Coming out of the cave - a hermit emerges from lockdown

I know the picture is of a lake, not a cave...but read on and the link will become clear!

Of course, the Hermitage isn’t a cave either: it’s a four-bedroom house and rather large garden. I’m not living with limited space, water trickling down walls hewn from rock, little daylight, and no mod cons – and thank goodness (and thank inventors, engineers, utility companies, the church, and having the good fortune to live in the developed world) for that. But the creation in my mind of a Hermitage here was, as you know, about choosing seclusion and solitude – not absolute, but to a large degree – and retreating from much of what had been my world. It was about limiting the space I lived in, and the interactions I had with others. It became a precious, necessary, healing space for me. It has been my cave.

As I started to come out of the worst of my depression, I chose to venture out from the cave a little, to meet up with friends a bit more often (just one or two people at a time, not large groups). I rejoined the National Trust, having not been a member for many years, as a way of encouraging myself out and about. I started to imagine what returning to work, to ministry, would be like both practically and emotionally, and I felt I could see a bit of the path ahead, and was quietly hopeful for the journey.

Then Coronavirus lockdown happened, in late March. I find myself using various different metaphors here (taking care not to mix them…): the drawbridge had to be pulled up; a “Road Closed” sign appeared in front of me; the path out from the cave suddenly appeared treacherous rather than inviting. Until then, I had not been living my normal life, but I had been thinking of my recovery in terms of what returning to normal would be like. I had been enjoying starting to experience – wanting to experience – some little bits of normal. I had been reflecting on the fact that my own post-burnout normal would have to change, if I didn’t want to end up in the same situation again. Now, the way towards any form of normal, that journey on which I had tentatively started, came to an abrupt stop. That wasn’t just in practical terms (no more National Trust visits for quite a while!) but in emotional terms. I couldn’t visualise the path ahead anymore, couldn’t plan a return to the church ministry whose shape had changed overnight, couldn’t do the enjoyable things (basically, coffee and cake at various local cafes) which had been part of my recovery.

The process of adapting to lockdown was probably actually less severe for me than for many, given my circumstances. I write this knowing I have had the privilege of a secure income, a comfortable house, and my own outside space, which are luxuries indeed at a time like this. I’m okay with my own company, too. But I found it bewildering and disconcerting nonetheless.

I took refuge in the Hermitage once more. In the first three weeks, everything was weirdly quiet here in the middle of town, which was actually rather wonderful if you’re a hermit. As long as I could just do that very difficult thing of “staying in the now” (though I shudder a bit at the grammatical liberties taken in that phrase), I could manage. If I tried to look ahead, it was tough and I felt my mood dipping again and my anxiety rising. In the press and on social media, and in our own conversations, the talk was of the new normal of lockdown, and with less clarity, about another new normal that would emerge later on as we found out what living in a world with Covid-19 would look and feel like. The overlap of the personal upheaval of burnout and the societal upheaval of a pandemic was emotionally very difficult. But we are creatures who adapt; and as we all did, so did I, as best I could.

But now lockdown is beginning to be lifted, here in England. We know that process is far from straightforward in practical terms, managing the risks of Coronavirus as we start going out more, meeting (at a two metre distance) more of our friends and family, shopping, going back to our workplaces, and so on. But for me, and I suspect many of us, it is also far from straightforward emotionally, and not just because of worries about catching or spreading the virus.

I don’t want to be a hermit for ever – but actually, there are days when I think I wouldn’t mind it. Days when that seems the easier, safer, more predictable option, emotionally-speaking. Not life in all its fullness, for sure; but life that feels more do-able. The lifting of lockdown has pushed my anxiety up a notch again.

As I sat out in the garden this Saturday evening, at the end of May, I could hear not just the breeze in the Hermitage trees and the cooing of the resident flock of pigeons, but raucous conversations from a garden in one direction, and loud music from another further away. The ice cream van was doing its rounds. There was shouting from the street outside, and the noise of traffic has gradually increased over the last few weeks. What I would normally hardly notice as the usual noise of a summer Saturday seemed intrusive and loud. That sounds rather bah-humbug, and I don’t like to be like that – not least because the music was good old 80s stuff, which is my era and what I often play in the car (bring on the Bryan Adams!); and I like ice cream. The noise of other people’s happiness is a good thing, surely. This isn’t a logical reaction, I thought, annoyed at my own grumpiness.

