- except the Hokey-Cokey is fun, or was when I was little, and the Covid version is not so much. In, out, in, out - it messes you about.
England, along with a number of other countries, is back in lockdown as of two days ago. On the upside, that’s not the unfamiliar thing that it was before 23 March this year: even with slightly different rules, we know now what lockdown feels like, and we’ve adapted to its constrictions. I’m pretty handy with Zoom now; I’m loving being able to spend more time in comfy leggings again; and I know it would be unrealistic to aim to get super fit or read all the unread theology books on my shelves. But on the downside, we had also rediscovered some of the ordinary joys of ordinary freedoms: going to a pub or cafe; offering and receiving (socially distanced) hospitality at home; worshipping together in our church buildings. And I miss those things.
I’m very fortunate, really. My job is secure, and therefore also my income and the roof over my head, not to mention the food on the table for me, the Felix pouches for Jemma the cat, and copious amounts of hay for Toby the horse. I can manage in my own company. We’re still allowed social bubbles, so if I choose to drive the 150 miles I can go and get hugs from my sister and her clan. I haven’t lost a close friend or family member to Covid.
But nonetheless, the in and out messes me, and I suspect just about all of us, about.
I like an underlying rhythm and routine to life, and inevitably as a vicar you get used to that being shaped around Sundays in church as the main hook on which the week hangs. Going into lockdown derails that newly-rediscovered rhythm.
I like to see people, even if it’s with masks or at a distance, and now that is once more a thing to do less often and with greater caution. That just feels sad and hard.
I can’t go and visit my parents, who are elderly and frail, as it would mean staying away overnight which I shouldn‘t do, let alone the increased risk to them from every encounter with other people. Many of us know the pain of such separations from loved ones.
I am anxious for those I know, or know of, who will be hit especially hard in these few weeks, emotionally and financially. Life is so terribly unfair, and it in many cases there is nothing I can do to help.
But more than the specific tangible consequences, there is simply this heaviness about it all. I think it comes from having fears confirmed, that the impact of this pandemic will be felt by us all deeply, and for a long time. It comes from the weariness of having lived with this for many months now, and being tired of keeping on coping and being brave about it all. It comes from apprehension about what we’ll hear on the news day by day about Covid statistics - statistics which are real people, of course. It comes from sorrow, a grieving for the normality, however imperfect, that we have lost.
In, out, in, out - it messes you about. I look back on 2020 as we get near to the end of it, and in one way it is of course about the most memorable year of my life. None of us will forget what happened this year, or where we were when locked down. Yet on the other hand, the loss of normal rhythms, personal celebrations, big national events, the usual structure of life, means it also feels somehow nebulous and hard to get a handle on. It is like fog: I can picture it, describe it, know its characteristics. But I can’t get hold of it or pin it down. It has been a momentous, awful, critical year for us all, but it also feels like the year that didn’t quite happen, because it’s not like any other year most of us have known. Is it writ large in bold stark numbers as I look back, or is it somehow smudged out on the list of years gone by?
The Covid Hokey-Cokey is what this year has all been about. But also, and no less, it has been about the myriad of personal stuff that has gone on for each of us - illness, recovery, birth, death, tears, laughter, new achievements, dashed hopes. It has been about many other global matters too - conflict, the climate crisis, the plight of refugees, Brexit negotiations, the US election, Black Lives Matter protests. It is emotionally exhausting to even think about a fraction of it.
Going into lockdown again as we go into winter is like a harsh parody of hibernation. If only I could snuggle under a pile of leaves and logs, using my plentiful fat reserves to sustain me as I sleep until the spring sun appears and all seems hopeful again! But that’s a luxury not afforded to us. We have to withdraw, but we can’t simply switch off; and in a few weeks‘ time (we hope) we’ll have another change of course to navigate. Welcome though that will be, it will also be hard as we readjust in the other direction.
We are very adaptable, we humans, but each adaptation takes it out of us, takes energy and effort and willpower. In, out, in, out, shake it all about: we’ll deal with it, we’ll manage, but it comes at a cost and we feel that. This dance isn’t much fun, and it’s going on far too long, and we can’t even hold hands and all rush together in the middle of it.
There are plenty of positive notes I could end this on, as I sit in my living room and type. Central heating, a cuddly cat, a big pot of chocolate ice-cream, and the fact that today was sunny. All those, and more, are good things. But still, tonight I feel heavy and sad, and I think that’s okay in the circumstances.
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