​Sue works as an oral historian for Auckland Libraries Heritage Collections. She is passionate about amplifying lesser told stories. Sue is a daughter, sister, mother and partner. In her down time, she likes to play scrabble and take walks in nature.
 
Lockdown Level 4 – Thursday 21st April
 
Within the first couple of weeks of lockdown level 4 we began a new and extended walking route, one that took us past the Eden Wesley Rest home on Mt Eden Road where my Granny Nora spent the last year of her life. Some time ago during a weekend ramble, we’d come upon the place and it had triggered memories of childhood visits to see Granny. When I asked Stacey this morning, Did I tell you that this is where my Granny Nora lived in the early 1980s at the end of life, she said yes, but in her generous way left me the space to expand on my memories. This time I find myself remembering earlier, happier associated memories of Granny Nora.
 
Granny Nora was my mother’s mother. She was born in England in 1903. By the time I was born in the late 1960s she was already less than her full self. She had a tremor in her hand and often a vacant look in her eye. She had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease and most likely also Alzheimer’s — or one of the early onset dementia illnesses. Until I was six or seven, she’d lived in a flat with my Grandpa George. This was in Johannesburg South Africa. They had left England to follow their only child, my mother, and to be with us grandchildren too I imagine.
 
I remember a small flat, or perhaps it was just that it had a lot of furnishing, it’s hard to say. It felt busy and crowded. My fondest memories include finding spaces under tables and in various nooks and crannies in order to set up for play with the plastic farm animals. These were kept in a Little Red Schoolhouse ice-cream container packed full of hens and ducks and geese, cows, pigs, horses and sheep. I would organize the animals into groups using the patterned carpet as pens and play the farmer role in a series of farmyard fantasies. 
 
Playing cards was the other much loved and shared activity. We would play simple games like rummy or ‘follow suit’. I remember as Granny’s illness progressed the card games deteriorated into bemusing and highly unpredictable hands. Quiet unexpectedly in mid-game Granny might pick up half of the pack or randomly shuffle the deck, she’d discard an odd number, put aces on sevens, or a heart on a club when playing follow suit. Rules went out the window. At first, we might say something, but then my sisters and I had the presence of mind to just go with it, we learnt she wasn’t all in her right mind.
 
All my childhood she had a sort of vacant dullness about her, like the edge of her personality had been worn away or faded like fabric too long in the sun. I am sure this was the effect of the medication, some of which was given to pacify her reported rage and the discomfort of mind that can come with dementia.
 
When our family came to New Zealand in the late 1970s, my grandparents once again packed up and followed my mother, a year or so later. It’s extraordinary now to think that family reunification was permitted by immigration for someone so ill. I can’t imagine it being possible today.
 
By the time Granny came to live at the Eden Wesley Rest Home her world was reduced to a shuffle between a chair in the lounge and her bed, and then for what seemed like an age, she was just in bed. It was excruciating to visit her there. I can still recall the feeling of fear and perhaps even horror at hearing the moaning and shouting of patients, the smell of urine and cleaning chemicals and the institutional food smells of cabbage and stew. I remember my mother patiently talking to her about family news and my grandfather holding her hand and combing her thin grey strands of hair. I can still see the light blue comb that would sit on her bedside table.
 
I am intrigued by how this morning walk in lockdown, with its glimpse up the wide driveway marked by the big oak tree to the Eden Wesley Rest Home, has unlocked childhood memories of my Granny Nora. In her lifetime she experienced the trauma and uncertainties of two world wars, Spanish flu, and the Depression, and the social and personal challenges of chronic physical and mental ill-health. I wonder what she and the other ancestors would make of our current time.

​Michelanne is a playwright and author. Her work has been performed  by theatre companies throughout New Zealand, and in the UK, USA and Australia. 
 
During lockdown I painted. I started playing with drawing and painting  as a hobby, something fun to do in my spare time after moving from Auckland to Nelson in 2016. Now, four years later I am enrolled as a Master of Fine Arts student at Massey University on the Wellington campus. My studio is in the old Dominion Museum, somewhere  between what my husband remembers as the Egyptian mummy display and the  hanging whale skeleton. When lockdown commenced the university  shut down and our access swipe cards stopped working. Luckily our tutors warned us this was on the cards and I'd taken most of my art supplies home. I set up a studio in the back bedroom which I shared with my thirty year old son who was between jobs.
 
