A tiny house in a tiny suburb of a city in a big country with big issues…
We have lived our tiny lives in our tiny home with big imaginations creating endless portraits of hope – painted and presented with pride. Now we have a tiny art gallery in our tiny conservatory where a tiny laughing dove struts boldly about collecting tiny sticks to build his tiny nest to raise his tiny chicks to fly freely into the big, blue sky.
Hope whispering to us that we will emerge from our tiny cocoon into a brave, new world… South Africa.
— Laurie Parsons (Cape Town, Western Cape, South Africa)
COVID-19
Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘We meet with the midwife on the phone’
We meet with the midwife on the phone.
She answers our questions and we have that standard-issue conversation: how strange these times are, how we look forward to gathering, how certain we are that this is for the best.
The midwife cannot take my blood pressure or listen for the baby’s heartbeat, so I am left to trust that my body and its tiny resident are working as they should. We felt quite clever when we chose a clinic within walking distance of home, didn’t we?
— Sandra Henderson (Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘We both have bodies after all’
I’m definitely not blinking enough. I love teleporting into work meetings – not worrying about wielding legs and arms through space to sit in a new chair in a new room. But, alas, I’m not blinking enough. Captivated by screens from morning to evening, it’s easy to forget about my body. I feel nonphysical. Then, a cold dog nose nudges my elbow, sending my mouse cursor flying across the screen. I blink, finally. I look down at a fuzzy face and expecting eyes. We both have bodies after all, and it’s time to go outside and soak in the sun.
— Erica Bender (San Diego, California)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘I tend to the pieces’
She is healing; but she needs our help. Her body has been ravaged by bushfires so furious they left her hollow. Floods of emotion swept through her outer edges, and afterwards burnt remnants of the fires washed up onto the shores. I discovered these fragile pieces left to slowly weather away, as the passers-by are now kept at a distance. I tend to the pieces as if I can mend and heal each through repair and reverie. The pieces are renewed. They awaken the senses once more. Gaia is beginning again. We are all in stages of healing.
— Chloe Cassidy (Sydney, NSW, Australia)
Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘Like Sisyphus, I’ve got nothing but time’
My cottage north of town borders wetlands protected by law (so far), and woods I love to walk. But Nature’s debris can trip you up. Especially if you focus on the canopies. (No crown shyness here. These trees don’t social distance.) Spent six days of quarantine clearing fallen branches. On the seventh, a storm threw down new ones. Like Sisyphus, I’ve got nothing but time. But hospitals are the new Hades. Health workers roll out one patient, Rona delivers two more. Me, I’m unemployed and high risk. All I can do is wander these woods. Five, six, pick up sticks.
— David Caudle (Putnam Valley, New York)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘Unfamiliar scenes of sadness and joy’
I wander through the neighborhood park. As I wind down the path, I come across a picnic table wrapped in yellow tape looking like the remnant of a forgotten crime scene. Further down the way, a playground is similarly treated with a homicide-like barrier, warning children to stay away. Grim reminders of our current situation assault my sensibility. I wander down a bit further and I begin to hear the soft murmur of music. As I approach, I see a young man playing a clarinet in the park. Lovely. The pandemic brings unfamiliar scenes of sadness and joy.
— Wanda Kolomyjec (Phoenix, Arizona)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘Citrus Capitalism’
The corporations tell me they are “here for me” in “these difficult times.” They also urge me to buy “sassy WFH clothes” and celebratory outfits for the moment when we can finally “venture out again.” Meanwhile, I wander my neighborhood, picking citrus from overhanging trees. I trade a dozen grapefruits for a loaf of banana bread from my neighbor. I exchange a bag of oranges for some bath soaks from a friend. I pay for a facemask from a colleague with cash and a pile of lemons. I wonder what capitalism will look like when this is all over.
— Jennifer Sandlin (Tempe, Arizona)
Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘I cry for humanity’
I’m not afraid to admit that I’m a crier. I get sad and happy at movies, books, and things a lot of people wouldn’t think someone would cry for. But I haven’t cried for this. I refuse. I cry for the friends and home I’ve been sent away from and I shall cry for those who have experienced the same. I will weep for the parents who are having difficulty feeding their children and the kids who won’t get to see their best friends for months. I don’t cry for COVID-19, I cry for humanity.
— Patrick Meadows (Franklin, Tennessee)
Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘Love, like air, must be filtered through face masks’
Love, like air, must be filtered through face masks. Hugs hold not people, but danger. Home has become a lifeboat on a sea of time with no safe land in sight. We only hope we have enough supplies. A knock must be ignored until the delivery man is far enough away to safely open the door. A sneeze is an assault. A cough is a weapon of intimidation. The unmasked face is now the dangerous one. One man’s right to gather is more important than another’s right to live.
— Nora Fry (McMinnville, Tennessee)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘New snow has fallen’
The virus was transmitted to humans from bats. According to scientists, the pandemic could have been prevented by letting the bats have their territory.
On Easter Day, new snow has fallen. Everything looks open and clean, like new space would have been created outside.
Let’s consider corona as nature’s warning. Ever since the spread of agriculture, men have been conquering new territory, for a horrible price at times.
Snow symbolizes hope. We can still reconsider our relationship to each other, to land, and to other creatures on earth. Let’s leave each the territory they need and deserve.
— Kristjan Urm (Turku, Finland)