A Bench to Call My Own (Globe and Mail, Feb 9, 2022)

My bench is in the little cemetery near my house. I sit quietly on it and take a break from the COVID craziness around me – a wooden bench underneath a gnarly old tree, surrounded by overgrown bushes and historic tombstones. Cemeteries are a place of memories, they say.

For almost two years now, this secluded little graveyard in the heart of the historic part of my hometown has been my refuge, my safe place – a resting spot on my daily walks, a small oasis with beautiful old trees and shrubs. I see the cemetery’s black, heavy iron gates as I turn the corner on my daily loop. Beyond the gates, a straight, narrow path leads through this small resting place for the dead and the living.

On both sides of the walkway, at a safe distance from each other – as if they had known about social distancing long before that was a thing – wooden benches offer a welcoming spot to stop and sit. I never counted them all – there are maybe 10 benches on each side of the path. Weathered grey wood, rough from the snow, sun and rain. Each one sits on heavy stone legs, covered with green moss. The fourth bench on the right – the one with the golden plaque that remembers a boy who died too young – is my bench.

I have had other benches before. Benches in gorgeous parks and on peaceful lakes. Benches to remember friends that have passed. The cold metal bench at my mother’s grave. The long wooden Ikea bench in our kitchen with my children sitting on it, having dinner. More food under the bench than in their bellies. One time we found a whole pork chop underneath it. But that’s a whole different story.

There is also that green bench on the other side of the world. My bench on Sydney’s Northern beaches, the place I called home for a while. My spot to have a coffee in the morning and watch the day unfold: the rising sun bathing my dark surroundings in a sea of brilliant colours. Yellows and purples, pink and orange. Tiny white-capped waves rippling toward the shore, clouds like cotton candy puffing along the sky. Morning haze, ocean glaze. The colour of the morning. The colour of the sea. The colour of the coffee standing next to me. I watched ocean-swimmers, beach-runners, sunrise-watchers and downward-doggers. And me on my raggedy green bench.

It was withered, paint peeling from years of ocean winds and the hot Australian sun. Heavy branches of a single pine tree hang above it, offering dappled shade from the breaking light. The never-ending roll of the calm, deep blue sea, the sound of waves gently breaking onto the shore would offer me peace. It calmed my mind, body and soul. Oblivious to the crazy times that were ahead for us.

And then COVID hit. I had to leave and return to Canada. One bench got replaced by another. They told me my bench on Australia’s shores got taped off. In other places, they dismantled them all together.

And so, gravestones replaced ocean views. The golden beach sand was exchanged for mossy green grass – tropical plants by maple trees. COVID locked us in. Locked us down.

The daily walk to the cemetery became my new routine. The bench in the graveyard my newfound friend. My COVID companion. My guardian of grief. Grief guardians are as abundant as grief itself. They can be found in the most unexpected places – we just have to look for them: a hot shower, a good book, a friend, a spot in the sunlight, art, pets, the change in the seasons. Or a bench.

I spent a whole year on that wooden bench in the old cemetery. Summer turned into fall and leaves changed from green to blazing red. Snow began falling, and the stony gravel path turned into a long icy track.

Day after day, I spent time sitting on my bench, watching the time pass. Resting, remembering, ruminating. Wondering, waiting, wishing. I’d watch people go by. Faces covered by masks, eyes smiling at me. I’d greet people. I’d talk to people. Sometimes I’d do all I could to avoid them.

I’d sit on my bench early in the morning or late at night. I’d see familiar faces, cemetery regulars: old couples, families, single people, lonely people like me. I’d see walkers, dog owners, groups of friends walking by, all of them trying to get out, trying to find some space, trying to breathe.

Winter turned into another spring. The tree above my bench sprouted tiny pink blossoms. More people returned to the cemetery: running, jogging, sitting on benches like me. Sometimes I arrived only to find my bench occupied by someone else. How could they? I’d choose another one close by. It didn’t quite feel the same.

One day I found a sign taped to my bench: CAREFUL WET PAINT! Once old and worn, my bench was suddenly covered by a coat of fresh paint. All shiny and new. Yet, a hundred coats of paint wouldn’t hide what this bench had seen. I hesitated for a moment. I looked around, unsure what to do. And then I turned, continued on my way, and left my bench behind me. Until the next lockdown.

Everybody needs a good bench in life – green, brown, withered, new. At the ocean, on a lake or in a cemetery. Alone or to be shared. A place to sit and rest. To listen to music and sing along. Or have a chat. A place to quietly contemplate what life is all about. A place to laugh, to cry and to smile. Or simply have a cup of coffee and watch the world go by.

Oh, Superman, where are you now?

When everything’s gone wrong somehow?

Men of steel, these men of power

I’m losing control by the hour

This is the time, this is the place

So we look for the future

But there’s not much love to go around

Tell me why this is the land of confusion

The Land of Confusion (Genesis)

“Madame! I am so confused!”

The little boy in row two stares at me through his round Harry Potter style glasses, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights, bewilderment written all over his face. Not sure if the French words on the board are causing his confusion or the “new normal” of school in a pandemic,  so I try to reassure him. 

