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From 2020 to 2021

The first of January 2021 dawns bright. A strip of pink and blue appears between the horizon and a receding layer of grey cloud. The snow and ice of the last few days has for the moment withdrawn to edges and shadows. Bright green blades of grass cluster around muddy puddles and stand tall amid seeping brown piles of rotting leaves. The air is alive with tiny stinging insects. There is no wind but the bright sky soon gives way to a creeping, gloomy grey cover. This is 2021 – uncertain, tentative, breath-holdingly calm.

Often at the turn of the year I write a few words from my personal reflections on what has past. This time, too much has already been said by many; examined, pondered over, speculated, blamed. The year has been exceptional and exceptionally bleak. Instead I am going to project some hopes for the years to come.

The world will be a kinder place.

We will come to know moments of contact as moments to treasure.

Fleeting nods and smiles will be remembered and replayed in our memories for their warmth and the something special that was shared.

We will value the kindnesses of strangers as kindred acts, and affirmation that we are human.

We will have time for our loved ones.

We might come to welcome shorter working hours and the promise of digital work may see dispersed families and fractured communities moving closer together.

We might see local communities rebuilding around nature for which we will make space, and plan more space for other species. City gardens and allotments will abound.

We will learn to treasure other creatures as sentient beings. We will eat less meat. We may come to eat no meat.

Work will involve fewer hours, so more can work and earn a living. Caring, nurturing, educating and nourishing will become key words in our mission statements. Our goal – to develop the spirit of humanity.

We will come to realise that if our roles are custodians of this planet, they are to preserve and support its wonderful diversity for the benefit of all of its creatures.

Contribution will replace competition as the dominant logic, and giving and sharing replace winning, having, owning in our vocabularies.

In this kinder world league tables will not exist but striving for excellence prevail. Excellence as a habit will be understood and respected as a nurturing process to allow all to reach their potential for the benefit of all.

Above all, I hope there will be time to learn, and time to learn why we learn and time to be as well as time to do.

Choice

Still staying home, social distancing and on holiday but my partner is not. The weather has been good but today it is raining. What should I do? It seems I am spoiled for choice. Read a novel, write another chapter of my own novel. Type up the poem I wrote weeks ago but am not sure about. Paint, draw, sweep leaves in the garden but no, they are too wet and blowy. Perhaps I could build clay models, experiment with sculpture. Under the sofa where the dog and cat hair drifts needs cleaning. There is a pile of paperwork that needs sorting. I could resist the urge to pick up some work, do some more analysis, research a new topic, learn how to digitise my teaching, listen to a podcast. I could read the news again but it is too depressing. I could write to old friends that I miss so much but do they want to hear from me I wonder? I can’t decide so I make some coffee, brush the dog, trail string for the cats, take photos with my phone of the flowers in the rain and write this. I think about all the time I have gained, and all that I have lost.

Office

This week I am allowed access to my office for 30 minutes to collect some books and personal items.  Staying to do some work is strictly banned so I avoid the urge to sit down at my desk and turn my attention instead to the bookshelves  where my books stand in their spots like old friends. I turn the pages of a few, remembering  their weight, the different feel of the paper in each, I glance at contents, run my finger down an index and read the annotated notes I’ve left here and there in the margins. I turn to inserted bookmarks reminding me that something here is interesting or useful, or that I must read this at some point in the future. I return each to its place and pack a bag with the necessary for the next few months. The office is hot, it  faces the afternoon sun. I expect my plants will be dead and laugh aloud to find that five out of six have survived since early March without water or company. I take them to the sink where the coffee mugs and spoons from months past still lie on the drainer, and give them a soaking. Packing what I need I regretfully lock up. This was a good place. I wonder when we will return. On the way out I read the names of my colleagues on the doors as I pass. See you next week I think, on-line, in a different space, not here.