Today I decorated spoons with my children. Yes, spoons. For Spoonville.
Spoonville is a village of spoons that was created in our community in Melbourne, because we are desperately trying to find ways to fill the endless days in lockdown.
So we found wooden spoons, we decorated them, placed our masks on and went for a walk in the limited time we are allowed out to exercise.
Watch: When Daniel Andrews extended lockdown. Post continues below.
As I looked around Spoonville, I could see a reflection of this lockdown. I saw spoons with masks drawn on. Spoons donning medical scrubs and capes. Spoons just standing quietly side by side, not touching but united together.
I saw optimism in the sparkles and the glitter. An invisible hand reaching out, a shared connection, a sense of community.
Children doing what they do best. Providing us with hope.
I saw myself in those spoons. Just trying to stay upright, quiet, waiting.
I squeezed my child’s hand as I fought back the tears. "Great," I thought. "Now I’m crying at f**king spoons."
Melbourne is a city suspended in collective grief.
We are not here by choice, but here we are. Riding the wave. Isolated. Traumatised. Trying. Trying to get through the months, the weeks, the minutes.
Living in limbo. Too painful to look to the past, unable to plan for the future.
A friend called me from interstate to check in.
"Wow, things are getting ugly there. You guys are really turning on each other," she remarked.
I was shocked.
“How would you know?” I replied. I felt the bitterness in my tone and I immediately regretted it.
My anger wasn’t directed towards her. It was towards the portrayal the media was once again peddling. Claiming to represent me and the place I live.