A few weeks into the second round of lockdowns that have swept across much of Western Europe, there are signs that the sacrifice is slowly paying off in Belgium. Thank God. Infection rates and hospital admissions are moving in the right direction. Any optimism however, must remain extremely cautious. Some of this success could be attributed to extended school holidays.
Recently announced festive plans favour commerce and little else. Depressingly, the tight restrictions on indoor gatherings will remain until mid-January. Neither will restaurants, cafés and most cultural venues be re-opening. It's as if the Belgian authorities expect people to flout the rules over the Christmas season. Thus, they're not giving any leeway, as to offset any possible breaches.
Day to day, the sense of routine is more maddening than reassuring. I remark to friends and family that to an extent, I’m struggling more this time than during the even stricter quarantines of spring. A few echo my sentiments. I don’t want to over-romanticise the difficulties of Lockdown Part 1. Domestic and other forms of (often gender-based) violence rocketed. There was of course the widespread economic devastation for many. Not to mention those already in a fragile psychological state. All travel plans came to an abrupt halt. On a personal front, like many living alone I was completely isolated save for some online community. I had the additional stress of unemployment.
On the material front, life has improved drastically since March. I found work and moved countries. Thank God, I'm still in good health despite the continued circulation of a vicious virus.
Yet mentally, there’s a particular weariness accompanying Lockdown: Part 2. There’s neither the shock or novelty of the situation to cushion the blow. It’s also leading up to winter in the Northern Hemisphere. There’s no longer the warmth or heartening abundance of sunlight that characterised this year’s unseasonably clement Spring.
Whereas online audio/visual platforms proved a lifeline during the First Wave, personally the charms of community-by-Zoom are wearing off fast. My desire for human interaction and -on the work front- the professional imperative, demand that I interact with these apps despite ever-diminishing returns. On one hand, with more time in theory and less reasons to step outside, I have more opportunities to catch up with friends at a distance. I reconnect with acquaintances with whom I haven’t spoken in years, including a celebrated writer and pundit now based in the German capital. Another one-and-a-half hour conversation with a long-lost friend, builds up to the announcement that she’s divorcing her childhood sweetheart. As she stoically recounts the hellish last five years of her life, it puts things in perspective.
And yet…
There are days I’m bouncing off the walls from the minute I wake up. The thought of another whole day of quasi-house arrest fills me with dread. Or rather, the familiar feeling of light depression eating away at the peripheries. The spontaneous crying on a regular basis is a sure sign. One morning, to combat the especially lachrymose Monday blues, I spin Sade's modern-day secular Psalm King of Sorrow.
There's nothing anyone can say to take this away. Just another day. Nothing [feels] any good.
Boy, that hits the spot.
It's as if lockdown removes all the pros about being single and leaves mostly the cons. I make a point to leave my flat at least once a day. Preferably during the lunch hour whilst it’s still daylight. Occasionally, my gamble doesn’t pay off. Work duties encroach on my break. By the time I step out for a quick jaunt round the neighbourhood, I’m late back for a work meeting much to the consternation of my increasingly ill-humoured supervisor, Ama. Navigating her shifting-moods is exacting more psychic energy than I can spare.
Work is otherwise good. Busy but good. I’m becoming more autonomous; albeit with much still to learn. The projects and campaigns on which I’m working have never been more urgent than in the current crisis. Thank God I can be useful at a moment like this. Yet the atomisation that comes from having to constantly WFH is tough for us social butterflies. I’ve never been a homebody. The first lockdown necessitated it. I adapted and survived but it’s still not second nature. With the closure of all eating establishments and cultural centres, it’s not as if there are many other chances for sustained offline social interaction.
I am so grateful for any occasion to get outside. The streets are no longer enveloped in the ghostly quiet of the first lockdown. (Admittedly I was living in France where, until very recently, restrictions were generally harsher). One Sunday afternoon, when a newly made acquaintance cancels a promenade because of bad weather, I improvise one of my own. Rain, fierce winds et al. There’s no such thing as a wasted journey. Contrary to the advice by some health experts, I make frequent shopping trips. When I arrive to find my local Aldi’s closed earlier than I expected one evening, I don’t curse the heavens. I’m just pleased to be out in the elements. I've developed a tendency to leave the radio on when I go for my twilight walks, so I don't return home to silence.
My local shopping centre in Woluwe is comfortingly serene. There are still sufficiently-distanced corners to sit, snack, read… I even stumble across a deserted Chapel on one of my visits, seizing a chance to collect my thoughts in the calm setting.
