So another weekend has gone, another block of time. Another two mornings, two lunchtimes, another change. The flowers on my balcony moved towards their blossoming, my face moved towards my older face. I said things to people in the street behind my mask. I read about a woman struggling with a division in opinion about trans rights as she began to organise a women’s circle to share ideas on change. I spoke to a friend about symbols, whether he should feel guilty of wanting to master the language of business. A friend in Birmingham sent me the artwork she had done for the digital Order of Service for her grandmother’s funeral. I spoke on Zoom with a group of friends in America and my family in the UK. I shopped in Lidl like I used to shop in Manchester, London and Westport. I bought the same things, treated myself to the same packets, in the same aisles. And I spent a lot of time a little confused about whether I was doing the right thing. I went for a snooze mid-afternoon on Sunday. I went to sleep inexplicably late on Saturday because of my phone.
This is not an unusual weekend for me. To write it out it seems full, but it didn’t feel like that. Living alone in Covid is a strange experience. It is a sort of work to survive, not unwelcome work, because it does lead to new spaces, groups on the internet where genuine connection is happening, new friendships with others who, through some small resistance of the situation seem to find me, and we resist together. For example, I have a student, who is really now a friend, who asked for a ‘walk and talk’ English lesson, just to free himself from the computer in the kitchen, which is where he now works, reads articles for pleasure, connects with the world. I went for dinner at a friend’s house in the in the Red Zone a month ago. We took our masks off and ate pizza and I cycled home 45 minutes after the curfew. I have eaten with other people twice since the beginning of the year. I don’t mind being on my own, but I recognise that this is a little unnatural for the human spirit.
So something happened this morning which has brought me here, which exploded joy into me in such a way that I need to share it.
I was running beside the river. When we exercise alone here in Italy we don’t have to wear masks. I love it because I get to have my face in the world, and I get to smile, and see other runners smile and that alone is reason enough to get out of the house in the morning without thinking too much.
I saw someone in the distance, I ran underneath my favourite two trees of spring, a cherry blossom and a willow and I sped up a little. I was grateful for them and the blue sky, as I neared this person, walking alone, their face completely obscured by a mask, he reached his hand out. I didn’t understand it. He had thrown is hand out for me to give him a low five as I passed. I saw it perhaps four steps away from him and I couldn’t respond, I was shocked, I held my elbow out, not because I didn’t want to touch his hand, but because I no longer have the reflex to give a stranger a low five, and then at the last minute, I realised his hand was out for me, just me, in love, in something inexplicably human. He was claiming a connection, or offering one, it was a gift. Just in time, I lengthened my arm, and I hit is hand, flesh to flesh. Virus to virus.
And then I carried on running. And I turned and he didn’t look back. Joy fizzed over my skin as if I had just been part of a miracle. I found myself saying ‘oh my god’ under my breath, because I couldn’t believe that this stranger saw me, held his hand out, and touched mine. I couldn’t believe he broke the rules and I couldn’t believe how much I needed that low five this morning. From anyone, from someone. It was a confirmation that we are where our feet are, that we are part of a physical fabric that is spontaneous and loving and will give us what we need. That everything is changing and in movement and unpredictable. I write this not to say that tomorrow I will be low fiving people. The stranger and I broke the rules, but it was a quiet and perfect little resistance to the isolation that even on a spectacular blue sky day in spring had me a little fearful. Fearful that I would not be able to do the day, that I would not have the strength to give what needs to be given through the screen. That I will not be able to love myself and forgive myself enough to feed myself well, dress becomingly, be present on WhatsApp. This is another day when I will physically see no one who knows my name. I am not writing this as some sort of sound track to a pity party, I am insanely grateful for everything I have. But that connection, that hand this morning hit me like a perfect love, abundant, confident and irresistible, and it reminded me that it is everywhere.
