Day 46
There is a difference in the air, as palpable and elusive as Autumn mist. My life is changing from the inside out. After nineteen years of bad sleep, night horrors, drenching sweats and backache, I have woken up for the last two days with a burgeoning sense of purpose and excitement. This may not seem much to you, but my usual state is one of resignation ("oh God, it's morning already") and defeat ("how am I going to get through the day?").
Today, I can feel the germination of My New Life pushing against the seedcase of my ribs. There is a cool space there that seems to be expanding. My sense of capability is not increasing, but it is changing in flavour, from one of being held back by my incapacities, to a space of knowing that I am now able to work around them. My life no longer needs to be put on hold while I struggle to get better.
I send out into the ether a thousand thanks, to my wonderful Healing Centre where David and Rebecca, Tarananda and James all worked their miracle magic on me, helping my body to first stop degenerating, and then to begin steadily treading the road to recovery.
I am truly grateful for all the books I have read, which helped me take responsibility for my health on a personal and spiritual level. Without them I would not have found the habits that I had become too accustomed to, the excuses that I'd learned to rely on, or the sly benefits I had received from illness that required vanquishing.
I was so lucky to find a hypnotherapist who was also one of life's clean, bright spirits. He helped me to visualise myself truly well, something that had eluded me for many years, as my memory of being any other way faded and died. He gave me back belief in myself.
I can't praise highly enough the Art and Design Foundation course I followed for the last two years. I rediscovered my heart and soul, my true nature, my gift, my life-force. Without it I would not be where I am today - finding my feet, and forging ahead.
My husband - what can I say? Always there for me, even when he didn't understand, or say or do any of the right things. He still upheld me, supported me to follow my own path, respected what I was trying to do. It would have been so much easier for him if he shared my thoughts and beliefs, to help push me on. Instead, he often had to pull back his own thoughts in order to support me in mine. He wants for me, what I want for me, not what his preferences are - I am blessed.
And so here I am today - with a sense of internal momentum, like a car revving at the headlights, ready to start being a different person, having a different life, and creating a different future. It's no wonder that I wake up smiling at long last, even after a ridiculous night.
Saturday 31 October 2009
Thursday 29 October 2009
Bristol and Banksy and the cat up my nose
Day 44
Another bout of insomnia last night, but it had it's uses - realised that Sam and Ruby, (who had promised to be home by 1.30), were still not home at 3.15. One swift and pertinent text later and they were hurrying back through Bath, finally getting in at 4.20. Didn't think they'd be up for doing their homework today, so we changed our plans.
Before they surfaced, I had a bath to ease my backache and clear my breathing, and an odd thing happened - my left nostril suddenly went "miaow", clear as a bell. Bloody weird that, as I have absolutely no memory of inhaling a cat.
I found that I was perfectly happy and quite excited, even if I was too shattered from lack of sleep to show it. I attribute this partly to having finished my book at last, (a fact that never ceases to amaze me at the moment), and partly because it was half-term and I had children to entertain - it's been a few years since I was in this position, and it suddenly felt like a holiday to be made the most of, instead of a routine day in the life of Blogger Bev.
Decided to go into Bristol and get the kids to photograph all the Banksy's and other graffiti. They're both doing Art, so we can call this research. Had a great afternoon and they took loads of photos - who says you have to spend money to enjoy yourselves! Also have several shots of local (and surprisingly photogenic) loony, one of which always seems to attach itself to Sam.
Came home and made meatballs, then Sam's girlfriend Lydian turned up with angel wings, cat's ears, white fur legwarmers, and a weeny little white bra and shorts suit. Hell's bells, even when I was young and fit I didn't have that much body confidence. They're an extraordinary breed, young girls today. Bloody marvellous.
Feel honoured, and blessed, and happy, and full of meatballs. These are the good days, when sore feet and bad backs and chronic fatigue don't matter. When smiles and giggles, and contentment are what will be remembered. Steve was charming and helpful and made bad puns about creosote (and that's a challenge in itself), Sam was involved and entertaining and kind, and Ruby was a delight as always. As for me, I thoroughtly enjoyed my position as the connecting piece, the one element they all had in common. What a life.
Another bout of insomnia last night, but it had it's uses - realised that Sam and Ruby, (who had promised to be home by 1.30), were still not home at 3.15. One swift and pertinent text later and they were hurrying back through Bath, finally getting in at 4.20. Didn't think they'd be up for doing their homework today, so we changed our plans.