Our lockdown  family was me, my husband, my younger  son  and my two new kittens from the SPCA. Surprisingly,  aside from a constant low-grade worry about my elderly parents in California, I felt fine. 
 
Do I still feel fine? About New Zealand, yes. About the country of my birth, no. The news there grows darker and more surreal with each passing day. These paintings, done in lockdown  start with cats and end with racism. In between you'll see a Covid fireball heading into a New Zealand landscape, but thank god, it never lands.

Robyn Welsh is a journalist, creative writer and author who lives in central Auckland. Her first non-fiction work is Wired for Sound – the Stebbing History of New Zealand Music (2019). It was released, thankfully before Covid-19 messed up publishers’ launch schedules. But not everything to come out of Covid-19 has been bad and Robyn shares with us an experience that reminds her daily of the power of human kindness.
 
Through the slice of daylight beyond the bedroom curtain, it is the gloomy clouds that set an ominous tone. It is one of those days when I wonder, an hour in, whether I should just slip back into bed and then put my feet back on the ground a second time. To ‘restart’ the day all over again, as a computer would instruct when its worldly inner workings have become skewed. But I don’t and I push on into a day awash with a growing sense of weirdness as the hours tick on. 

Today is Monday March 23, 2020 and New Zealand, as we know it, is progressively shutting down. Call it ‘sign out’, ‘sleep’ or ‘shut down’, as a computer does, this is what our country is doing from the grass to the skies. 

Our government calls it ‘Lockdown’, in response to the Covid-19 pandemic threat to our population of five million. This will happen rapidly in stages. This morning they are calling level 2, dialling down to level 3 this afternoon. Our little moated land mass is on notice that lockdown level 4 will start on Wednesday night at 11.59pm.
 
In a world moving forward, every task has its processes. On this day, businesses of all shapes and sizes are working through lockdown processes, as per lists no-one has ever compiled before. 

The enormity of all this hits me like an icy smack in the face, as I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets and set off on my early morning walk. I need to see what the world, as I know it, looks like as it is coming to an end. I want to do it on foot, slowly and mindfully, just because I can. It is a walk that I shall never forget.
 
It is the rattle of metal that cuts across my vacant train of thought as I cross the road. I look up to see a high viz jacket and a hard hat, downward facing, rattling a gate lock one last time. It is lockdown time on the construction site at the park opposite ours. The lone worker gets a cheery ‘Good morning’ from me, which is what we do around these parts. The eyes beneath the hard hat lift and a youthful voice offers a surprisingly formal ‘Good morning back to you too, ma’am.’
 
He steadies his hand on the tall mesh security gate. That’ll not keep this virus away, I’m thinking, but there is distance between us all the same. Two metres of distance, as I take my first walk and he ticks off his last task.
 
Right now, at this stilled moment in time, I think, ‘We are all one people in this.’ I feel it and I can tell he is feeling it too. It is difficult to know what to say right then beyond a ‘Take care’ or an ‘All the best’.
 
As I wave an acknowledgement to this young man I’ve never met before, he pauses and says: ‘And if you need anything …’ 
 
It is that kind of a day. 

Jane Bissell lives north of Auckland on the Hibiscus Coast. She is a writer, ghostwriter, writing mentor and tutor, and the author of two books about her own journey with breast cancer. Jane kept a journal for the duration of the Level 4 lockdown and here is an excerpt. The full journal can be seen on Jane’s website at www.janebissellwriting.com  
 
Author’s note: During Level 4, one of the houses on our beachfront would set a different tableau every day in their front garden, featuring Ernie (the Sesame Street character) doing something fun: sometimes he’d be fishing, or having a tea party with his stuffed toy friends at a small table. Neighbours would come by daily to see what Ernie was up to. On this particular day, Ernie had his life jacket on and was sitting in a kayak, paddle at the ready, on dry land of course but looking seawards with such longing. He was the inspiration behind this particular journal entry.
 
23 April 2020
(From The Isolation Journal)
Yesterday the weather was simply divine so Ernie here decided to do some kayaking in the front yard at his beachfront home. What a brilliant idea, I thought to myself, and I almost hopped in to join him.

Right now we are prohibited from kayaking in real water because if we get into trouble, that means a call-out from the rescue people which would heighten their risk of exposure to the virus.

I really miss going out in my kayak.

Our bay is perfect for this activity, with the shelter of the cliffs, plenty to see underwater as one drifts along, and if you really want some action, paddle out beyond the point and get into the swells and 'high water' ... well, actually not much rougher than in the bay but it feels adventurous. 

