The Shape of Life

16 Aug The Shape of Life

The Blog Muse has gone AWOL.  Just took off a few weeks ago without a word about where she was going or when she’d be back. Breach of contract I’d say – you just can’t get the Muses these days. So, I’ve been blogless just waiting for her to return. Got a message from her last week, saying she was thinking about coming back to sit on the chair in my study or lean against the bookcase and whisper her thoughts into my mind’s ear…

…which is all a roundabout way of saying the last few weeks have been devoid of inspiration to craft a piece to post here. Which got me thinking this whole business of blogging is a bit odd, spilling out the ruminations of an occasionally muddled mind. But anyway, here goes.

July was a strange month. I was out of action because of the injury that resulted from the boot and sandal fiasco on the long walk (see last blog if you’ve no idea what I’m talking about or have forgotten). There’s only so much you can do with one foot constantly having to be ‘up’ or swathed in ice or doused in Voltarol. The all-clear from the foot man came just after the 19^th of the month so coincided with the great opening up. Or should that be The Great Opening-Up?

Which obviously meant different things to different people depending on how you read the rules and exercise your ‘personal responsibility’. That had me choking on my cornflakes – from the mouth of this government the notion of personal responsibility is either a joke in very poor taste or a piece of shameful hypocrisy. I’ll leave the politics there… maybe.

So, The Great Opening Up.

I had a social engagement – shock, horror. Reached into the wardrobe for something to wear and remembered how difficult it can be to decide and how uncomfortable everything I tried on felt on a body that had been swaddled in comfort and informality for so many months. It was a retirement ‘drinks do’, held outdoors. Imagine the scene: complete strangers clutching a glass of something bubbly and a canape, attempting conversation with other complete strangers whilst eyeing the approaching tray of tempura prawns or tiny confections of smoked salmon perched on savoury shortbread. You never really know how interested people are in you (as opposed to the food) and I’d forgotten how hard it is to make small talk anyway, but especially after more than a year of only big talk or silence! My social skills have definitely dulled through lack of use. I’m glad I went because the person retiring is a terrific woman. Equally, I was glad to slip away.

The day before I had stepped back into action with a matching pair of walking shoes and a visit to the allotment where time has not stood still and nature, together with my fellow plotters, has been doing its stuff with great abandon. It was a joy to be back among the chard and the beans, the berries and the flowers. Even the nettles at the back of our plot, a couple of feet tall and draping themselves over the edge of the compost bins where they’re competing with the brambles (blackberries to the English), were a welcome sight. I’ve fought them back now, at least the ones on the front line have been wrestled to the ground and are now facing their future as compost.

That this was my first outing after the opening up made me realise how the shape of my life has changed this last year or so. There was no allotment before the pandemic; it was an idea concocted with a friend over coffee when the first lockdown eased sufficiently for us to see other people in their gardens. I can’t remember what we said to one another apart from agreeing that we had very little of the experience we imagined would be needed. We were very gung-ho about finding out as we went along. We both gazed into the future and thought working the soil and growing food could be a part of it.

Lots of people have been saying the same thing. How the shape of their lives has changed and how, with the relaxation of restrictions, the extent of this change in both their internal and their external worlds has dawned on them. Some of them talk about ‘going back’ to the way life was before; but many say that’s impossible or unlikely. Or it would be unwelcome. People have lost jobs, forged new relationships, and/or lost them. Their lives have recalibrated. The notion of planning feels too risky, the world more fragile. I sense some are desperate to look ahead but also uncertain, while others are determined to never return to how it was before. Yet, I know people who are stepping right back into the social world: outings to theatres, exhibitions, cinemas, making travel plans, spending time indoors with friends. I admire them for their sure sense of future possibilities and their courage to face any risks head-on. But I’m finding I don’t envy them.

I’ve been trying to imagine what it must be like for younger people whose lives will be dominated far more than mine by this event. It’s more than the disrupting of a year or two of education, though that is huge. What’s happened to their social skills and their confidence? What is the ‘normal’ they will return to? They were only just starting to define it for themselves when all the coordinates of their lives were thrown into disarray. I hope they will be feisty rather than fearful, ready to take on this world, where the people in power didn’t do enough to prepare and made so many wrong decisions. Ready to take it on and change it.

Reasons to be hopeful? On the radio just now, two GCSE students from a school in Hartlepool who just got their results were talking about how the last couple of years have been for them. I had to stop what I was doing and give them my full attention. They were extraordinarily mature and thoughtful as they reflected on a horrendous time of sudden shifts between learning at home and at school, the instability, isolation, the way they missed their friends. So impressive. Maybe this will turn out to be a resilient generation rather than a lost one. I’d like to hope so. We need them.