From a safe two-meter-distance, I look at him through the glare my face shield and send him an encouraging smile hidden by the mandatory mask, my sweaty hand in blue plastic gloves tentatively reaching out towards him to comfort him. 

I utter a lame “Ca va bien aller” …. It’s going to be alright! 

Muffled by fabric and vinyl layers, the French words are even less comprehensible to the confused child sitting in front of me. 

Behind all the PPE I agree: I’m confused too. And no, nothing is alright!

Welcome to Back to School in my Grade 1 French Immersion classroom. One of the thousands of elementary classrooms in Ontario which reopened their doors in September to the over one million students in the province to offer face-to-face learning. One third of these students chose online learning in separate classrooms right away, and their number is growing every day—the never-ending exodus of students to the virtual world of learning.

For example, take my class: what started with 23 six-year-olds on my class list four weeks ago is now an intimate group of 12 learners in the room. Eight of them opted for the virtual classroom right at the beginning—three more students left within the first four weeks of COVID school. 

And what four weeks it has been.

Week 1

Empty classrooms wait patiently for the arrival of yet another year of children ready to learn (or not). Shiny waxed floors, pristine whiteboards, and polished students desks neatly arranged precisely one meter apart. There isn’t more room for distance than that. 

Gone are carpets and bookshelves, computer stations, and listening centres – everything that makes an elementary classroom, especially in Grade 1, so unique. Learning in a safe environment just took us back 100 years in time. “I miss the old school!” the boy in row two said to me the other day. I know exactly what he means.

We spend week one learning how to line up with your arms stretched out (Garde la distance!), sanitizing coming in (Du gel!), sanitizing going out (Du gel!), walking on the right side (A la droite!), staying at your seat (Reste a ta place!), washing hands (Lave les mains!). 

Don’t talk! 

Don’t touch! 

Wear your mask! 

Breath (as much as that’s possible through a mask)! 

Lately, I feel more and more like a drill sergeant than an educator.

Week 2

Masks. Reusable masks with superheroes and cartoon figures on them. Paper masks with pink unicorn and cute little koalas. Smiling masks and scary ones. Masks in black and grey and pink. 

Full of hope and enthusiasm, we had decorated paper bags to keep each mask safe and clean on the first day of school. By week 2, most of these bags have ripped or disappeared into the students’ desks’ endless abyss. Masks are anywhere but safe and clean: on the floor, under chairs, in the hallway, in the yard. They hang off children’s chin or dangle around their necks. A mask makes for a great slingshot – it’s astounding how far these things can fly, especially when soaked in a day’s worth of spittle! One of my students pulls down his mask every time he sneezes – he doesn’t want to get his mask all wet and nasty! I get it – there is nothing worse than the smell of a moist and stale breath inside that thing.

Week 3

Week three brings an added layer of safety to or teaching: the face shield is declared mandatory for all teachers in addition to wearing a mask.

Learning a new language is difficult enough for a grade 1 student. With my mouth and most of my face covered by a mask, and the sound of my voice muffled by the added plastic barrier, understanding and repeating what I say in French becomes very difficult for my students. 

  “Bonjour mes amis!” I articulate as clearly as possible.

“Monmour me mami!” they repeat.

I am beginning to sound like Miss Othmar in Charlie Brown.

“Wah wah woh wah wah!”

At least I can blame it on COVID if my students’ language skills do not progress as they should!

Week 4

“Playdates are cancelled! Thanksgiving cancelled! And so is Christmas!”

Horror written all over their partially visibly little faces, my class is listening to a classmate announcing what sounds like the end of the world! 

“Well, not really!” I try to calm down my students who are now verging on hysteria. 

“There is still so much to be grateful for!” I explain lamely! “And there definitely will be Christmas – just different.” 

What does get cancelled are all virtual classrooms in our school board. Online learning is still a thing, and so is in-class instruction. But someone had the great idea that both could be done by one teacher instead of two. Gave it a fancy name and called it hybrid learning, laid off the online classroom teachers or sent them back to their homeschools, restructured all classes, and all that within a week. 

I won’t even have digested my turkey dinner, yet, when my class will have doubled in size by Wednesday, with half of the group sitting in front of me and the other half joining us via Google Meet. Watching every step I make, every breath I’m trying to take, every muffled French sound I make. “Wah wah woh wah wah!”

“I am so confused, Madame!”

“So am I, my friend. Welcome to the land of confusion!”

Ping. ‘We look forward to seeing you soon in Byron Bay, Australia!’

The sound of the incoming mail wakes me up rudely, tears me out of my dreams. With eyes full of sleep, I fumble for the phone on the nightstand next to me. The quiet hush of the morning draped over our house like a snuggly blanket. Like so many other “quaranteens” these days, my teenage children are asleep for at least another couple of hours.

In the dim light of dawn, the screen’s bright glare blinds me and forces my tired eyes to adjust: Your upcoming stay in Byron Bay, Australia.
What the hell?
I sit up straight in my bed, the sleepy feeling gone instantly, a slight sense of dread washing over me. A reservation I had made what seems like a lifetime ago and forgot to cancel.
The Gold Coast of Australia. Sounds wonderful. The only problem: I am no longer in Australia. Instead, I am on the other side of the world.