I miss this kayaking gig because when I'm out there, I'm really calm and at peace, if one can say that. At peace meaning my thoughts are stilled, my breathing is even, I relax with the motion of the boat on the waves and I'm aware of the world beneath the sea, the creatures doing their aquatic thing, probably looking up at me peering down and saying, 'bugger off.'
My only concern is getting to where I want to go (out to the point), sitting there a while and looking up and down, then getting back before the wind gets up and blows me halfway to Rangitoto ... oh yes and I'll often have a snack with me, a drink and some crackers or such, so I like to sit out there and have that.

I do want a reprieve now from all of the COVID-19 thoughts that whirl around us daily so I am really missing my kayaking.

I have stopped watching the daily 1pm televised press conference with the Prime Minister where the latest statistics and suspicions and confirmations about 'spread' are revealed and in the evening, I've taken to singing out loud when they start talking about the lack of PPE and how many businesses may go under. It's not that I am insensitive to these things - far from it because, having worked in transport and distribution for years here in New Zealand, I am not surprised by how hard it is to get product in a national emergency from A to B in a country where you could drive from one end to the other of the North Island in a day (well, a long day) and how this absurd distribution problem is still depriving our front line workers of the gear they need to protect themselves. And of course, businesses going under affects us all. 

So there is a rant from me. Suffice to say, I have had enough of the virus news. My walking buddy keeps me up to date and the people we meet on our travels like to discuss what they've all heard. I am pleased though because trends are so positive, we are getting there, but I need a break from the relentless media and their continual thrashing of all that is difficult and hard and tough and the bad behaviour of some of us during this time.

Make room Ernie. I'm coming with you. 
​    

Liz feels her past lives of science technician, mother, teacher and photographer still impact her current slower more observant life.

My six year old grandson has decided to sleep in the camper van outside the garage. I am not sure if he will go through with it but his parents and I are willing to give it a try.

In level four lockdown I notice how we are all that much more patient and open to his ideas. He is making a bed in the back of the van and I agree to stay there with him until he is asleep if indeed he manages as he is normally afraid of the dark. I let him fuss around about exactly what he wants in there for the night. Several times he asks if it is dinner time yet, and I realise he can’t wait. Finally the time comes, the bath first with specific toys already planned out. I don’t talk about sleeping outside in case he loses confidence. I remember how, often, he gets frightened in his own room at night, as I dry his hair and clean his teeth. We walk to the van and climb inside. He has prepared everything; two Doctor Seuss books are placed in the front, a bottle of water, a lunch box with snacks and a torch. 
We read the books and then lie down, the torch goes on and off under the blankets and up on the roof of the van. He wriggles and twists and after a while I say that's enough now you don’t want to wear out the torch battery, we are quiet together.

It is a very dramatic sky outside speckled with small fluffy clouds each of them glowing around the edges lit from the moon which is extra large and bright tonight. Earlier the TV weather lady had announced it was a super moon and that when it reached full again we would be near the end of level four lockdown.

It is strangely grounding just lying there looking at the moon, there is a stillness like a song that soaks in to you. I can’t help reflecting that if I was inside the house I would be looking at another blue light, the computer screen whose energy is like heavy metal in comparison. This moon is connecting me to the rest of the world's suffering in a strange sort of way.
 
My eyes adjust to see a star appear from behind a cloud. I feel the warmth of a small foot on me and the sound of deeper breathing. I have explained I will leave as soon as he is asleep but I realise there is nowhere I would rather be at this moment experiencing our planet floating in vast space, all of us united in facing the same things. The feeling of this child beside me.

As each day has passed there have been news updates and projections of how it will all pan out. A financial crisis, a depression, a huge shift in the social fabric of society, all of the above? We are not quite sure which new crisis will happen but unlike an episode on Netflix I cannot choose to stop watching.
​
If there is something new and good to emerge from this will it be in my lifetime?

I gaze at the star its infinite distance from me and the vastness of this universe. Then I reflect on the microcosm of my own body where a small planet-like virus could invade, multiply and take over.
I have no fear and nor does he, this little boy who sleeps beside me now.

