ALL THINGS WILD AND WONDERFUL

My son Greg said something the other day that made Cedric and I laugh. He said that when he wakes up in the morning, he enjoys a couple of blissful seconds of normality before reality kicks in: “Oh yeah. Coronavirus. Shit!” Of course, it was the way he said it, in a deep, growly voice that made us laugh, because it really isn’t funny at all. Life right now is like a horror version of  “Groundhog Day”, the film made years ago starring Bill Murray. It’s “Coronavirus Day”, day in, day out, no respite. I liked the version with Bill and the cute furry animal much better.

Nevertheless, whenever I think about the moment when Greg said “Oh yeah. Coronavirus. Shit!”, it makes me smile just a little.

And by God do we need to find things that make us smile at the moment. There’s a tender spot, like a soft ache, in my solar plexus on most days. I’m no expert on chakras, but I’m guessing it’s my heart chakra, and my heart definitely aches for humanity right now. There are apparently about one billion people in confinement all over the world today. How mad is that?

I also have a tiny ache in the base of my throat (not a sore throat, thankfully), like a little lump of sadness, that comes and goes all day long. I get random adrenaline rushes and random palpitations and random bouts of anxiety that I can usually control using breathing techniques. Writing helps a lot. Knitting, too. 

Which brings me back to things that make me smile inside. 

Every night at seven-thirty, Greg, Cedric and I gather in front of the television to watch the news.  Granted, watching the news isn’t a joyful experience by any stretch of the imagination; it would be much nicer for the three of us to sit down and watch something light and uplifting, a film or a show. So far that hasn’t happened, but while there’s life… right?  Nevertheless, the simple fact that the three of us actually sit down to watch something all together every single night is really nice; there’s something reassuring and soft about it (here comes that tiny lump in my throat again). Incidentally, there is positive news related to Covid19, but it tends to be denied coverage. Thousands of people are recovering from really bad cases of Covid19.  The other day, somewhere in Switzerland, a 98 year-old lady came out of the intensive care unit of a hospital and went home, all better, delighted to see her cat and to be able to sit in her garden. That is wonderful news. We need more news like that.

I love talking to my parents everyday. I can’t go and see them because they live just across the border in France, and the borders are closed. But my parents seem happy enough, taking care of their garden, and playing Scrabble, and watching way too much scary news on television. I worry that they can’t get their shopping delivered, but my father emails his shopping list to the little supermarket in the next village, and then the owner of the supermarket gets everything ready for when my father drives over. The shopping is carried out and put into the car, and then my father drives straight home again. I wish I could have arranged something better than that, but it’s the best, safest system we’ve been able to set up for them so far.

I’m grateful for the last Sunday lunch I had with my parents and my brother about three weeks ago (I think it was three weeks ago; it’s crazy how everyone I speak to seems to be losing track of time), how we joked about not being able to physically hug one another, greeting each other by knocking our feet and elbows together. Things seemed serious already, but nowhere near as serious as they became within a couple of days. I often think about that lovely little walk in the sunshine we went on, heading down to the pretty little waterfall my mother so admires, where we hovered for a while altogether, just enjoying the simplicity of the moment in all its peace and beauty and love. The memory makes me smile, triggering that gentle ache, that tiny lump. 

With my parents, just before confinement. Thanks, Nick, for taking the photo :)

I managed to spend more time at the stables this week, taking care of Dominic and Diandra. Everyone there is super careful regarding social distancing, and we’re all extremely disciplined with all the necessary sanitary precautions, washing our hands and disinfecting our hands and keeping our hands away from our faces. 

Being with my horses again has lifted my spirits. Horses are unique; they force you to focus entirely on the moment. I hadn’t seen Dom, my older horse, in over a week as he’d been out in the field when I’d gone last Monday, when we were released from quarantine. I’d taken care of DeeDee (Diandra), but then I got all stressed out and anxious and palpitationy and had to go home. 

Diandra aka DeeDee

Dominic! It was Christmas Day so of course I wore sparkles

Dom was funny the first time he saw me again, he was all aloof and standoffish, clearly annoyed with me for not having been around to make a fuss of him for far too long as far as he was concerned. Initially, I’d decided I wouldn’t ride at all during Covid19 confinement, but by Thursday I caved and tacked him up. We stuck to super basic work (Dom is recovering from an injury so fancy stuff is out of the question for now anyway), and it felt really good, and he was all snorty and happy, and we both had a nice time. Dom is a mature gentleman now, so he’s very safe and reliable. I’m not riding DeeDee; even if she’s super kind, she’s still extremely green and it would be stupid to take the risk, so she’s getting her daily exercise in other ways. But just grooming her, seeing her big white blaze on her pretty face and enjoying her gentle personality makes me happy. We’re so lucky over here in Switzerland to still be able to go to the stables and take care of our horses in such stressful times. Nevertheless, I must admit that once I’ve finished with them I’m also very relieved to get back into the car and go home to confinement! 

Funnily enough, even the short trip in the car to and from the stables is different these days. For example, heading back towards confinement this morning, I saw a flock of big birds flying north in a perfect V formation. I stopped in the middle of the road to watch them (no traffic!), and took a photograph. The photo is crap, but the sight of them flying overhead, their squadron leader slightly out in front, was amazing. A few minutes later, I saw a couple walking along the cycling lane of the main road leading a dog and a pony! Again, amazing!

My crap photo of the big birds flying in formation!!!

When I turned onto my little street, I was struck by how beautiful it looked, the trees all flirty-pretty in their frills of pastel blossom, perfectly offset by the multiple shades of yellow of the forsythia and the daffodils and the primroses, and the calming blues and purples in the hyacinth and crocus and violets. There’s a bright pink magnolia tree in our neighbour’s garden that deserves to be on TV right now.

I got home, made myself a cup of coffee and took a walk around my garden, taking stock of how everything is slowly coming back to life. Deep in the pond, the waterlilies are reaching for the surface of the water with their slightly eerie looking tentacles. The water irises are sprouting vivid green spears among the rocks around the edge. On the surface of the water, bright yellow clusters of water buttercups are beginning to flower. At the far end of the pond, the fish were having a very important meeting beneath the weeping pine tree. Badu, the cat, sat in the sunshine, mesmerized by something totally invisible to me. There was no sign of the ducks, but hopefully they’ll be back soon. They make me smile.  And the heron will hopefully turn up again soon, too. Our resident royal blue dragonflies will be back in a couple of months, zooming among the multicoloured tapestry of waterlilies like helicopters for fairies. Hopefully, the little packets of seeds I’ve ordered online will arrive next week and eventually provide us with beautiful flowers and delicious vegetables.

Hopefully, in a few months, the pond will again be covered in waterlilies. Sadly, Leo, my lovely little dog, is no longer with us. He made a surprise visit to me by appearing when I uploaded this photo.

Hopefully…

Hopefully feels like a big word at the moment. Even the sound of it is wistful; there’s a gentle sigh within it if you listen carefully. It’s a word that makes you take a breath. Pay even closer attention to the way it sounds and you will realise that it ends by lifting the corners of your mouth into the teeniest of smiles. It really does, I promise!

One day, we’ll wake up and we’ll say, “Oh yay! No more Coronavirus! Woohoo!”

Until then, be safe, see the beauty and feel the love. 

Francesca