A teacher and mother of five, I recently returned to my family in Toronto from what was supposed to be a year of living my dream of teaching in Sydney, Australia.

A year of running along beaches, drinking with the locals, listening to the stories of the Indigenous.
A year of living in paradise with its technicolour flowers, ruckus causing birds, salty ocean air mixed with the acrid smell of fires burning.
A year of record heat, bush walks gone wrong during catastrophic wildfire warnings, school gyms flooded in torrential rainfalls, hugging rescued koalas.
A year of travelling along the coast of this beautiful continent and experiencing the magic of the Australian Outback. Of visiting metropolitan cities like Melbourne and Sydney, foreign fauna and flora, and mystical creatures in Middle Earth.

A year of living the dream, teaching the dream, learning how to dream.

In March 2020, nine months into my one-year sabbatical, the Coronavirus turned our lives upside down. The world got put on hold and with it all dreams and hopes, including mine. With Australian borders closing to all non-residents, I had to return early to my home in Canada.
Not the end of the world, but the end of my dream.

There are so many big disappointments, results of the virus, but it is important to remember the small ones as well: my time in Australia ending much sooner than planned. My children were not able to visit me in Downunder. The cancellation of our planned trip along the Gold Coast to see the Great Barrier Reef. Our hotel in Byron Bay, Australia. Booked. Paid. Never stayed.

This is not death, of course. Nor is it losing your business or losing your job. And it doesn’t compare to the story you hear so often: families separated by quarantine and travel bans, unable to see each other. I was able to leave on time and return to my family in Canada. I am grateful for being with them during this time of uncertainty. But still.

We don’t need to rank our disappointments. For each of us, the virus has taken something away – something that is important to us.

I think of my oldest who graduated from University this summer and had to celebrate his achievements in front of a TV screen. Surrounded by his social bubble of family and close friends, he made the best of the situation and even gave a typed up speech for his small but appreciative audience. Throwing your graduation cap in our tiny living room only to hit the ceiling, though, just isn’t the same.

I think of my high school kids who want to go back to class to be with their buddies. Or the university students that won’t return to campus this fall, but continue having to live with their parents (or their parents with them) to carry on with their studies online. Or the parents and teachers and kids that are sick and tired of the distance in distance learning.

I think of my pending hotel reservation in Byron Bay, on the other side of the world, that I forgot to cancel. Having to pay for a journey you can’t even take, doesn’t only disappoint – it stings. Like the salt of the ocean water I was supposed to swim in right now.

In a world of millions of people, there must be millions of disappointments: big and small. We are all learning to swim across the ocean of grief and disappointment.

I once read that if you swam non-stop at record-breaking speed, it would take you roughly four months to swim from Australia to North America. From Sydney to home. 120 days. And only if you would not have any trouble with the strong current, rough weather, and had a GPS to help you navigate. If you weren’t eaten by a shark and could maintain a world-record pace for seventeen weeks without any rest.
However, with adequate rest and a support boat, perhaps, the journey would take over a year.

Grief is water. Grief is a wave. It is the sea and the current. Grief is the undertow. You can’t swim away from it, and you definitely don’t swim into it. You find a way to keep going. To keep swimming in whatever direction you choose, with your strongest stroke. Even if your goggles leak or you swallow a big gulp of salty sea water. Eyes facing forward, you keep watching for that point in the distance, where the endless ocean in front of you turns into land that leads you back to life.

One hundred twenty days ago, I had to leave my dream behind, got thrown in the ocean and started to paddle like a drowning dog. I went through all stages of any grief: the denial (I’ll be back in a few months), the anger (I am mad at the world for messing with my dream), the bargaining (If I am patient, I surely can return soon to finish my year), the sadness, and the acceptance (still working on that). And I realized that while I might have to swim a little while longer ( I am not a world-record swimmer after all), I will always have a support boat of family and friends right next to me, cheering me on and helping me get across my ocean of grief.

And I’ll hold on that hotel voucher just in case! Looking forward to seeing you soon, Australia!

Introduction Creative Writing Course – Day 12: Write about the most memorable thing you ever got in the mail. (Do you find a writing prompt, or does a writing prompt find you?)

Old friends, old friends,

Sat on their parkbench like bookends

A newspaper blown through the grass

Falls on the round toes

of the high shoes of the old friends

Old Friends. Simon and Garfunkel

The familiar picture of a withered green bench, paint peeling from years of sun and rain. A rusty metal plaque indicating the name of the generous sponsor of this sweet spot of repose. The heavy branches of a sole pine tree hanging above offering dappled shade from the slowly setting sun. Scattered light filtering through the branches of the tall tree. 

The empty bench overlooking the neverending roll of the calm, deep blue sea, white crested waves gently breaking onto the shore. The sunset painting the beach a golden red. 

The photograph framed by blue paper, reflecting the deep colour of the ocean. Stark white letters announcing the title like whitecaps breaking ashore. 

The arrival of the DHL package had been announced a few days ago. Its route trackable. Track and trace. The invisible trail the shipment was leaving behind. Nantes. Leipzig. London UK. Cincinnati (of all places). Ontario. If a package could tell a story. Another great writing prompt. 

