Singing in the Dark Times

In the dark times
Will there also be singing?
Yes, there will be singing
About the dark times.
Bertolt Brecht

Hey friends, it’s been a while! I wasn’t sure whether anyone would have any interest in this blog this far down the line, especially in these strange times, but the handful of people I asked were overwhelmingly positive and encouraging, and I’ve missed connecting with you all over posts. So here I am.

My last post foreshadowed my hiatus, although I was only semi aware of it looming at the time. It was in April, a year ago, before the (Antipodean) winter pressures hit and work became all-demanding, all-consuming. From August through November I took three and half months off work to spend with my family; a time in which I needed to be present, not online. Although I’ve been back at work (and on this side of the world) since November, I didn’t want to start writing again until my heart was really in it.

What follows are thoughts I’ve been wrestling with for the past year or more. Feelings I had been examining from every possible angle. All thrown abruptly under a spotlight as international travel grinds to a halt and I find myself, for all intents and purposes, stranded on this beautiful island. What it means to be here, what it means to be Home.

Whether you’re self-isolating, battling at work, or weathering a weird calm before the storm, I hope you’re able to take a moment to make yourself a cup of tea and find some enjoyment (and maybe also recognition) in the messy ramble that follows.

I read an essay a few years ago that I have never been able to quite shake from my thoughts: James Woods’ On Not Going Home. As a Englishman who moved to the USA initially without any intention of staying there, he discusses conflicting feelings.

I see a familiar life: the clapboard houses, the porches, the heat-mirage hanging over the patched road (snakes of asphalt like black chewing gum), the grey cement sidewalks (signed in one place, when the cement was new, by three young siblings), the heavy maple trees, the unkempt willow down at the end, an old white Cadillac with the bumper sticker ‘Ted Kennedy has killed more people than my gun,’ and I feel ... nothing: some recognition, but no comprehension, no real connection, no past, despite all the years I have lived there – just a tugging distance from it all. A panic suddenly overtakes me, and I wonder: how did I get here? And then the moment passes, and ordinary life closes itself around what had seemed, for a moment, a desperate lack.

Ordinary life closing around a desperate lack.

I’ve felt that desperate lack, I touched upon it in the last post I wrote. It crept up on me at some point during the rainy winter after K left for the UK and persisted through the next twelve months, constantly bubbling under the surface of every day life, occasionally breaking through and leaving me raw and bereft. It became the lens through which I examined every decision I made, each one the more troubling and heavy for it. Should I apply for this job? Should I extend my visa? Should I register for the training program here? Or do my family need me at home right now? Can I justify staying in New Zealand? Is it possible for me to build a life so far away from all I know? There must be countless people here, countless people I know, who have felt similarly at times. But turning to others brought me no consolation or clarity.

So I took time out to be with my family. Perhaps the best decision I’ve ever made. But difficult, at first. It is so easy to bury fears in the routine busyness and distraction of everyday life, to avoid uncomfortable thoughts without even knowing exactly what it is we’re avoiding, to carry on ignoring things we don’t know how to address.

The intensity with which I love and miss my family and Europe. The cold terror of something happening to my parents, or my baby brother. The depth of the love I feel for K and New Zealand. The loneliness at living so far away from my parents, siblings and closest friends. The all-consuming desire to be good at my job, the disappointment I felt working in the UK, the fulfillment I get from working here.

Everything related ultimately to that underlying dilemma: can I be At Home in New Zealand? Not knowing how to answer the question, finding the feelings it provoked too painful to simply feel, I had given all of my attention over to my work. With my day to day structure gone, different coping mechanisms emerged. I noticed myself overeating, often to the point of discomfort, to counter the more uncomfortable sensation of anxiety churning in my stomach. I watched my brain burn itself out with mindless scrolling, blocking thoughts too uncertain to allow. I let my mind run amok with its own daemons: reproachful and rueful memories so emotionally and unpleasantly loaded that they were a sure-fire guarantee to distract me from whatever I was struggling with in the moment.

