The surprising advantage of a library-less lockdown

Cutting off my usual supply of books isn’t all bad.

You may remember I love, like really love, my local library (I fangirl all about it in this post). So life without a library is one of lockdowns biggest blows. There are plenty of e-books and online offerings but really, does anyone want to spend more time on a computer? Not me. I want the old-school tactile sensation of a book in my hand.

Isn’t it lucky then, that I have shelves full of books? Even better, I have shelves full of books which I haven’t been reading because at any given time I have about 20 items on reserve at the library and another 10 or so out on loan. Of course, I should buy books, and I do, but I’m not in the position to support my habit just now. I also hope that lending rights payments and me talking about what I’m reading goes some way to balancing out that I didn’t buy a book.

The library app was more realistic about lockdown than I was. I thought I could go on and reserve as usual and just pick it all up when things reopened but there is no longer a reserve function. There’s no such thing as a due date anymore either, so at least the 20 or so kids’ books we have out will be with us for the duration.

Once I reached the bottom of my library pile, I moved onto the dusty bedroom floor pile. Reader, the bottom of it was old subscription magazine issues, book catalogues and some crossword collections. Take them away, actually read the books in the pile and I reached the bottom! I know?! I’ve moved onto an actual bookshelf now of dusty volumes I picked up over the years and always intended to read and now I’m actually reading them. Just finished my first Zola (not so fussed to be honest) and am about to give Pushkin a go. I didn’t realise Eugene Onegin was a novel in verse, not sure if I’m up for it but if I don’t read it now when my supply of books has been cut off, will I ever?

In a little post-script, I just got an email from Newcastle library today with details about their Library2U service – fill in a form and they’ll curate a selection of 5 things to read, listen to and watch, which they’ll deliver to your door the next day. For free. I didn’t know it was possible for me to love them even more than I already do. But it is!

If you enjoyed reading this and are curious what other dusty tomes come off the shelf look out for my monthly Bedside Bookstack post next week or subscribe to my monthly newsletter by entering you email below.

Processing…
Success! You're on the list.

The eternal waiting room of lockdown

Take away the future and it’s hard to stay ‘present’.

We’ve been in lockdown for a few weeks now. I understand the necessity. It’s not as long as Sydney or as many times as Melbourne but what most of the country, nay world, has realised by now is that any lockdown is lockdown enough.

A few weeks ago, I blogged about the idea of presence and my attempt to stop mentally scrolling backwards and forwards in time. Now I realise that to do that you need the neat bookending of both a past and future.

But time has slipped from its moorings. Lockdown, the eternal waiting room, has scrambled our sense of the future and, as I’m now realising, it’s hard to be in the present without a future.  

Waiting isn’t uncommon territory for a writer. We’re well aware of how uncomfortable it is to wait on submissions, feedback and querying. Waiting is its own kind of agony. It’s a protracted presence but one that isn’t really fixed on the moment. It has its sight set on some point in the future, when things will change or you’ll finally have your answer. With lockdown though, that future is on hold.

It feels like I’m caught in a Beckett loop except it isn’t Godot I’m waiting for. My eternal waiting is for the host to let me into the meeting, for the vaccine supply to arrive, for the daily reveal of dire digits in the press conference or for my daughter to actually start writing a sentence using her spelling words.

Some people are writing away and having a mini-renaissance with time and perspective. I’m frozen. Everything has come to a confused halt as I continue to wait.

My lockdown is stagnant in many ways but not still. Alas, not for me the baking of sourdough or learning of a new language. Between home-schooling, work and domestics, I don’t have much left in the tank, time or energy wise. I’m not reading much. I’m writing even less and I’m always at my worst when that happens.

Two characters in a Tom Stoppard play discuss the future. One says, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’ The other replies, ‘Tomorrow, in my experience is usually the same day’ and I’d have to agree.

If you enjoyed reading this and want blog updates, subscribe to my monthly newsletter below.

Who will you be when the masks come off?

What will you do differently when the hand sanitiser is put away and we can hold each other as close and tight as we want to?

Six months ago, COVID-19 came along. Under a microscope, it looked like a red wedding bouquet but coronavirus turned our little lives inside out. Our mortality and vulnerability were suddenly obvious. Touch and proximity disappeared. Industries and their jobs vanished.

And we were all told to stay home. No school or office. Commutes disappeared, so did most weeknight obligations. No visiting family or friends. No swimming lessons or yoga practice. No movie nights or catch-up coffees. No park play-dates. No live music or after show eats. No leg waxing or window shopping. No street vendors. No travel. No hugs and kisses.

As I pined for connection with family and friends, I also realised how much I needed to get outside. I craved nature, greenery, ocean air, any contact with the world other than the four walls I lived in. We took walks, discovered new pockets of our area and talked to neighbours we didn’t know.

The weekends stretched out to become almost spacious. I had time to walk to the pace of my two-year old and was sad to realise that I usually tugged him along. And how nice was it to see the parks with people in them and families riding their bikes together?

With all the white noise of normal life muted, there was more time to think -not about the bigger picture of globalisation or economic models, but on a personal level about what really matters. I certainly won’t take touch and its connection for granted. I’d like community and kindness to be a bigger part of my life. I’d like to keep the pace in step with my kids and have time to cook and play and walk as a family.

When the world went on hold, my to-do list shrunk and I was liberated from all the other mental ‘stuff’ that constantly hovers on my periphery. Now the restrictions are being eased and I hope that I can hold onto some of my lockdown lessons. 

It’s human instinct to reassess when your life has been interrupted in such a dramatic way. What will you jettison and what will you keep when the masks come off?