Still. Given the current situation of border closings and travel restrictions, the imminent arrival of my order seemed highly unlikely despite the written confirmations I had received. Hope dies first these days.

But there it was, arrived the day before yesterday. Wrapped in a sturdy brown cardboard box covered with multiple mailing labels. Hand delivered by an exhausted delivery man in a yellow vest, the grey of his moustache matching his hair. The order I had placed while quarantined in my bedroom a month ago, was now lying on the messy kitchen counter. The world was getting smaller. Mine had just grown bigger by the size of a book that contained a whole continent.

Careful not to damage the content, yet very impatient to get to the insides, I slit a sharp kitchen knife along the opening flap of the hard book box. Probably not the best idea, I remember thinking while I was doing so – I had a tendency to get careless and klutzy when in a rush. Downjackets slit open, fingers cut off – vivid images ran through my head while I continued unveiling my precious cargo.

Wrapped in bubble plastic, I could see the first hint of ocean blue carton shining through the clear material. Trying hard to slow myself down, to savour the moment, I removed the final layer of what was in front of me. What had taken years to take shape. A childhood dream. A ridiculous plan. A year spent abroad. And writing about it. My blog in a book. My first blook.

No, I did not get published. Nor did I self publish. An online site that turns your memories on social media into books, that’s all. Ridiculously expensive, but worth every penny. A priceless reminder of the dream I dreamt. An important step on the path I am walking on (running still hurts my knee). What I consider the first rough draft towards my personal finish line in the far distance: my thoughts from the upside down refined and condensed in a book. 

“I love your bench…mine is at Lake Ontario”, a friend tells me.

Everybody needs a good bench in life. Green, brown, withered, new. At the ocean, in the park. Alone or to be shared. A place to sit and tie your shoe. A place to stand on. Or have a chat. A place to quietly contemplate what you want from life. Or to eat your fries. 

The familiar picture of a withered green bench on the cover of a book. Life benched. Write on!

“This is fiction, except for the parts that aren’t.”

Michael Crichton. Next.

(Introduction Creative Writing Course – Day One: Write about an experience you had at a gas station or convenience store.)

“A pack of ciggies, please!”

“And a banana.”

Awkward silence at the cash. The faint noise of late night traffic outside the servo. A lone customer filling up his car. A quiet Friday night.

“A banana – please.”

Two pairs of eyes staring at me in bewilderment. 

“A banana?” the guy behind the counter asks.

“A banana? my slightly drunk friend stammers.

“Yes, a banana!” I insist, my voice equally slurred, irritation growing. 

A beautiful balmy spring night in the suburbs. It’s the weekend. Carb loading before the race next day. The reason I run. After a lovely evening spent with my favourite person in our favourite restaurant with some of our favourite food and too much of our favourite wine, we are trying to make our way home. Just a short walk through the quiet nighttime neighborhood, which, given our state of alcohol induced slow motion, might take a little longer. 

Decide to duck into the servo at the corner to grab a pack of ciggies. Durries. Darts. Because that’s what drinking does to us – my favourite person I. Runners or not, it makes us want to smoke. And eat bananas, apparently.

“Why a banana?” my friend stutters with slight irritation in her not-so-clear voice. 

Ya, why? The salesman’s eyes are asking, though way too polite to say it out loud. I’m sure he has seen it all, being the clerk at a servo in the night. Until the banana!

“‘Cause we have a race tomorrow. A run. Remember?” My turn to get annoyed and irritated. Could we just get that darn banana and go home. What did it matter what I needed the banana for? I just wanted it. My intoxicated self wanted it. Also, my head was beginning to hurt. Must be the lack of banana!

“But what do you need the banana for?” my friend patronizes, obviously even more confused than myself. I’m too tired to argue.

“For fuck’s sake, just get me that banana and let’s go!” I swear when I’m drunk. Or angry. Or any other time really.

“Ok ok. Too easy!” My friend surrenders. You pick your battles. And your bananas.

Fifty dollars for the ciggies. Five for the banana. Way beyond reason, we pay. The guy behind the counter remains silent, quietly counting his money and his blessings to finally get rid of us. We leave. Stumble home.

I can’t really remember what happened to the banana. Maybe I ate it. Or forgot it at the servo. Who cares? Too tired to do a ‘nana, we laugh all the way home.

• 

When you see a Q and it’s next to a U.

It sounds like it sounds like “qu, ” as in quack-quack and quail.

Qu-qu-qu-quiver and qu-qu-qu-quiz.

What a quality letter this letter q is!

Quiddily quiddily diddly doo—this is a song that is all about Q.

Quiddily quiddily diddly dee—Q is the letter that comes after P!

(…)

Now you know lots of words starting with Q.

Now it’s time to quit, to quit means I’m through!

Yes it’s true.

The ABC Mouse

One year. 43 posts. 36 thousand words or more.

It all started with the ABCs of a dream. My dream. 

The dream of spending a year in Australia was preceded by always looking for the journey. For riding up and down winding roads on an orange folding bike. Fruit snack packed.

The ABCs of a dream. April 2019

This is Z. Or at least Q. The Q in the alphabet of my dream. Not quite finished, but almost at the end. Q … what? Quoi? 