Before they surfaced, I had a bath to ease my backache and clear my breathing, and an odd thing happened - my left nostril suddenly went "miaow", clear as a bell. Bloody weird that, as I have absolutely no memory of inhaling a cat.
I found that I was perfectly happy and quite excited, even if I was too shattered from lack of sleep to show it. I attribute this partly to having finished my book at last, (a fact that never ceases to amaze me at the moment), and partly because it was half-term and I had children to entertain - it's been a few years since I was in this position, and it suddenly felt like a holiday to be made the most of, instead of a routine day in the life of Blogger Bev.
Decided to go into Bristol and get the kids to photograph all the Banksy's and other graffiti. They're both doing Art, so we can call this research. Had a great afternoon and they took loads of photos - who says you have to spend money to enjoy yourselves! Also have several shots of local (and surprisingly photogenic) loony, one of which always seems to attach itself to Sam.
Came home and made meatballs, then Sam's girlfriend Lydian turned up with angel wings, cat's ears, white fur legwarmers, and a weeny little white bra and shorts suit. Hell's bells, even when I was young and fit I didn't have that much body confidence. They're an extraordinary breed, young girls today. Bloody marvellous.
Feel honoured, and blessed, and happy, and full of meatballs. These are the good days, when sore feet and bad backs and chronic fatigue don't matter. When smiles and giggles, and contentment are what will be remembered. Steve was charming and helpful and made bad puns about creosote (and that's a challenge in itself), Sam was involved and entertaining and kind, and Ruby was a delight as always. As for me, I thoroughtly enjoyed my position as the connecting piece, the one element they all had in common. What a life.
Wednesday 28 October 2009
Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby
Day 43
Today my niece Ruby is coming for a few days. She is sixteen and beautiful. If my other girl Robyn is 'the pink one', then Ruby is probably more of the 'black/emo/scene' one (I don't know, I'm a bit out of touch). Either way, we're really looking forward to seeing her.
She is probably bringing homework with her, and I am actually quite excited at the thought of being able to help her with it. Who would guess that homework is one of the things you'll miss as your children get older! Hope she's not doing Maths.
Have packed away all my book stuff now as it is actually all completed. Am busy reading my 'Artist's and Author's Yearbook' for all the info on how to find an agent and approach publishers, which are the next steps, and feeling daunted as this is the bit I know nothing about. Hope it's not like childbirth, as in if you really knew what it took, you wouldn't do it. Well I've got two kids, so I'll do it anyway.
Ruby's dad used to run a book shop in Antigua, so - even though he's a pilot now - I'll be pumping him for information and contacts. Hope he's still got some. He's certainly packed more into the last ten years than I have. Mind you, so have most people. BUT, I have finished my book, so Hurrah for that, at least.
Up to now though, the thought was always "I must finish my book", but now that I have, the thought has changed to "What if nobody likes it?"- I never had to consider that before, when finishing was the goal. I really believe it's a good book, a useful book, an educational tool disguised as a beautiful picture book, on a subject that nobody has tackled before. Is this enough? God, I hope so.
Hey, let's find out, as Steve would say.
Today my niece Ruby is coming for a few days. She is sixteen and beautiful. If my other girl Robyn is 'the pink one', then Ruby is probably more of the 'black/emo/scene' one (I don't know, I'm a bit out of touch). Either way, we're really looking forward to seeing her.
She is probably bringing homework with her, and I am actually quite excited at the thought of being able to help her with it. Who would guess that homework is one of the things you'll miss as your children get older! Hope she's not doing Maths.
Have packed away all my book stuff now as it is actually all completed. Am busy reading my 'Artist's and Author's Yearbook' for all the info on how to find an agent and approach publishers, which are the next steps, and feeling daunted as this is the bit I know nothing about. Hope it's not like childbirth, as in if you really knew what it took, you wouldn't do it. Well I've got two kids, so I'll do it anyway.
Ruby's dad used to run a book shop in Antigua, so - even though he's a pilot now - I'll be pumping him for information and contacts. Hope he's still got some. He's certainly packed more into the last ten years than I have. Mind you, so have most people. BUT, I have finished my book, so Hurrah for that, at least.
Up to now though, the thought was always "I must finish my book", but now that I have, the thought has changed to "What if nobody likes it?"- I never had to consider that before, when finishing was the goal. I really believe it's a good book, a useful book, an educational tool disguised as a beautiful picture book, on a subject that nobody has tackled before. Is this enough? God, I hope so.
