I'm Writing Alone in an Empty House
What happens when you are forced to retire at the age of 52.
I’m writing alone in an empty house.
My wife is out earning money to provide for our family, and our teenage children are at school preparing for exams and no doubt chattering loudly with friends, giving the teachers a hard time. My two small dogs, who usually bark when they hear leaves falling off a tree, are mercifully silent and asleep beside me except for faint snoring. I can hear the clock ticking above the fireplace, strangely in time with the snores. Maybe it's a little too silent.
I’m writing alone in an empty house.
A few years ago, this would have been a luxury. I was a busy Vicar with three parishes to look after, so the opportunity to sit in an empty house with nothing to do would have been much appreciated. That was before COVID-19, and its after-effects left me physically, mentally and spiritually in a very different place, unable to do the simplest of things. Now, it feels like the house is taunting me, asking me,
‘What's next, Paul?’
How are you going to contribute to society, Paul?’
How am I expected to answer those questions when I am putting off going up the stairs due to the energy it will exert?
I’m writing alone in an empty house.
Covid has changed my life in every single way. It has seriously limited the Paul that used to thrive on being productive and getting stuff done. By every single metric by which I judged my life, I am failing. I miss the warm satisfaction I used to get in the evenings, knowing I had got my jobs done for the day. People have said optimistically that this is a new start for me, away from the demands of parish life and an adrenaline-filled lifestyle. It's time to become a different kind of person, but I feel deskilled in every single way.
I’m writing alone in an empty house.
The world is indifferent to my self-enforced exile away from the productive world. People are going about their business, and the family is doing their thing whilst I contemplate what kind of person I should become. Maybe I am the kind of person who should be thankful to make it through to the end of each day, juggling energy levels with housework and the occasional hobby. My dreams of a fulfilling vocational career swapped for life in the slow lane. This is both metaphorical and literal unless I use my electric wheelchair, which is most definitely slow-lane transport. Is this what the slow lane looks like?
I’m writing alone in an empty house.
Perhaps I could work from home? I Google it. As I do, the dogs stir next to me. The smallest has her ears up, attentive and expectant; a distant noise has alerted her that perhaps an intruder is incoming. After a while she sighs and goes back to sleep. Maybe that is all I have become, somebody who sits at home, pensive, waiting for something to happen. Then I remember that I cannot take the dogs out for a walk and feel guilty.
I’m writing alone in an empty house.
Honestly, this suits me fine; I do not want to go out. As an ex-Vicar, I shamefully do not have the slightest interest in going to church. That would please atheists no end, but spiritually, I have never felt closer to God. All of the usual distractions have been stripped away, and I can be myself before the great power in the universe. I just wish he/she would tell me what I should be doing next rather than spending my time on YouTube, becoming convinced that aliens have been visiting our planet for years. Maybe that’s what the dogs heard.
I’m writing alone in an empty house.
The house will no longer be empty soon, and the family will descend like a chaotic, freak wind during which the dogs will awake from their slumber and get over-excited, the drama of their day cascading into the house. For the first time I can remember, I will be fully present for them, having stored my energy for their return. I can make their lives easier by doing the little things that matter. I liked being a Vicar, but I love them more with every fibre of my being, and they bring me more joy than I ever imagined. Maybe, despite the challenges COVID has brought, it's a good thing.
I’m writing alone in an empty house.
Paul Clarke is a retired Anglican priest who writes about life, including faith, sci-fi, and Long Covid. He is also the creator of a podcast charting his experience with chronic illness.
Great writing Paul