My number 2 son’s favourite movie is World War Z. Watched it a gazillion times. Not so much anymore lately, as there is enough apocalypse going on in the real world. Minus the zombies. Though lately I do feel like one sometimes. But that’s a different story. The Z stands for zombies, it turns out.  I always thought the Z stood for the end. Final. Done. 

Not quite yet. Not yet Z. 

So let’s stick with the letter Q.

Seventeenth letter in the alphabet. The most useless letter in the English alphabet or not. Never alone, always to be found with his/her BFF the U. A voiceless uvular plosive (sounds exciting, but really just a sound you make in the back of your mouth), stands for heat in and electrical charge in Physics. Who knew? Q?

There is only one letter Q tile in the game of Scrabble. Gets you 10 points. Q for quarantine. Q for thank you. 10q . Thank you.

ABC. Antecedent-Behaviour-Conclusion. What came first was my dream to spend a year abroad to teach and travel and write. And so I did – the B of my dream. And then the C – conclusion. Part of my dream has come to the end. The Z. Done the teaching. Done the travelling. Done the writing about it.

Not quite. Q. 

If you feel the urge to write, do it without thinking too hard about the consequences or the quality. Worst case, no one reads it. Best case, your words will touch someone else and what could be better than that?

Matthew Hague. CBC Writing Contest 2020

For a year it has been my Saturday morning routine to get a weird long black at the local coffee shop. Buy the paper and a fresh croissant (Just one? she would ask me – every time! Talking about feeling awkward living on your own). Return to my little blue house and start writing about my time in Downunder. Part of living the dream was writing about it. Sharing it. 

So what do you do when a dream comes true? You enjoy it (oh I do). You share it (doing that with you). And you are grateful (Thank you).

Pinch me. Post from October 2019

Travelling the world has always been my dream and probably always will be. The wanderlust in me, as someone put it just recently, unknowingly describing me so perfectly. 

But so is writing.

A light blue journal with dreamy white clouds on it  – I remember my first writing book received as a gift from my mother when I was maybe eight or nine. The woman who instilled the love for reading in me, who introduced me to the secret world of libraries and bookstores, who would always let you buy as many books as you wanted – even though the pile of 36 romantic novel paperbacks stacked up high next to me on that back seat in our car driving to some summer destination did seem excessively extravagant, even to me!

 I remember sitting in front of that first pristine page of the light blue book, unfilled lines staring at me, fountain pen at hand, fingers cramping, my mind as empty as the paper in front of me . I remember so desperately wanting to write a book, write something, write. 

A box full of countless light blue cloud covered journals and other books later, hidden away in my bedroom closet, of no interest to no one, yet closed up with duct tape just in case, writing has become another one of my dreams. Makes me happy. Keeps me sane. And while it is always somewhat of a solitary act to sit at that patio table in front of my little blue house or at the old scrapped up desk in my chilly bedroom back home, it never makes me feel alone. In fact, it connects me to others like nothing else would do. 

So what am I up to during Q? 

I’m going to take a break from blogging. Because my dream of travelling and teaching abroad is taking a break too. After the letter Q comes R. Rest. Read. And write. W. Work on my writing. Signed up for a class. Creative writing here I come.

I’m still ways away from the letter Z. Still looking for those cherries. Thank you for reading. Thank you for riding along with me on my orange bike . Than-Q!

Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, or making friends. It’s about getting up, getting well and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.

Stephen King. On writing

I will not forsake, the colors that you bring

But the nights you filled with fireworks, they

They left you with nothing

I am still enchanted by the light you brought to me

I listen through your ears

And through your eyes I can see (…)

You’ve got to get yourself together

You’ve got stuck in a moment

And now you can’t get out of it

Don’t say that later will be better

Now you’re stuck in a moment

And you can’t get out of it

And if, and if the night runs over

And if the day won’t last

And if your way should falter

Along the stony pass

It’s just a moment, this time will pass

Stuck in a moment. U2

Madame! You are frozen!

Out-of-the-mouths-of-babes. I was indeed frozen – inside and out. My face, once again, permanently locked in a ghostly grimace. Online teaching with 21 students neatly arranged in a perfect grid. Microphones off, everybody listening. Some are still chewing on their breakfast. Others are having a drink. Lots of pyjama tops and uncombed hair. Myself included. 

Bad connection. Conversations dropped. Please join again. By the time I make it back into my virtual classroom, all hell has broken loose. Online chaos. 21 microphones on, students yelling, chatting, wondering “Where did she go?”. I’m still here guys. I’m just frozen. It takes a while to calm everybody down again, have them turn off their sound. Distant classroom management. We continue in our morning routine.

Frozen. Stuck. Caught in a montage of Groundhog Day and The Truman Show. Eat. Teach. Sleep. Repeat. Mind drifting to times gone by. Memories. Moments. Nostalgia. Bringing up positive moments of the past. Trying to focus on the goodness of those past memories instead of feeling down. The danger of refusal to move onto new things. 

There are a lot of games and challenges on social media these days. Feeble attempts to make you feel good. Flood the world with positive pictures instead of negativity. Glorious running moments, beautiful holiday pics, cute childhood memories.