But then again, on another level, it is logical. I’ve adapted to the quiet, and now I have to re-adapt. I have found healing in my bubble, my semi-retreat from the world. Pre-lockdown, I was choosing to take my own tentative steps out of the cave, but now I feel that someone else is deciding the speed at which I will re-engage with the world. The rules suddenly feel as though they are changing fast; I can’t adjust to one version of normal before the next one comes along, hot on its heels. I like to plan, and that’s just not possible now. We’ve lost the old certainties of life pre-pandemic; we’ve lost the certainties of full lockdown; and we are now in this constantly changing phase, not knowing what life will be like in one or three or six or twelve months’ time. I feel I am in what Rosabeth Moss Kanter calls the “miserable middle” of a major transition - actually of two transitions, my personal one towards post-burnout life, and our shared one towards post-pandemic life. And I don’t like it very much.

So the grumpiness with the neighbours’ music isn’t really about music at all. It’s just that the process of coming out of the cave isn’t easy for all of us, even if we know we want to be back out enjoying the wider world. Remember jumping into a cold swimming pool? It’s okay once you’re in and moving, but standing shivering on the edge is no fun. Some happily dive in; some would just sit back and watch instead of taking the plunge.

It’s complicated by the fact that those bits of life I have missed most in lockdown still aren’t possible. I long to visit my family, in the West Midlands and in the North West, but until we are allowed to stay away overnight that’s just not possible (I’m trying very hard here not to think of a certain political adviser who has taken over the headlines this week…). And I really want a hug. I even dreamt the other night about someone giving me a hug. Hug alert: once it’s allowed, I am going to go on a serious hugging spree, so if you are not a hugger, you’ll want to dodge out of the way!

I don’t share this to say, “Woe is me”. As I say, I know I am one of the lucky ones, and I mean it. And I have found good stuff outside the cave too – the rhododendron walk the other day (see my previous post) lifted my spirits no end, and sometimes the trick is to go out and do things I know will cheer me up, even when my instinct is to hunker down at home. I’ll find a way through, I’m sure. But just as lockdown messed with our heads, so coming out of lockdown will too, for some of us, or many of us, and it’s worth acknowledging that.

When I was at secondary school, our school didn’t have a swimming pool, and so we would get taken to another school for swimming lessons. One day, in the school bus on the way over, for some reason I voiced my usual feeling, that I didn’t feel like going swimming. I don’t know what made me say it out loud that day. And unexpectedly, the teacher said it was okay, and that I could help him instead. I ended up timing other students doing their lengths. And part way through I realised I would far rather actually be in the water – not because I liked the cold water or the swimming, but I wanted to be joining in, not watching from the side.

Professor Ian Hickie from the University of Sydney, quoted in a Guardian article by Celina Ribeiro earlier this month about the lifting of lockdown, says that “anxiety leads to avoidance, which in turn heightens the fear”. I know that’s true for me. When I’m in a good place (in happy times long ago, or so it seems...) I am quite good about facing my fears, whether going into the competition arena on my horse or standing up in front of a large, potentially tricky audience to give a presentation during my days in the Civil Service. But it’s harder to do when life has given you a bit of a pummelling.

I know, though, that if I never get into the swimming pool, I’ll only feel more anxious. And I’ll miss out. If I am worried about jumping in like others do, perhaps instead I will just sit on the edge for a while, and dangle my feet in the water. That way I’ll be less worried, and might even feel like going for a swim one day.

The photos are of lakes in the Karlstad region of Sweden, in one of which I took the plunge and went for a decidedly cold swim one day in June 2018. It was beautiful though, and reviving, and I was with friends. And Swedish coffee is very good!