The Pandemic Years: of yoga, butter and "between" times

I STARTED online yoga classes in early 2020. There was no plan, no thought “this will help”. It was a happenstance of friendship, loss, birthday, expertise, and the sudden availability of time.

As we started the Pandemic Years, I was travelling between capital cities, and rural clinical work, multiple meeting obligations, and family connections. That stopped abruptly, as it did for so many. And all those commuting hours were available.

Yoga classes once a week brought an oasis of relief from the constant anxiety, the unknown, the distress. For 90 minutes, I would seek to emulate my teacher in cat, dog, elephant, eagle and table. Nothing else was important for those moments – just the striving, the rhythm, the online companionship of others in the class whom I didn’t know.

Don’t be misled here: I am not good at this! Sometimes – just quietly – I would sink out of the line of sight of my video conference camera so my endlessly patient teacher could not see me lying on the floor unable to complete the movement.

And for me, yoga will always be associated with the Pandemic Years. I think of most things in this way now.

As I child, I was always struck by my parents referring to things as “pre-war” or “post-war”. Reaching adulthood after 1966, I had no adult understanding of the impact of World War II, which ended in 1945. Of course, I understood that my father had been interned in concentration camps, and my mother had served in the Australian Women’s Land Army. And I knew they had been shaped by those times. While I read about WWII in my school history studies, the ongoing impact wasn’t discussed in anything other than joyful descriptions: the marvellous new industrialisation, the Snowy Mountains Hydro Scheme, the new immigration, the new peace.

So, I didn’t understand day-to-day life post-war: rations, demobilisation, travel document requirements, the great sorrow of dead or injured family.

Starting in the early 1950s, my parents built a house. They literally built it: going to the site each weekend, wielding hammers and paint brushes. All the photographs from that time show them in the midst of its unfinished skeleton. For 5 years, they dealt with the challenges of absent building supplies, developing a deep understanding of decision making in light of limited availability.

It reminds me of my mother’s commitment to butter. Butter was rationed in Australia from 7 June 1943 to June 1950 and people were limited to 1 lb (about 500 g) per fortnight. It was a treat. It was treasured – for making cakes, spreading on bread, frying or baking.

Breaches of rationing regulations were punishable under the general provisions of National Security Regulations by fines of £100 or up to 6 months’ imprisonment. Responding to the complaint that these penalties were inadequate, the government passed the Black Marketing Act at the end of 1942. This Act was for more serious cases and could carry a minimum penalty of £1000.

In her old age, after my father died, my mother, Faith, always spread butter very thickly. It horrified my children. And I presume her doctor admonished her. You cannot appreciate what you have always had. It is the great challenge of privilege: to truly understand the experience of “not having”. Faith saw only the indulgence – and she felt it her due, having weathered the rationing and the privation.

I don’t think the Pandemic Years have finished. I still mask, I still worry about the next wave, I still seek information on how we should live: air quality, vaccination programs. However, we have clearly moved to a new phase, where we can draw breath and can learn how we will live in a post-pandemic future. It will be different to pre-pandemic.

Organising an international conference for 2024, we have opted for a hybrid mode (online and face-to-face) to give people options, and to have a fallback option ourselves, should it coincide with another wave of COVID-19. Drafting a Business Continuity Plan for a health care facility, the previously nominal risk of pandemic is all too real, and the vaccine fridge will be bigger.

More personally, I am floundering to know who to shake hands with, who to hug, and with whom I should maintain 1.5 m distance.

We haven’t finished working out which bits we discovered were better during this pandemic. Two weeks ago, during my first ever “in the room” yoga class, I had an extraordinary moment: my yoga teacher gently touched my back as she said, “look at the floor to keep your spine straight, Lilon”. It was such a surprise. It was a whole dimension of learning that was missing across these Pandemic Years (I was always unsure about table position anyway!). The in-person correction would have been taken for granted as part of a yoga class Pre-Pandemic. Now it seems a delight, a thing to be appreciated.

On the other hand, I did a teaching session with medical students online 2 weeks ago. And it was one of the best of many years. Perhaps they were all in their pyjamas (cameras were mostly off). Regardless, they asked thoughtful, penetrating and important questions. And engaged in a way that is difficult to replicate in a tiered lecture theatre.

But pause here and consider this: there was “Between the Wars” too – between WWI and WWII. And it is well established that WWII grew out of the events of the years following WWI. Let’s hope we are sufficiently astute, clever and thoughtful to avoid “Between the Pandemics”.

Dr Lilon Bandler is a Sydney-based GP, medical educator, and Associate Professor with the Leaders in Indigenous Medical Education Network at the University of Melbourne. She is Medical Director of health services at the Wayside Chapel.

The statements or opinions expressed in this article reflect the views of the authors and do not necessarily represent the official policy of the AMA, the MJA or InSight+ unless so stated.

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