Imagination under attack

How are you?

There’s this thing that we keep doing - Asking each other “How are you?” and we keep saying fine, but I don’t know that any of us are that fine.

This feeling I have now is like that of the early days with my babies. They were fresh and new, and we cocooned inside and every trip out felt like some kind of adventure. Our home was a fortress, sanctuary, cage.

It was like walking through sludge. There was joy of course, lots of it. But I began to fear things outside. I saw things with new eyes. The news kept pouring in and I’d try to jam the windows shut but it seeped in, and in, and in. The world felt small but it also felt too big.

Being a writer in 2021 isn’t as easy as it was in previous years. I am tired of writing funny lockdown ditties. Tired of always looking for a bright side. The snarky fun of eye-rolling at anti-vaxxers has well and truly worn off as they stalk social media selling death.

Satire feels near impossible when you can’t tell it from real life.

It feels impossible to write about anything except the raw pain of just missing your family with no end in sight. Destination closed to entry. I try to write about the Met Gala but instead all I can think about is the fear that I can’t get to them, when I always could before.

It was never meant to be this way.

The being able to do nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing, nothing, nothing for the people you love. It’s a nothingness that seeps into your bones. It’s the nothing that makes them ache.

I want to write about how I miss seeing people smile, but then I picture that smirking woman campaigning against wearing a mask. I picture her laughing at a grieving child. And I think, we don’t deserve smiles anyway.

I think about how people say shaming people is wrong, but these people have no shame anyway. I think about of all the rage emerging from the sadness. I think about the hidden struggles. The loss of faith. The anger.

And I wonder how anyone copes with the everything of it all.

My friend said to me “every time I try to imagine the future, a door slams. The imagination is under attack”.

And that is what it feels like. Because we’re not made for this. And yet, there’s nothing to change it. We have to do it.

So, how then? I try to conjure a time of no masks and levels and no this is a Covid 19 announcement.

The long queue at Customs. The walk into Sydney Airport. My sister and I screaming, laughing, crying as we squeeze each other tight. The kids surrounding us.

Cuddles on the couch, my kids, their cousins, bare chested in the heat, getting the hose out shrieking. The cat making herself scarce.

Piling them into their beds with a movie. Our husbands chatting away. Putting on make-up in the mirror together. Heading out.

Cocktails where we share a straw, decide we should buy a packet of cigarettes, cackling as we pretend, we are 16 again. Coughing, people watching, hearing that song that’s ours.

Dancing together, screaming the words, strangers all around us singing too. Sweat and happiness. Bubbles cheered. New friends. A bus ride with our hands holding tight to the rails, my head against the cool window glass, hers on my shoulder.

Morning. Hangovers and coffee. The kids, a thousand times louder than yesterday, in a pile on the couch. Normality. The years apart sliding away with ease. The beach. The sun warming us.

I can imagine. But it hurts. I can look for the little moments of joy. Buy lavender for the garden. Give to the food bank. Set up meal trains. Try to have as much gratitude as I can. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Breathe. Try to make life a little brighter.

But the hurt is still there. The doors still slam.

Please don’t unsubscribe. I know I’m a little low right now but I am fighting to feel better and write some I dunno - funny stuff. Hang in there with me?

Tumanako - Hope - By Amber Smith