Frozen moments.

“If nostalgia acts as a store of positive moments to call back when you are feeling down, you have to create new ones before the storage runs out.” (T. Klosowski, Lifehacker)

How do you create new positive moments in a time of crisis, of self-isolation and social distancing? How do you continue writing a blog about a year of living your dream when that dream has abruptly ended. How do you carry on after months of breathtaking beaches and once-in-a-lifetime experiences. How do you feed your dromomania, your travel addiction, your wanderlust when you are stuck in a moment. Frozen.

Wanderlust. There are a ton of German expressions that can be found in the English language. Compact and strangely entertaining.

There are the food related ones like schnitzel, pretzel, bratwurst, and sauerkraut. 

The depressing ones: angst, kaput, verboten, or weltschmerz.

The fun words like fahrvergnugen and autobahn, oktoberfest and schadenfreude, kindergarten and wunderkind, doppelganger and ubermensch. Gesundheit! Ja!

And then there are the newly minted, German pandemic related words. Hamsterkauf (hoarding stuff), geisterspiele (ghost matches in soccer), offnungsdiskussionsorgien (orgies related to opening discussions). Ersatz life.

Ersatz. The imitation of something. Not quite as good as the real thing, but it’ll do. For now. Helps us get by. Gets us through these tough times. Online concerts, chats, game nights, virtual runs, books readings, happy hour. 

Not being able to travel myself, I am beginning to live through other people’s experiences. Virtual wandering. Distant dreaming. Ersatz life. The imitation of something that is not. Yet it helps satisfy my uncontrollable urge to walk and wander. Lets me be somewhere else. Allows me to dream up future travel plans. Something to look forward to when it is safe to journey again. 

Until then, let me cherish my frozen moments. Let me live my ersatz life. Let me try to slow it down and appreciate what is around me. Walking, wandering, cloud-gazing, wondering.

It’s just a moment. This time will pass.

You can gaze out the window get mad and get madder,

Throw your hands in the air, say “What does it matter?”;

But it don’t do no good to get angry,

So help me I know

For a heart stained in anger grows weak and grows bitter.

You become your own prisoner as you watch yourself sit there

Wrapped up in a trap of your very own

Chain of sorrow.

John Prine. Bruised Orange (Chain of Sorrow)

A giant rainbow in someone’s window: It’s going to be ok. 

My first run post-quarantine. Ecstasy can’t be much better than this. It’s like I’m floating on a cloud. My aching knee suddenly forgotten. Run Gisi Run! Canada slowly waking up from hibernation. Hibernacion – how the Spanish call their economic hibernation. Corona Trivia Part 2.

The intense colours of the rainbow shyly peeking through dead leaves and the grey grass of winter. The brilliant red of a cardinal cheekily following me. The bright yellow of daffodils blooming in front yards. New green sprouts. The bolt cobalt blue of tiny scilla flowers spreading everywhere. The purple of my fingers in the cold. Corona rainbow all around me! Life beyond the big blue tarp.

The big blue tarp. For two weeks I have been staring at it. Two weeks. Fourteen days. 240 hours. 200,000 minutes. But who’s counting. The shiny sheer of the plastic material, held up by black duck tape stuck to the ceiling. Single pieces of adhesive having come undone, allowing the giant plastic curtain to slowly fall. Leftover tape and small pieces of broken plaster drawing an imaginary line. My blue canvas of life in quarantine.

How to write about my time behind the blue tarp without being a) boring (cause everyone has their own blue tarp these days) or b) depressing or c) both? The five stages of grief. The five stages of quarantine: Denial (thinking that this is just momentarily, and that I’ll be continuing my Australian adventures very soon). Anger (angry about being locked up, missing the ocean and the sun, angry at that very ocean and the sun for continuing to be so beautiful). Bargaining (should have, could have, all the what-ifs). Sadness (when Good Friday becomes Bad Friday). Acceptance (Hey, I’m kind of liking this life behind the big blue tarp…Maybe I’ll just stay here forever!) Stages of quarantine. Chain of sorrow. Anger. Frustration. Accepting what we cannot change.

Grief. A natural, difficult part of your life that cannot easily be explained in stages. Grieving the losses of the Corona Virus. The big losses. The obvious ones and the less obvious ones. There is no hierarchy in pain. Pain is pain, I read the other day. Why go on about my time in Australia coming to an abrupt end, when I can be with my family again? Separated by a huge piece of plastic, but still. Pain and gain. Pain is pain. 

Being behind the blue tarp made me anxious. Which isn’t so bad, because it also made me be more active. Started a new job, signed up for an online creative writing class, actually did my knee exercises. Anxiety turned into productivity. It’s the grief that gets you. Having to sit with your pain, your big and small losses. 

A busy day in quarantine:

Morning: Teaching 21 first graders online. 21 little faces on my screen. Children I have never met before. Parents in the background, that I have never met before. From a school I have never been at. Twenty minutes of online instructions every morning. It’s a bit like keeping 21 puppies in a basket. One falls off the chair, one can’t hear you (but makes herself heard very loud and clear), lots of little heads you can only see a part of. Please turn your microphone off! Microphone on! No messaging about Minecraft during your lessons please! Show me how you feel with a thumbs up. Or down… Toothless grins. Muted screens. I love seeing their smiling faces every morning. Bonjour Mme Koehl! Bonjour mes amis!