Hey, let's find out, as Steve would say.
Tuesday 27 October 2009
Silk
Day 42
Right now I am involved in that well known artist's occupation - waiting for paint to dry. Yesterday, I started on my silk samples for the book, and today I needed to re-do a couple of them. I'd forgotten how time consuming silk-painting was, how many processes there are, and how much drying time it all takes.
First I draw out the design, then pin the drawing to a board beneath a sheet of perspex. I stretch the silk over, taking care not to distort the grain too much, and fill in all the outlines with Gutta. When that is dry, I pin the silk to a stretcher frame, pulling it taut, before mixing and applying the paints. When the paint is properly dry, I remove it from the frame and roll it in endless pieces of old sheeting, before finally coiling it up, securing it with masking tape and covering it in a tin-foil cap.
Then it gets put into my ratty old pressure cooker and covered with a piece of towelling to catch the drips. The rubber seal for my pressure cooker disintegrated years ago, but I improvise - I cover everything with another piece of tin-foil before putting the lid on, squeezing it tight, and pinching one of my sons dumb-bell weights to put on top. The whole thing steams for at least an hour, then it all gets dismantled again.
The silk is left to dry, then I wash it with some vinegar in the water, roll it in a towel and squeeze it dry, then I iron it whilst damp on a clean cloth. Then I have to mount the things, carefully trying to get the lines exactly straight again. No wonder my eyes are starting to cross a bit.
I think maybe one has to be a little bit OCD to enjoy all of this fussing around, and I do actually, so that says it all really. When this book is finished, I might let myself just mess about with silk painting for a bit and see what I come up with. I never had to confidence to free-form with it before, but since I did my Art Foundation Course, I'll try anything, just to see how it turns out. Don't care if it's rubbish any more - that's called research, apparently.
By the end of today, I will have everything I need to start contacting publishers and agents about my book. There is no point going further with the illustrations until I have somebody interested in taking it to the next stage. They may prefer me to use a different medium of style for the illustrations, so spending hundreds of pounds on silk-painting supplies when we are on the dole makes no sense.
I wonder what will happen next - will anybody actually be interested? Will this book finally get published and put onto a shelf at Waterstones? Will anybody buy it? Will anybody like it? I am scared and excited in equal measure. It will be cool to be able to say "I am a published author", but as this is a book for three year olds, I will also feel a bit of a fraud. It is neither fine art or high literature. But then, neither is 'Spot the dog', so that's OK. It all feels a bit weird, though.
Right now I am involved in that well known artist's occupation - waiting for paint to dry. Yesterday, I started on my silk samples for the book, and today I needed to re-do a couple of them. I'd forgotten how time consuming silk-painting was, how many processes there are, and how much drying time it all takes.
First I draw out the design, then pin the drawing to a board beneath a sheet of perspex. I stretch the silk over, taking care not to distort the grain too much, and fill in all the outlines with Gutta. When that is dry, I pin the silk to a stretcher frame, pulling it taut, before mixing and applying the paints. When the paint is properly dry, I remove it from the frame and roll it in endless pieces of old sheeting, before finally coiling it up, securing it with masking tape and covering it in a tin-foil cap.
Then it gets put into my ratty old pressure cooker and covered with a piece of towelling to catch the drips. The rubber seal for my pressure cooker disintegrated years ago, but I improvise - I cover everything with another piece of tin-foil before putting the lid on, squeezing it tight, and pinching one of my sons dumb-bell weights to put on top. The whole thing steams for at least an hour, then it all gets dismantled again.
The silk is left to dry, then I wash it with some vinegar in the water, roll it in a towel and squeeze it dry, then I iron it whilst damp on a clean cloth. Then I have to mount the things, carefully trying to get the lines exactly straight again. No wonder my eyes are starting to cross a bit.
I think maybe one has to be a little bit OCD to enjoy all of this fussing around, and I do actually, so that says it all really. When this book is finished, I might let myself just mess about with silk painting for a bit and see what I come up with. I never had to confidence to free-form with it before, but since I did my Art Foundation Course, I'll try anything, just to see how it turns out. Don't care if it's rubbish any more - that's called research, apparently.
By the end of today, I will have everything I need to start contacting publishers and agents about my book. There is no point going further with the illustrations until I have somebody interested in taking it to the next stage. They may prefer me to use a different medium of style for the illustrations, so spending hundreds of pounds on silk-painting supplies when we are on the dole makes no sense.
