The world is saturated by new words. Words which I never imagined have become commonplace in my home: social distancing, self-isolation, face masks (alas, not of the nourishing Aloe Vera variety). Stealthily they have entered our collective consciousness, via the news updates and the internet, slowly drip feeding into our conversations. Already we have adapted until they seem almost normal. Except what is normal, and how, if ever, will normality return? Even the Oxford Dictionary has had to play catch up, such is the speed of our evolving terminology for our changing circumstances. I find myself tired all the time, struggling to adjust to this compressed world with my family. And new terms to describe it, when even a trip to the supermarket requires foresight and effort, gloves and sprays and a million Thank Yous to the selfless checkout staff.
There is even wordplay within these new words- just now I opened a text message, asking if I suffered from this corona-coaster, as my moods peaked and plunged, several times through the day. “The DAY?” I thought, incredulous. “Try the hour.”
And here’s the rub, because not all of this new world is bad. Lately I’ve been back teaching, covering a maternity leave in a local school. I’ve enjoyed the sense of purpose after my career break; the interaction with other professionals and the keen faces of the younger pupils. But teaching and motherhood aren’t happy bedfellows. The deadlines and the discipline (both in school and training myself not fall asleep by half past eight in the evening) don’t leave much time to appreciate the small things, never mind savor them.
Now, above all I feel conflicted; thankful for those ever-elusive things “time”, and “balance”, which have been restored to me. I have time to bake, time to walk, time to eat together: the constant pressure which had settled on my chest, has been lifted. Yet all the while I feel an acute sense of guilt that we should be safe and well-nourished amid such a fearful backdrop. But after the inevitable self-flagellation, I decided to focus the positive changes, to see if they could bring any comfort.
So I am noting, observing and bringing my awareness to things which normally wouldn’t enter my busy consciousness. Beside where we live is a meadow, where one green undulating space spills into another. We take Tilly, our new rescue greyhound here for walks, and we connect with neighbors doing the same. When I was small, my mother tried to teach me the names of trees, as we walked the country lanes of the family’s homestead in County Derry, Seamus Heaney country. “This,” she would say, “is a sycamore; it’s been here since I was a child, and your nanna was a child, and maybe 200 years before that.” Did I have any interest? Of course not. I wanted to run and play with my cousins, feed baby lambs and stroke the horses. Now, I realize, to my embarrassment, that I do not know the difference between an oak and a sycamore and an ash. But a retired lady called Margrit does, and she points them out to me. I take photos with my phone. “I have another chance," I think to myself. I can learn things; I can reconnect with nature.
We live in the Castlereagh Hills, from where CS Lewis took his inspiration for his Narnia stories. Our bedroom window looks over the spread of Belfast, the vibrant yellow hue of the Harland and Wolff cranes as familiar to me as my reflection. But, as my husband observed the other morning, it seems like nature has enjoyed an upgrade: we are seeing it in high-definition. The air is charged with a clarity we haven’t seen before- it seems reborn, rejuvenated.
In our street we have a resident fox, whom one neighbor calls Fletcher. I refrain from telling him that this is an unfortunate name for a fox since a fletcher is a person who makes arrows, not a common occupation in our time. Recently there have been plenty more sightings than usual of Fletcher. The reduction in traffic has made her more plucky. She is pregnant, my neighbor tells me, with her fourth litter. In my more whimsical moments, I imagine the meadow transformed into a fox sanctuary. I tell my girls that the mummy fox is called a vixen, the father a “dog” or “Reynard.” They are taken with these new words rolling them around their tongues, trying them for size.
As we take our dog for her evening walk, we have noticed the cherry trees, which only a fortnight ago were bursting into bloom, now shedding their blossoms on the grass: a sea of candy floss pink. Peering closer into houses as I am wont to do, I see windows sills lined with tiny plant pots, green shoots peering over the top. We too have started to grow tomato plants, radish and carrot. I add “slow-release fertilizer" to my shopping list, which also now includes “fast-acting yeast” and “self-raising flour” and marvel at this new direction my life has taken.
Our world has shrunk, yet I see signs of new life and possibilities. Could nature be asking us for a chance to thrive again, if only we will listen, and let it. But from my window another building catches the light, as the sun glints off the yellow casing of the City Hospital. It reminds me to take nothing for granted. To not only to be careful but to be more grateful, more helpful, more kind. The words of King Lear, when cast out upon the heath, ring in my ears: “Oh, I have ta'en/ Too little care of this!” May I continue to take note of all these wonders, long after this pandemic has passed.
Helen McClements is a mother, writer and teacher from Belfast. She can often be heard on BBC Radio where she shares her musings on 'Thought for the Day'. In contrast to this, she writes a blog called www.Sourweeblog.com, where she unleashes her frustrations at juggling parenthood with work and the vagaries of life.