Where do you begin, when you’ve been so out of touch? I knew I needed to be back with my family; in a first instance that was all I could manage. Conversations deep into the night, meals cramped around makeshift tables, long walks in Wytham woods. Assuming responsibilities I had laid aside, rebuilding relationships stretched thin. I am so glad I got to spend time with my grandfather before he passed away, so glad I was around to meet my cousin’s second child, so glad I could be part of family reunions. And so glad too for the chance to really integrate K into our clan.

I also needed the time simply to be present in the UK. To be outside among plants and trees I had grown up with, back in amidst a landscape familiar and soothing. The particular tones and hues of green and grey, of soil and rain, of brick and grime, the sing song of different accents, the humdrum of urban sounds, the dull softness of the light.

I am driven, I think, at my core, by a fear of Time Lost. I have always wanted to be both up early and in bed late, relishing those bookends to the day, as though somehow squeezing fruit to its pulp, extracting every last drop of nectar. I have always wanted it all, to be curled up inside with a book, to be windblown out up on a mountain, to be alone, to be with others, to be learning, to already know, to be exploring, to be at home. But there is no gain without loss. I suppose that is what underlies it all. There is only so much a life can hold.

The dark damp drive from Oxford to Cheltenham, the salty rain lashing down on the sands of Weston, crisp frosty winter runs, cold glorious October evenings. The soft cooing of wood-pigeons in the morning, pink clouds and baby blue skies reflected in sheets of window-glass, trees lit up in Autumn colours, wind blowing ever colder, summer daisies dotted through playing fields. These were the kind of things that made up that feeling of desperate lack. My own personal reel of negatives.

I spent my “time off” leaning into what felt most important. Family, country, friends. The way I filled my life as a child: reading, writing, exploring. The joys I’d discovered on my way to adulthood: cooking, running, yoga. And most of all I worked hard at breaking down all of the barriers I had so successfully put in place to try protect myself from ever feeling bad. I let those feelings overwhelm me, so that I could attempt to work them through.

I feel so much better. Of course I wish I could have had more time, there were so many more of you I wanted to see, so many more places I wanted to return to. But I did what I could with what I had. I have lost weight, because I learnt to stop eating as a way of buffering my emotions. I feel strong again, more myself that I have felt for years. I am happier and more confident and less afraid. And most importantly, in returning to those things that were so important to me as a child, I feel that I have come Home.

I still miss England, and my family. France too, and all of my friends. The circumstances have not changed. What is different is the way in which I am able to think about them, my awareness of the feelings that those thoughts engender. As you move through Auckland airport, heading towards arrivals, there is a corridor lined with the most beautiful scenery and brought alive with a soundtrack that seems to follow your steps: crashing waves, cicadas, native birdsong. The first time I walked through that corridor I was struck by how beautiful and unfamiliar it was. This time it felt like coming Home.

I often think how strange it is that we are all so accepting of this structure to which our lives conform. I love my job. I find it endlessly stimulating and fulfilling: there’s always more to learn, more to master, more to see. But there is also so much more in the world that is important to me, so much more I hope to weave into this strange tapestry of life. I suppose there are many choices I have already made, such as turning to medicine later in life, or coming out here in the first place, that reflect this desire. But in a sense these few short months felt like a first real step towards a more deliberate way of life. Time taken not to be filled with wonder and awe, but to return to my roots and untangle that inner mess.

I deliberately chose not to write about things at work in this post. I think there’s enough output out there already, certainly enough to make me feel constantly on the edge of overwhelm. But I chose this title for my blog because I believe there are always beautiful unexpected things to come out of dark times. I’m going to wrap this up here, leaving you with my own little list of current happy things: homemade soup with melted cheese, quiet roads, Tui birdsong, ridiculous number-plates, Julia Jacklin, lazy weekend lie-ins, reading outside on the deck, puppy snores, Yoga with Adriene, group whatsapp calls.