Liza Power: quiet moments in the revolution

Revolution happens in lockdown. On the eighth day of Stage 4, the smoker of the house quits his pack-a-day, 30-year habit. No fanfare. No one notices. Too bound up in our little survival cocoons. When he inquires three days later if anything seems different, the other household members collectively shrug and speculate about whether the lawn has been mown. Or has he shaved?

Liza Power.Credit:

Two weeks later, the emergency rescue pack, purchased and placed on the kitchen counter within easy reach should disaster strike, remains wrapped in its shiny plastic packaging. The treasured silver lighter bought in Havana has been abandoned to the drawer for elastic bands and safety pins. I miss the smell.

Meanwhile, the grade one kid starts applying homeschooling lessons to real-world scenarios. In week two, he booby-traps the home office with orange string, disconnected computer equipment, Blu Tack and sticky tape. The office worker of the house is two hours "late" for work.

Under the guidance of his teacher, who is viewed in the early mornings via WebEx, he learns new mathematics equations and starts building Rube Goldberg machines. The latest of these, pieced together using a xylophone, wardrobe railing, train tracks, Matchbox cars, marbles, dominoes and toilet rolls, winds from front bedroom to living room, taking in the full length of the house.

The complexity of this construction leaves minimal time to "spring clean" the computer desktop, as he helpfully did during a Wednesday lunch in week one.

Revolution is happening outside the house, too. After narrowly escaping a nicotine-withdrawal pruning session, the boronia have stretched into four-foot trees and erupted into flower, their perfume reaching every forgotten corner of the house. The cliff-top paths, usually green with tea-tree and banksia, have transformed into golden avenues of wattle. Wild clumps of freesias line the footpaths. A neighbour has planted his verge with a flowerbed, a close-cropped rectangle of lawn now awash with pansy, daisy and viola blooms.

I am being patient with this revolution, trying to keep apace with it, burying myself in the small details. The deep hum of bees around the wattles on my morning walk, the rainbow over the bay after a hailstorm, the kind, unexpected text from a long-lost friend. I'm listening for the sound of a marble across a xylophone between Zoom meetings, telling me the small gestures, in between the large ones, will keep us on track.