Lunch: Scrambled eggs and potatoe salad. Every day. Prepared by one of my sons behind the blue tarp, pushed through the little gap between plastic and wall. There is comfort in routine.

Afternoon: Teaching yet again – this time my class in Sydney. Different time zone. Different continent. Different Language. Grief Stage 1: Denial/Confusion. I’m often not sure where I am. When I am. Who I am. Last stretch before Easter break. Students I have known for almost a year. I miss their little faces. 

Evenings: Watching every show on Netflix. 

Nights: Telling my body (and mind) it’s time to sleep. 

Morning: Wake up. Get up. Repeat.  

Both/And Thinking. Feeling the loss in the present AND feeling safe exactly where we are. To be honest, I didn’t mind my time in quarantine – well, at least most of the time. Good books, chatting with students in virtual classrooms, talking with a friend, celebrating birthdays through the blue tarp, music, movies, moments..

In the end, quarantine ended as unexpectedly and surprisingly as so many things before. An email from the Government of Canada, declaring me free to go. And off I went. Tearing down that ugly blue tarp, ripping down pieces of tape, accidentally breaking parts of the ceiling in the process. Social distancing is still a thing, and hugging a teenager has never been more awkward, but it is good to see things, hear things, feel things. High on deprivation. My second first day home! Welcome home Canada!

I love that people smile when you greet them on your run from a safe two-metre distance.

I love that there are still people out there that refuse to be hardened by this.

I love that people are reaching out to me.

I love that I am forced to use technology in ways I never thought I would.

They call me the connector. Bringing people together is what I like to do. I love that we are staying connected to keep some semblance of what’s important in life, which to me is connectivity.

The people to truly treasure in life are those who have seen you at your worst – and still think you are the best. The people who are happy for your happiness – and sad for your sadness – and make crystal clear that they are there for you – no matter what.

Karen Salmansohn

Why, in his life of frequent travel, had he never recognized the beauty of flight. The improbability of it. The sound of the engines faded, the airplane receding into blue until it was folded into silence and became a far-distant dot in the sky. 

Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven

 

Empty entrance halls. Deserted hallways. An eerie and all-encompassing silence wrapping around me. Closed storefronts. Frozen mannequins looking longingly out of darkened store windows. Huggable (don’t hug!) koalas behind black plastic fences. Mimosas at the barred bar a distant memory. The squeaking noise of luggage wheels on the vinyl floor.  Hushed voices of desperate strangers in the same boat (plane?) as me. Stale breath behind my flimsy mask. Sweaty hands in plastic gloves. Trying hard not to cough. Nervous cough. Suspicious looks from passersby. Don’t trust anyone. Not even yourself.

I like a good dystopian story. They’re my favourite actually. The Road. Station Eleven. Handmaid’s Tale. Can’t even count the times I’ve watched The Day after tomorrow. And not just because of Jake G. It’s my favourite genre. Well, it used to be. Because lately I feel like I’m in a movie. The wrong one.

How did I get here? When did all this start? That silly post on FB about March having 300 days… it does feel like it. Only a month ago, I was sitting on my green wooden bench in Newport Beach, Australia, overlooking the ocean. Now I’m in quarantine in Toronto, Canada, staring at a blue plastic tarp. 

“Wait, what happened?”, a friend of mine messages, having missed the last scoop. Not talking for a few weeks can make a big difference these days. “Everything is always keep changing.” A quote I read the other day.  Makes no sense, but a lot of sense to me. What happened in between the green wooden bench and the blue plastic tarp? 

Corona happened. Canada closing its borders. Australia too. Students being pulled out of class to leave for the airport immediately. Classes cancelled. Moving off-campus, on-line. Distant. Remote. Virtual. Call it what you want. 

Mild symptoms. My head hurting. Can’t breath. Self-isolation. Tasmania closing its borders. Easter trip cancelled. Times when that still mattered. Corona testing. Stick up your nose. Pain in the ass. Negative. Alone. Alone. Alone. Last plane home. Booked. Doubts. Regrets. Worries. Green wooden bench.

Goodbye school. Goodbye friends. Goodbye beach. When saying goodbye is not allowed. Last hug. Last long black. Lasts that last forever. Nothing lasts forever. Beauty and terror. No feeling is final. Rilke.

The rain I had asked for – it is here. Pounding on the metal roof of my little blue house. No breathtaking sunrise. No kookaburra laugh. Serves me right. Last morning in paradise. Downpour in Downunder. “Sydney is crying from the sky!”, a friend messages me. Yes, and so am I. 

A year packed in three heavy suitcases. One heavy heart. Leaving on a jet plane. When every cheesy song suddenly makes sense. Feeling awkward at the airport. How do you say goodbye from a 2 metre distance? You don’t. 

Security guards in yellow vests, blocking the entrance to the terminal. Passport? Yes. Fever? No. You’re good to go. A familiar glance at the flight monitores. All departing flights fitting on one screen. Air Canada 34 to Vancouver. The ticketing hall a silent tomb. Passport? Yes. Fever? No. Three heavy suitcases. A sinking feeling. You’re good to go. 