Anita writes poetry and flash fiction. Born in Christchurch, she now lives in Auckland and organises Inside Out Open Mic for Writers, a monthly writing/music event welcoming people to read prose, poems and life stories, at One2One Cafe, Ponsonby Rd.
 
no one to drink with
so I pour another
 
             on the sly
I craved quiet
wishing the carousel to slow
apprehensive, though, of the dismount
 
             outside
my neighbours recalibrate at day’s end
with a raised Heineken at the gate
the grass between them grows up and over
 
             my bubble walks bear witness to lockdown striking
this glorious autumn, one for the books:
bulging garden bags     chalked rainbow bridges
a verge adorned with indoor games for the taking
teddy bear mascots smiling from bay windows
plastic dinosaurs playing hide and seek in a berm rockery
a peggy-squared tree trunk trimmed with pompoms
the odd purple glove
 
             locals give me a wide berth
I nod them ‘thanks for that’
the tui chants an alarm of lost commotion
and so the days go
 
             inside
my buddy the firelight
has taken to taunting me
zootroping
these hollow walls with flickers of animation
interrupting the   long hush   with crackles and snaps
stay home be kind    stay home be kind
yes I know                  yes I will
 
but for the sake of interest
           how are the horses?
when will the carousel crank up?

Fredrika was born in the Netherlands and has lived in New Zealand for the last fifty years. She studied English and Philosophy at the University of Auckland, worked there as a researcher and is now retired.
 
Before Covid-19 I had been living by myself for several years. Then suddenly my one-person household became a one-person bubble.
 
As one of my neighbours remarked, ‘You have been doing this for ten years anyway.’ Implying nothing much would change for me.
 
Looking in from his outside he was right, up to a point. I would go on living alone, retired, without a car, staying home quite a lot of the time with a bad hip.
 
Experiencing it from my inside though, a lot of the less visible details would change. No visits from my daughter and grandson. No friends turning up with their contributions to a long lunch. No three-year-old from next door darting in to turn on every reading lamp in my living room before taking a small car off the bookshelf and asking where the ‘wibbly-wobbly things’ are.
 
I would still shop online for my groceries, but there would be no gentle walks to the SPCA shop to check for a new jigsaw puzzle or a present for my grandson. No visits to the local library or to the art gallery. No chamber music concerts. No impromptu meetings for coffee with a friend. And no hugs, from anybody.
 
Not that those things happened daily. I had been spending plenty of days at home, talking to no one but myself. And that was fine. I had shelves full of books, music on RNZ Concert, an online subscription to a range of international films from Poland, Japan, France, Germany, Iran. I could potter in the garden, watch the birds having their bath, listen to the tui in the top of the tall bamboo next door. Busy enough.

But as soon as I knew I would not be allowed to go to any of the places away from home, I wanted to get on a bus, go out, have coffee in the art gallery, visit the library, today, now!
Perverse, I know, but the feeling was quite real.
           
What changed?
 
I subscribed to Zoom, so I can see people’s faces and have conversations with more than a single person.  People phone more often, send texts and funny or interesting items they found online. Strangers on their walk say hello when I am outside. Every one of my neighbours has offered help if I need it. They and their children wave to me when they pass and I wave back from my sofa. They post my letters for me because I can not walk that far. I am passing my newspaper on to them after I have finished the cryptic: lots of games and puzzles for housebound children. Phone calls tend to take at least an hour, we are all making up for time alone.
 
I watch the news. International news is grim. It will be years before it is safe to travel to Europe, I expect.  I am now over 80 so it is possible I will never go there again to see my family. That thought is taking some getting used to. Never again to go for a walk in the woods around my hometown, wander about the weekly market buying cheese and salted herring, spend days with my sister, get on a train to Amsterdam, see the broad rivers in a wide landscape.
 
All of that was going to happen anyway, sometime, I know, but two months ago there was still the option.  Now, borders are closed, my world is shrinking, perhaps permanently for me.
 
So for now I laugh out loud when I see a blackbird insisting on having the birdbath to itself, no sparrows allowed in. And so much splashing that a top-up will be needed. The sparrows are happy to share their bath. Six or eight hop from the rim into the water and out again, and again. The little silver eyes are so quick it seems they barely get their feet wet, but they too come back for a second dip, for a second.
 
How lucky I am to have this small garden.
​
Auckland, May 2020.

Leigh was born in Rawene and raised in Oue, Hokianga. She is a primary school teacher who enjoys writing with her junior class.

Teachers were taking guesses as to when schools would close. I was astonished. Even though my family were not keen on me working, it was business as usual.
  
On Monday 23 March, as we scanned our classrooms, it was clear to us teachers that many parents were uneasy and were keeping their children home. I had only ten students. We carried on, unsure what would happen next. The principal came into my class, just checking on everyone, “Have a great day!”  he said.  I continued teaching my shrunken class. 
 
