And then – suddenly; startlingly; steadfastly… – it is Sunday. The chilling, seemingly fixed north-north-easterly – ferrying in yet one more ferocious (but not this time vacuous) official foreboding of its own, in the form of a frigid wind-speed alert… – seemingly purifying the pavement of all pedestrians. All the silver/grey/black cars, however, immune to its volitions, are stationary: as they still – thankfully – remain locked to their owners’ homes – many warmed with the rainbows and soft toys that demonstrate love, hope, and temporary happiness. [Andrà tutto bene. “All will be fine.” (We wish. Fervently.)]
The cooling breeze – the cooling day – it brings is concretely cleaner; and, as I circumambulate the churchyard (the building at its heart now closed even to such prayer), I launch my atheist’s supplication quietly upstream: craving continuing clarity, and everlasting expanded green spaces to breathe within. At the exact instant I traverse the main, southern entrance, the air resonates with the midday chimes. I feel blessed. Perhaps this presages something. But… – and I hesitate…. Benevolent… or… the other kind…?
I choose the former; and ramble onwards.
Over the heartbreaking hollowness of Herbert’s Farm, a red kite proudly exhibits its keen, much-practised prowess: smoothly sliding – seemingly against its prideful desire – left, right – even rearwards… – before eagerly parting that forked tail (the perfect rudder for launching both onwards and upwards), then parting the knifing gale itself: besting the blustering beast that would forever futilely obstruct this flawless wingèd predator. The garrulous jackdaws, paired as always (launching themselves into the air with the creeching noise of a failed starting motor), similarly grease and slice their easy trails through the battering air: as if this, only this, is the thrilling satisfaction they live for; much as I walk with temporary glee (and my stick) for both exercise and enjoyment (as well, of course, for the evaluation of statistics marking the objective rises and falls of my frangible frame).
That marked human absence – on a day no longer of rest; but typically as busy and buzzily loud as those honey- and bumble-bees (and their ilk) now emerging – prompted by the span of sunlit hours stretching convulsively – is not an absence of human activity, however….
Meanwhile, normal stuff in communities keeps going on. Wounds need to be dressed, children need vaccinating, infections need to be treated.
– GP, rural Dorset: The Guardian
Outside, in our stead, lurks SARS-CoV-2: unmoved by the sincerity of true God-fearing invocations or those icy gusts; still laying in wait for the unwary and incautious. Locked-down inside (far too late), scattered amongst the obedient majority, are all the morbidities that bruised our hearts and minds before – cancer, influenza, multiple sclerosis, diabetes… – still badly affecting the “vulnerable” who continue to fight them with all their might. They have not been cured, nor gone into remission… simply because COVID-19 is borrowing all their headlines and resources (and accelerating their anxiety).
My biggest concern wasn’t the virus itself – it was the disease I already had. It was the fact that I still had to get treatments and tests and scans but now I had to do it in hospitals that were likely to become increasingly stretched, with staff who were themselves liable to fall ill. Because what you don’t think about when you’re living in a pandemic is that none of the other illnesses cease to exist. Car crashes still happen. Heart attacks still happen. Cancer patients continue to need those tweaks and adjustments that have continued to keep them alive.
– Sarah Hughes: If I get the virus, the NHS can’t save me…
So it is for me, also, I am afraid: my disabilities, the other morning, having gained the upper hand… – my daily circumnavigation of Middle and Upper Tysoe curtailed after a seriously short distance by my inability to walk in anything resembling any sort of line. After a week of evolving, unapologetically excruciating migraines – varying from vanilla unilateral quasi-lobotomies to apparently drunken vestibular clumsiness… – my left leg paralysed with the hemiplegic sort (blazing with flames issuing from my very marrow; my foot exploding both in agonizing intensity, and – seemingly – in surprising immensity…) – I had to wobble home – wonderfully and thankfully assisted by The Great Lady Bard. My “one form of exercise” was therefore out the window (so to speak), for that day (only/hopefully). And I was thus peeved. Mightily.
But, of course, I am inordinately far from being the only one thus indisposed. (Think of me as some sort of weedy exemplar.) The majority of those classed as “vulnerable” – those needing to be “shielded” – are undoubtedly in a much, much worse state than I am… – despite my dodgy heart and lungs (both of which are currently mute and exhaustively well-managed/well-behaved).
What I’m trying to say is… multiply me by a million; multiply my symptoms by a million more… and you still won’t have encompassed the hurt ‘out there’ that already exists. And needs caring for. Care that may tragically soon be withdrawn. (And, of course, there are many, many others – including carers themselves… – who need aid of a different kind….)
So… please think of those worse off than you, if you can; pray for them; or cast hope upon the wings of any birds you see. Whatever takes your fancy. Or, more simply, just carry on wishing well of everyone you see on your/their one allotted daily outing. A smile goes a very long way, these days….
And now it is Monday. Cheerful chalked messages – from child to child – paint the pavement on Sandpits Road; the newly-mown war memorial all too present behind me. Snow falls, momentarily. More people die, crying, gasping for the last breath that never comes; more are born, crying, gasping for their first; and more cry with the hurt of new diagnoses… or worsening prognoses. Every day is not the same. Not for everyone.
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