Things I miss

During the most difficult times in my life, I have noticed that one way people show empathy is by sharing something dreadful that they, or someone close to them, has experienced. There’s a camaraderie in suffering, which can be both comforting and suffocating.

Back in 2012, I had an ectopic pregnancy, after several years of secondary infertility. There were complications during the surgery to remove my right fallopian tube which resulted in chronic pain, and further surgeries to implant a neurostimulator. When people heard this, a common response was to tell me stories of mishaps during surgery or traumatic pregnancy loss. This has happened during other painful times in my life, too close to the bone to recount here. At times, I felt like a repository for bad news.

I say this to contextualise the lightness of this post at a time of collective trauma on a large scale: nearly 160,000 deaths in the United States alone, and decimated communities around the world (I recommend the BBC World Service podcast The Documentary for international coverage of the pandemic). Closer to home, we have over 12 thousand cases in Victoria, Australia (more than half active), and a hard lockdown that exacerbates vulnerability and disadvantage.

The things I miss are small, but perhaps my list may resonate with your experiences of life during a pandemic.

Walking the campus

Last week, with the Idea of the University reading group, I read Frances Kelly’s haunting piece Hurry up please, it’s time!’ A psychogeography of a decommissioned university campus.” Fran takes an “attentive walk” through a soon-to-be decommisioned university campus. There is a palpable sense of mourning, but Fran’s attention to the details of place are inspiring:

Although I had walked the same paths before, this time I walked with intention and attention, taking photographs and making notes of objects and places and the effects of processes of time—stairs that once lead to a building now demolished; an enormous pile of tree clippings;flowering bulbs; a view toward a dormant volcano …

Walking is a time for and mode of thinking for me, which is why psychogeography resonates as research methodology. A limitation is that it does take time, which can be in short supply for the contemporary researcher, or the busy parent, carer or student juggling multiple responsibilities.‘I like walking because it is slow, and I suspect that the mind, like the feet, works at about three miles an hour’, writes Solnit. ‘If this is so, then modern life is moving faster than the speed of thought, or thoughtfulness’ (Solnit2014, 10). Walking with deliberate attention as methodology reduces speed further–requiring pauses to observe, note and reflect on phenomena.

At the moment, we are working on campus part-time, but most of my meetings are online. I miss walking between meetings, noticing the change of season as spring approaches. The birds seem wilder with fewer people around.

Bumping into people

With all of my interactions scheduled, and mostly mediated through a screen, I miss impromptu embodied conversations. Having moved into a new role, I rarely see people I caught up with regularly six months ago. I miss you!

Interrupting and being interrupted

I mentioned my love of interruptions in a previous post. Polite turn-taking is far more important during Zoom. I miss hearing people talking over the top of one another, or finishing each other’s sentences without awkward pauses. I am reminded of this quote from Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts:

Sometimes, when I’m teaching, when I interject a comment without anyone calling on me, without caring that I just spoke a moment before, or when I interrupt someone to redirect the conversation away from an eddy I personally find fruitless, I feel high on the knowledge that I can talk as much as I want to, as quickly as I want to, in any direction that I want to, without anyone overtly rolling her eyes at me or suggesting I go to speech therapy. I’m not saying this is good pedagogy. I am saying that its pleasures are deep.


There is a certain sameness to our days now. I am sure this is felt more intensely by those unable to leave their homes. I miss everyday novelty. I am attempting to satisfy my cravings by trying new condiments, planning virtual escape room games with colleagues and family, and picking up books from the local street library. This morning’s haul included Vivian Pham’s The Coconut Children and Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.

What are you missing?

ETA I wrote this post then watched the horrific news from Beirut. My heart is with you, and the Lebanese community outside Beirut.

5 thoughts on “Things I miss

  1. What I miss?
    – sharing a coffee with a colleague and the chat that comes with it. And the smile and quick exchange with the barrista.
    – the variety of food available on campus. Especially the salads (who has all these different ingredients lying around the house or has time to prepare them for just a small bowl)
    – meeting with whole people with torsos and legs and postures that reveal how they are feeling. Ironically, social distancing has led to everybody’s head being much closer, right in my face, disembodied from the rest of their selves.
    – chance encounters with colleagues, school kids on the bus, toddlers on their way to childcare, birds in trees and bushes.
    The list is long, but I do not have the heart to continue.


  2. I miss singing with friends and the uplift it brings.
    I miss being able to go to funerals to say goodbye to people I love, and to show solidarity and give comfort to the loved ones of the departed person.
    I miss taking the grandchildren out to play in the park (that’s just as much about winter as it is about the pandemic, and it’s kind of nice to remind myself that much of what I’m feeling is my loathing of winter, and that even if the pandemic hangs around, it WILL soon be Spring, and everything is better in Spring).
    I miss hanging out with my friends, talking and playing music and singing (oh, I already said singing).
    I miss eating out after choir rehearsals, and the jokes, and the hugs, and food I can’t cook at home.
    I miss brunch with my daughter and her partner and the kids, at the local cafe, on a Sunday morning (they do THE BEST eggs Benny),
    I miss laughing. Real laughing.
    I miss festivals and camping and cooking breakfast for everyone.


    • Thanks Cathy – I hope spring brings some laughter! I am sitting in the sun right now, although my hands are cold, and it is a nice reminder that spring is coming.

      For international readers – We keep cold homes and institutions in Sydney, so although the winters are relatively mild, the cold can certainly be felt. I recently read Ashley Kalagian Blunt’s memoir How to be Australian. She comes from Winnepeg, where winter lows average −20 °C, but she commented that she felt colder inside during a Sydney winter!


  3. Pingback: An attentive walk | The Slow Academic

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