When I can, I arrange to meet with colleagues and new acquaintances for one of the state-approved park strolls. Meanwhile, the intervals between catch-ups with the South American have widened. For all his seemingly enchanting whimsy, otherworldliness and not conforming to masculine clichés, I worry that he might just be another fickle and unreliable hetero. He has a habit of ignoring my text proposals to meet up, only to send me a cheery non-sequitur out of the blue. Or to leave me an (admittedly flattering) voice message about how he misses the 'melody of my voice' and the 'poetry' of how I speak. Hmm. It's as if he only comes alert when he's being ignored.
At one point he invites me round to dine. No matter how good a first impression, I don't make a habit of going alone to men's homes; especially those I hardly know. I eventually agree, telling myself not to be too rigid but still mentally hedging my bets. I pray for divine intervention if it's not to be. A couple of hours before our scheduled Sunday lunch, he texts to say he's too exhausted and wants to postpone. Hmm. Trying to work out if he's on a power trip or just incredibly disorganised is another mental workout that I. Do. Not. Need.
I default to my natural spiritual posture; wrestling with God. It’s not that I don’t recognise a foxhole. Or even need one to call on the Almighty. God is ever-present. I am just seeking a more tangible experience. More often than not, it feels like screaming into the void and other clichés. Not just about my own sadness but the state of the world.
Speaking of spiritual outlets, despite the disruption I’ve managed to find some church community. Ironically, the first time I attend a Sunday morning service at Fresh Wine Ministries, it's the last before places of worship are obligated to close. I have a presentiment something isn’t right when one of the welcome team mentions Pastor Mike has some ‘special announcements’ to make.
With a ready smile and a comically-broad Afrikaans accent, he’s a man of unbelievable good cheer. Suspiciously good, at first. Such that it would be impossible to maintain if it weren’t innate.
Pastor Mike explains that the authorities changed their mind literally from one day to the next. His message is adapted in accordance to the news; acknowledging the turmoil whilst suitably encouraging.
Afterwards, I have the opportunity to speak to the man himself. I confess the closure comes as a blow. From late September/early October I have been visiting churches. I didn’t realise how much I missed Sunday services in real time. Fresh Wine had been on my radar for a while. I’d been following them from afar.
I’ve avoided joining Anglophone congregations as not to get stuck in an expat bubble. The church offers a bilingual service (English to French translation of which I avail myself). It’s a compromise I can live with. Unlike other Anglophone churches, it attracts a number of Francophones. Also contrary to other churches I visited, COVID-19 restrictions are not a reason/excuse to be guarded or unwelcoming to newcomers. Fresh Wine members seem genuinely warm and friendly. Thanks to one or two serendipitous encounters on and offline, I meet up with a couple of them on separate occasions for the aforementioned state-approved park walks. (One said acquaintance, Gerry Rose, is like a dark-skinned Senegalese version of the capricious South American. Except more reliable. By coincidence, both are deceptively* camp fashion designers who are apparently attracted to voluptuous, cocoa-complexioned African chicks. Go figure. No sparks with Gerry on my end but that's a boon. I can enjoy his company without being all in my feelings)
*I like to believe I'm forward-thinking enough to realise that not all gay men are camp and vice versa. Heck, I've seen enough examples that defy the stereotype. Alas, socialised-instincts are hard to kick.
There’s much to recommend FWM. Pastor Mike clearly doesn’t take himself too seriously. The church has an outward focus and is pragmatic in its approach to God’s kingdom. It doesn’t espouse pie-in-the-sky theology. They've begun organising monthly lamentation evenings-in the spirit of the psalms. The objective is to have a safe space for people to mourn all that this turbulent season has churned up. For the inaugural event, I'm crying before I even log-in.
It helps that Fresh Wine's senior pastors are not all Caucasian and/or male. Mike and his wife Tasha, diverge from the usual. They’re both offspring of multi-generational mixed-heritage families from the Cape. They have a late youth/early middle-aged vitality, whilst old enough to remember what it was like living under Apartheid.
I am forthcoming about all these considerations. Pastor Mike seems to appreciate my honesty.
A few weeks later I join an online newcomers meeting. Mike is chipper as ever, despite having just recovered from the dreaded virus.
I am fairly distracted, having lively bilingual private conversations using the chat function.
During the Q&A, I point out that singles (especially women) shouldn't be sidelined the way churches have a tendency to do. My remarks receive enthusiastic assent from fellow singles, as well as (married) Pastor Mike. FWM is doing its best but, he admits, more could be done.
Another new-ish member, reeling from her mother’s recent demise, commandeers the introductions segment. Mike’s polite interventions are in vain. Loneliness compels her to monopolise the floor as long as she can get away with it. The meeting thus finishes later than scheduled. My positive appraisal of FWM is reinforced. Still, it would have been so much better if we could have all met offline.
