opportunity to get out and visit the Rijks Museum before the tourists return. I book an early morning slot and walk to the museum through the empty streets of Amsterdam, relishing the clear air and the calm water of the canals. Inside the museum I climb the stairs, deciding that I won’t immediately make for the obvious Rembrandts and Vermeers. There's no rush after all, there are no crowds, I can take my time and just enjoy the luxury of ambling and seeing where my feet want to lead me.

Here!

The long, steady, resonant tick-tock of a grandfather clock draws me in to the 18th century. Enlightenment. Looking more closely at the clock I see a small glass panel at the top, behind which two model ships are rocking in time with each passing second, rising and plunging again into the waves. Tick. Tock. My pace slows as I fall under the spell of the peaceful, hypnotic sound.

I am entirely alone. Room after empty room welcomes me deeper into the silence.

Time is noticed. Time is noticed above an underlying quiet. This Quiet is present.

The waves draw me on and wash me up next to a Canaletto. Traces of other times are left. This is how Piazza San Marco used to look in 18th century Venice; the great show and spectacle of the Piazza, conjured up with a few lines of pen on paper.

The clock chimes once. The time of peace.

I am struck by my own presence.

The chime hangs briefly in the air, trembles, then fades.

There is no one but me walking these rooms, but they are not empty. Who is here?

Am I the viewer, or am I the viewed?

Who is witnessing the passing of time in these empty halls?

The passing of this time. Now. The writing time.

Who is immersed here? Who is absorbed?

What to call it, where time is stilled; distilled?

Is it magic? Poetry?

We come and go as time ticks on, and we tell how it was to sail our ships on the high seas of Corona.

*****

Libraries re-open.

(It's difficult to remember now that there was ever a time when we could do simple things like use lifts without stopping to consider the health risks and putting on face masks.)

As I'm going down, a man gets into the lift carrying a case which looks as though it may contain a musical instrument. In his other hand he's holding a white rose. He presses the '0' button for the ground floor.

“Have you been playing?” I ask him.
“I'm an illusionist.” he says. “I just performed for the children.”
“Did it go well?” I ask.
“Yes, thank you.”
Then, after a pause, he turns to me. “Here…” he says, offering me the rose.
I take the rose, thanking him.

We arrive at zero.
The doors open, and I get out.

*****