The trees are bare. The footpaths seem wider and the streets are naked. Yeats scribed to local stone “Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman, pass by”. Recently, the act of passing someone, eyes cast down above their masks, I was reminded of Yeats. The disconnection shared across neighbours, families and cities as we stave off death. Our world has become smaller, our horizons limited. Yesterday, I was speaking to a nurse in the hospital; her glasses perched atop her medical mask. When I was leaving, she confided in me that what she missed most was the sound of the sea. She had not been to the seaside over the course of the pandemic. I looked at her eyes and I sensed that she needed some connection, so I agreed with her and told her that I missed the sound of the Atlantic Ocean along the coast of County Sligo. For a moment she paused as though to consider what I said and then busied herself as she would have to change her attire for her next patient.
I’ve quite enjoyed the peace of the pandemic. Having had anxiety for most of my life, I can get overwhelmed by people and obligations. Walking through the city had always been stressful for me; my mind racing to read everybody and every scenario in my orbit. Processing all the buildings and calculating the risks involved in making my journey; I always carried that sense of anticipation as though someone was going to throw a ball at me during some forced team sport and I was preparing to keep my composure. During the pandemic, the city has been a fresh joy for me; I don’t have to worry about meeting people, I can pause and appreciate a street scene or a beautiful doorway without the anxiousness I used to feel. I used to worry about how other people would interpret my actions, such as craning my neck to read an inscription or lost in emotional appreciation of a flower. As a result of lockdown I can walk through the city and not be overwhelmed by it; I am enjoying the city for the first time. I have been able to stop and soak in the old buildings as I have always wanted, explore the locality and trace the sunshine across roofs and chimneys with no airplanes, no noise. The luxury of having reason to keep away from people and have my interactions reduced has left me feeling centred; or as close to centred as I have felt before. Not having to hear the nonsense of people jabbering on their phones near me or clogging up the footpath by walking three abreast. I’ve enjoyed noticing the drifts of snowdrops emerge in old city gardens, planted by persons unknown. Snowdrops (Galanthus nivalis) have been more noticeable this spring, as we are more observant of the smaller things in our lockdown contentment. ‘Galanthus’ derives from the ancient Greek meaning white flower and ‘nivalis’ means resembling snow in Latin. The humble snowdrop symbolises hope of spring and the death of winter. As I pass by the snowdrops, I dream of the sound of the Atlantic Ocean along the coast of Sligo and the wild white waves breaking beneath voluminous Paul Henry skies. When the Dublin streets start to pulsate with people once more, I shall leave the shivery snowdrops behind and be beneath Ben Bulben again.