Security check. Wiping luggage containers. Wiping bags. Wiping hands. Wiping. Wiping. Wiping. Did you know, the right thumb gets cleaned the least when washing hands. I just thought I’d throw that in there. Corona Trivia. 

Walking. Waiting. Wiping. Boarding. Seating. Wiping. Wiping tables. Wiping arm rests. Wiping tears. Shit, I don’t have any wipes. A shy offer from my across-the-aisle neighbour. Mixed with a small dose of suspicion. Kindness in the times of Corona. 

A long silent flight – not even the kids are making a sound. Silenced by masks, interrupted only by stale cucumber sandwiches being thrown at you from a safe distance. Followed by bottled water. Twice. Not much else happens.

Arrival in Canada. When even the plane doesn’t seem to be able to make up its mind. Should I stay or should I go? Greeted not by flowers and balloons, but by signs ordering you to self-isolate. I’m happy to oblige.

Have you ever been picked up at the airport and you can’t even hug your own family? Heave  those 3 heavy suitcases into the trunk of your own car yourself. Wave at your kids from a 2 metre distance and drive home on your own? Have you ever sat behind a blue plastic tarp, that divides the kitchen into half, having dinner by yourself, hearing whispers behind your own personal Berlin Wall? I hear my green wooden bench got taped off. Beaches are closed. In Germany they are dismantling park benches all together, someone tells me. Some measures yield strange blossoms. Corona Spring.

Little joys do sprout, even when  – or maybe because of – being in quarantine. Books and bonbons. Flowers delivered. My Quarantine Countdown Calendar (the best!). The delicious meals my kids serve (no, seriously, they definitely have learned to cook this year). Teaching kids in Toronto in the morning. Teaching kids in Sydney at night. A baby being born to a friend. An adopted child coming home for the first time. Packages mailed (albeit returned to sender due to Corona Stop). Messages. Pictures. Skyping. Zooming. Talking. Toasting. Story time online. A sunny patch in my backyard. At least my knee is healing.

Corona virus sucks. I’m not gonna lie. So does self-isolation. Don’t kid yourself. But this too shall pass. They say, life will never be the same. Maybe. But the Straya virus is stronger and I’m looking forward to the cure! Cheers!

You don’t need to say goodbye to me. You never did. 

Can you catch the air in your hand?

I know you can’t.

Can you hold the ocean in your palm?

No.

Can you hold memories in your heart?

I know that you can. (…)

I do need to say goodbye. It feels like the story has no ending if you don’t say goodbye. 

Maybe the story should never end, my son.

 Lara Williamson. The Boy who sailed the ocean in an armchair

 

I demand rain. Storms. Heavy clouds. Darkness. Dampness. Dread.

Instead, yet another gorgeous sun-rise. Breathtakingly beautiful. Last weird long black at the beach – MY BEACH – and I watch the sun bath my dark surroundings in an ocean of brilliant colours. Yellows and purples, pink and orange. Tiny white-capped waves rippling towards the shore, clouds like cotton candy puffing peacefully along in the sky. I don’t know whether to smile or cry.

Schools in Sydney remain open, but children are being taught online. It’s an interesting concept, let’s put it that way. Online roll-calls, video chats, pre-recorded lessons and lots and lots of emails and questions from parents. Lots! Alone in my flat, my laptop and me – teaching has suddenly become a very lonely job. 

To keep my sanity, I start the day – every day now – with a weird long black from my favourite coffee shop, a walk to the beach and some time on my beloved green bench. 

And it’s here that I say goodbye. Goodbye to my home from home. My love of my life. My happiest place. Nature puts on a final show for me. A Best of The Beaches. The grand finale. Encore after encore until I can’t applaud anymore. 

Every morning the same sight, yet a different scene. Ominous clouds, lit up by a fiery ball, pastel hues and shades of blues. Morning haze, ocean glaze, sunrise painting the sky pink. Color of the morning sky. Color of the sea. Color of the morning coffee standing next to me. 

Green wooden bench. Morning dew dampness. Wet from early morning rains. Or still warm from yesterday’s sun. I sit and stare. Sitting. Waiting. Wishing.

Damn you, Corona! I am mad. I am angry. I am sad. This  is not how this was supposed to end. My year of teaching the dream. Learning to swim against the tide of disappointment. Only one of the many disappointments we all experience right now . Big and small. The virus takes away something from all of us. And – for each one of us at least – it is something big. 

Catching the last plane home to Toronto tomorrow, I’m leaving, yet,  I’m not ready to go. Head over heart. Good call! Safe choice! The right thing to do. My heart broken into two. One half staying here, the other already with my family back home. I wish I had a magic eight ball to see where all this will end. When it will end and how. I think we all would like that.

I’m not done with my dream, yet. So instead of saying STOP! I press pause. I will be back – thousands of dollars stuck in travel vouchers will make sure of that. For now, I leave you with a week’s worth of glorious sunrises and then I’ll give you a break from  f***ing gorgeous beaches. Cheers! Hasta la vista! I’ll be back baby!