At 2.30pm my senior teacher appeared and said Jacinda Ardern had announced that schools would close at 3pm, and remain that way until further notice. I was stunned. We had just half an hour before the 3pm bell. I gathered my little class together and told them to take their personal belongings from their tote trays on the way out. Then with barely suppressed emotion I said “I don’t know when I will see you again.” They were silent — unusually for my class but unsurprisingly in the circumstances — and didn’t question me. They would be going home to households of uncertainty. 
 
Several days later we were allowed time in our classrooms.  A quick glance around.  Portraits, character studies and bees suspended from wires across the ceiling.  The walls plastered with ghosts, cave paintings and children dressed up.  So much effort, so much colour.  I will miss these visual delights.
 
What do you do in a limited time? Empty bins, check for food in trays, lock up technology devices, if you can, hastily shove vege plants in the outside garden, grab personal gear — where would you start? There’s so much of it. 

Think quickly! Move! What else is important? Then a long sigh. Shut the classroom door, check it’s locked. Whisper to myself “When WILL I be here again?” 

Margo works as a librarian in the Metadata (Cataloguing) Dept of Auckland University Library. She is a sixth-generation New Zealander, and treasures her large extended family and her friends, as well as her involvement with choral and solo singing. She supports many environmental and social justice organisations and often fund-raises for animal welfare.    The weeks in lockdown gave her valuable thinking time about her future life.
 
On 25 March 2020 the New Zealand government  locked down the nation for an indefinite period, in an attempt to contain the spread of a virus which was previously unknown to science.

My husband gathered his research materials from his office so that he could work full-time from home, while I was instructed, as an older employee, to stay at home from my university job, on special leave, until further notice.

Under the lockdown, our lives quickly settled into a new routine. With the nation at home, apart from essential workers, the streets were eerily quiet with no cars. We tried to do a daily walk to take exercise, waving and exchanging greetings at a distance with other family groups out to take the air.
 
The weather was glorious and we enjoyed day after day of a golden autumn, only worrying later about the lack of rain and the looming water shortages.
 
During our walks we discovered parts of our neighbourhood that we hardly knew, in spite of having lived in the area for many years. We found a miniature olive grove in an adjacent street, and around another corner, a street guava tree laden with fruit. Another time we explored  a tiny local park which we had driven past hundreds of times but never visited. It was full of ancient trees and ringing with birdsong.
 
We enjoyed the community spirit coming to the fore, including neighbours shopping for us, teddy bears in windows for children to count, Easter egg paintings in nearby streets,  and flags and poppies on display for Anzac Day.  Trading between friends saw us receive avocados from a neighbour's tree, some of which we exchanged for another neighbour's home-grown feijoas. Our own home-grown pecan nuts also made an edible gift.
I appreciated having the time to trawl through recipe books looking for easy meals which could use food from the freezer and pantry.  Baking, which I have always enjoyed, became the indoor hobby of choice, and cakes, loaves and muffins emerged from my ancient oven in a regular procession.


My daily routine included putting on different clothes from the day before, plus lipstick and earrings, to maintain my self esteem and to avoid frightening anyone who might come to the door!

We watched the daily television updates of medical and social news and were impressed by the calm focused drive of our Prime Minister and Director-General of Health.  We realised how lucky we were when observing the situation in other countries. Receiving bulletins from relatives in the United Kingdom and United States only underlined this.
 
Communication with family and friends (especially our older ones) was vital,  and every day I was in touch with people, here and overseas, by email, phone and letter. My Samsung tablet became my lifeline and I took great care to keep it charged and out of harm' s way.

Entertainment has never been a problem and we have watched lovely concerts on Sky Arts channel , read obsessively and listened to recorded music and live radio. We also found solace in our garden and nurturing a  small vege plot.
 
During lockdown we discovered our much-loved cat had a cancerous growth on his side which needed to be removed surgically. In the weeks that have followed we have been nursing our furry boy at home and keeping him inside (against his will) as he heals.
 
The nation has now moved down to Alert Level 2 and life has resumed some normality. But the long-term effects of the lockdown, necessary though it was, will be felt for a long time to come.

The weeks at home emphasised for us that we have much to be thankful for, and that we are supremely fortunate to be part of the 'team of five million' which makes up the population of Aotearoa New Zealand. Let's hope we don't waste any lessons we might have learned from this unprecedented experience.