Despair and the Stirrings of Spring

The ups and downs of the seasons seem to be playing out in fast forward emotionally and internationally.

I am on the internet but stuck.

“What’s the name of that flight thingy?” I ask M.

He looks at me with a frown.

“You know, the one that compares things?”

“Skyscanner?”

I am frequently losing words at the moment. And not just a momentary lapse - I lose them for hours at a time. I can often remember the first letter but get no further forward than that.

Having been given the name, I type it in but almost instantly cannot muster the patience or concentration to search for anything. I come off my phone and think about deleting the news apps again.

The last few mornings, I have been waking up to mood swings, tearfulness, despair and then fluctuating between brief glimpses of optimism and hope. Two mornings ago, I woke from dreams that had an overwhelming sadness to them and seemed to centre around loss and impending, inevitable death. Later that evening, I watched the last episode of Miss Austen and found myself crying uncontrollably at the thought that we will all die, but worse, we will leave someone behind. To be the one left behind, alone and mourning seems to be the most horrific of fates; even the enormous smile on Keeley Hawes’ face, satisfied that she had protected her sister’s legacy and was now utterly content with feeding her goats alone, did nothing to assuage this.

My inner turmoil and grief seems to be reflected back to me whenever I look out at the world - certainly the one that involves human leadership at any rate. The latest videos of the leader of a beleaguered country being abused by two playground bullies makes me feel nauseous. In the last few years, I often find myself thinking back to my grandparents and great aunts and how they must have felt in those years leading up to the outbreak of war. Once again, it seems certain beliefs are on the rise across the globe and I find myself wondering whether, this time, it will ever be stopped in its tracks, or as Orwell prophesied post-war, the future is a “boot stamping on a human face - forever”.

In Germany last week, there were election posters everywhere. This is a country that has safeguarded its actions since 1945, refused to ignore its past and taken steps to ensure historical facts remain in living memory. Coming from the museum of the Gestapo Headquarters, where we walked slightly dazed around the bleak, hard cells and read narratives of torture and resistance from marginalised communities, it felt stark to say the least to be faced with AfD posters lining the street.

I keep reminding myself that the world has seen crises before and come out the other side. I am, however, not sure what the other side will look like, if it is ever reached. Those dystopian TV programmes that just a few years ago seemed far-fetched are simply beginning to look like a news broadcast about life right now. Lyrics written by a singer-songwriter friend of mine, Hats TM, keep playing around my head: “How about some compassion? Is it so hard?” [ fear the mourning]

I remind myself that the world keeps turning. I look out of the window at the sunshine and think about seeing my sister and niece today. I water Malcolm, the plant I rescued from my mother’s room, which appeared to be beyond help but has perked up, its brown-edged leaves reaching for the light. I remind myself that beauty exists alongside horror, grief exists because of love. I eat my beans-on-toast and remind myself to put one foot in front of another. The world is waking up in the northern hemisphere once again and I try to take hope from its buds determined to break into bloom.