BY JO ST LEON
“And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through…But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in” — Haruki Murakami
In the absence of physical contact, I am finding new ways of showing care and affection. Eye contact means a lot, and word choice matters too. Even a tone of voice can make a person feel valued.
A word instead of a hug is the new normal, so it’s important to make it count. It reminds me of asking students to practise without vibrato for a week – they have to learn to express more with the bow. It’s difficult; at first, they feel as though they aren’t trying. Similarly for us – no physical contact can feel as if we are uncaring. But that is the opposite of the truth.
I’m making a point of reaching out to at least two people a day. An actual phone conversation is best, but Messenger is good, too. Family, friends – they’re so important. Actually, they’re all we have. Careers, incomes, goals, holidays can all be wiped out in an instant. And then we are left with what really matters.
This is a profound change that will likely stay with us as we emerge into a different world, if we nurture it. Like the students with their bows, we need to develop our consciousness so that care is our default position.
There is so much kindness in the world. I have people offering to shop, to bring home-grown veg, sending quotes that may help – it’s humbling, and brings a tear to my eye. A friend unexpectedly dropped by with stewed quinces. It brightened my day, and the quinces were great. We are creating new meanings in our lives, and loneliness is taking on a whole new significance. Solitude is fine, as long as we know people are out there.
I listened to violist Doug Coghill on the TSO’s Daily Dose. He was so impressive. He performed Faure’s Apres un Reve on a viola he made last year. He talked about the process he went through – the research, the legacy of his grandfather, and the debt today’s luthiers owe to the past. Wood is hard to get at the moment, and expensive, so he has several projects underway using Tasmanian wood. The instrument sounded gorgeous and the playing was beautiful. Doug spoke of practising through the crisis so that when he goes back to work, he will still be in possession of his skills. Filled with awe at his resourcefulness and motivation, I messaged him my congratulations, only to discover that he too is struggling with the isolation.
As we weather this storm together, I am filled with gratitude. I recently sat out in the sun and taught a telephone lesson in my garden. How lucky I am: I have a house and a garden in a beautiful, peaceful corner of Hobart. Sometimes, caught up in a bustle of activity, I forget what a privilege this is. I am discovering hitherto unsuspected levels of reciprocal caring, and my heart swells with joy as I think of the people in my life.
I don’t want to sound too Pollyanna-like. I am aware of the people who go to the beach, steal toilet rolls, and flout the quarantine rules. As I condemn the thoughtlessness and the stupidity, I also try to understand. They are, perhaps, lacking the sense of community that the rest of us feel – and this is sad for them as well as dangerous for the rest of us. For myself, it is the sense of connection that keeps me going. I see it all around me – social media pages designed to connect us with old friends and introduce us to new. Who knew that Facebook could end up as a lifeline for the isolated?
A crisis will always bring out both the best and the worst in people. In our little community of musicians, we are creating networks of support and kindness that will remain with us long after COVID-19 has become a distant memory.
What does this story mean to you?
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Thanks for supporting Jo St Leon as she volunteers her time for Australian arts journalism. No amount too much or little.
Jo St Leon is a Tasmanian musician and writer. Catch up on her first pandemic diary entry, After the music stopped.
Images supplied.
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Water photo by Geoffrey Baumbach on Unsplash.
