The Tail by Cynthia Smith

​Cynthia and her family live in the lee of Mt Atkinson, the first hill you meet as you approach the Waitakere Ranges from Auckland. The sides of the hill are clad in the olive greens of kauri, rimu and tall kanaka with a spattering of houses set in amidst the trees, whose warm lights shine out from the mists which wrap around the peak in winter. There is a clearing at the top and from there you can see all of Auckland, out to the seas and to the horizons, beyond which lie Chile on one side and Australia on the other.
 
The kitchen of our house was where I ministered to others during lockdown. I over-filled my family and the freezer with the results of slow, time laden cooking; with red wine reductions, miso butter, Lebanese garlic pastes, pâtés, soups, elaborate meals, fragrant loaves of warm ciabatta and baking fresh from the oven. And, despite what was happening to us all, I was happy. I was serving up care for those I loved.
 
If being confined to this space was a restriction, a yoke, then it inexplicably sat lightly upon my shoulders. I had a contribution to make.
 
Those sunny lockdown weeks seem an age ago now. For some time, as winter approached, we have gone about our lives at alert level 1. The risks of the virus here are very low. Restrictions on domestic movement and interactions have been relaxed.
 
And yet I am not.
 
I have become hypervigilant. Over alert. It turns out that, for me, lockdown has a long, restless tail. I am unable to relax, perpetually aware that, as we go about our unfettered lives, our islands sit in a blessed, calm pool, while the rest of the world is battened down in the midst of a hurricane. Below the horizon, life looks normal, yet illness has touched the lives of us all, and uncaged, is frantically beating her dirty wings in the storm, spreading droplets and fear.
 
Even in my sleep I mine the minutiae of my days for any anomaly which indicates something hidden, something buried just beneath the surface. I have developed a crepuscular habit of wide-awake worry. My ears are pinned back, and my tail is tucked between my legs. This is not my way. But the virus is a threat I don’t know how to fight.
 
So, as there is nothing I can contribute now, I am trying to be still and to breathe slowly as life gets busy and demanding again. I seek a pause, a moment, an opportunity to rub balm on a perpetual itch, a subcutaneous state of concern for our world. 
 
I find these moments in the eyes of my dog; in the shine on the back of an emerald ladybird resting briefly on the leaves of the rhododendron; in bird song from high in the trees; and in the tilt of a blackbird’s head as she listens intently to the industry of worms beneath her feet. The winter snowdrops, little silent white bells rung by the breeze, bring quiet moments of delight.
 
It is to the lessons of nature, not escitalopram that I turn to calm myself. I want to be able to look our new future in the face without fear, allow myself to contribute again and help build something different and better after the storm passes. And it will. That is one of nature’s lessons.