I wonder what will happen next - will anybody actually be interested? Will this book finally get published and put onto a shelf at Waterstones? Will anybody buy it? Will anybody like it? I am scared and excited in equal measure. It will be cool to be able to say "I am a published author", but as this is a book for three year olds, I will also feel a bit of a fraud. It is neither fine art or high literature. But then, neither is 'Spot the dog', so that's OK. It all feels a bit weird, though.
Monday 26 October 2009
Nothing can stop me now
Day 41
My old life is starting to disappear (at long last), and I can't quite believe it. My health is improving in leaps and bounds (barely coughing now, energy OK, and PMS not too bad), and my focus with my book is easier to maintain than it's ever been. I used to struggle so hard - concentration was almost impossible, decision making a nightmare, and the exhaustion so interminable - but now, after two years at college, most of those problems have eased off. I knew I was making progress against this illness, but without the structure of college or anything else to measure against, it had all felt like it was falling way.
My New Life is now starting to take shape. I still can't commit to plans that require a certain amount of energy to fulfil, as I never know when my body is going to demand a 'rest day'. I do find, however, that I can follow through on my decisions far more frequently, without it taking so much effort that I end up shaking and in tears. There are days when I put off going to the loo for as long as possible because of what is required to get there, but I now find myself able to work around those days very well, and they are getting fewer in number.
I am delighted to report that all the pictures for my children's book are now designed, and so Steve and I went out yesterday, and bought new paintbrushes and some Gutta for me to start transterring them onto silk. I use steam-fix silk paints, which means the images come out of my old pressure cooker as bright and rich in colour as stained-glass windows on a summer's day.
When I was a young girl I had an Aunt and Uncle who I never got to see - they were retired and sailing around the world on their boat - so every year at Christmas, they sent us each a book token and it was always my favourite present. I distinctly remember sitting on the floor in the bookshop with the sun slanting through the window onto the brown, tufted carpet beside me, illuminating the pile of books I had spread out to choose between. I remember the feel of the new pages and the different smells of the inks.
Books with utterly beautiful illustrations drew me like a magnet - books of fantasy and fairy-tale, magic and marvel. The more imaginative the story, the better the pictures were. These are the kind of books I aspire to produce. I want to write the books that I would have loved to own as a child, to tell the stories that would have stirred my imagination. I don't know if I have the skill to do this, but I like to have a strong goal to aspire to.
This first book I am working on though, is much simpler than that. It comes from an idea I had ten years ago. Ten years, I ask you! So many times I had to put it aside 'to be continued', and so many times my husband inquired if I had "given up on it, then?". This is why the excitement I feel now, as it nears completion, is like a small, underground volcano erupting beneath my breastbone. I can feel it tremor inside me, chilling my breath internally like a fresh breeze. It has a pulse of it's own. I tell myself "this is it - this is what My New Life feels like". It is here, it is beginning, it is mine at last.
My old life is starting to disappear (at long last), and I can't quite believe it. My health is improving in leaps and bounds (barely coughing now, energy OK, and PMS not too bad), and my focus with my book is easier to maintain than it's ever been. I used to struggle so hard - concentration was almost impossible, decision making a nightmare, and the exhaustion so interminable - but now, after two years at college, most of those problems have eased off. I knew I was making progress against this illness, but without the structure of college or anything else to measure against, it had all felt like it was falling way.
My New Life is now starting to take shape. I still can't commit to plans that require a certain amount of energy to fulfil, as I never know when my body is going to demand a 'rest day'. I do find, however, that I can follow through on my decisions far more frequently, without it taking so much effort that I end up shaking and in tears. There are days when I put off going to the loo for as long as possible because of what is required to get there, but I now find myself able to work around those days very well, and they are getting fewer in number.
I am delighted to report that all the pictures for my children's book are now designed, and so Steve and I went out yesterday, and bought new paintbrushes and some Gutta for me to start transterring them onto silk. I use steam-fix silk paints, which means the images come out of my old pressure cooker as bright and rich in colour as stained-glass windows on a summer's day.
When I was a young girl I had an Aunt and Uncle who I never got to see - they were retired and sailing around the world on their boat - so every year at Christmas, they sent us each a book token and it was always my favourite present. I distinctly remember sitting on the floor in the bookshop with the sun slanting through the window onto the brown, tufted carpet beside me, illuminating the pile of books I had spread out to choose between. I remember the feel of the new pages and the different smells of the inks.
Books with utterly beautiful illustrations drew me like a magnet - books of fantasy and fairy-tale, magic and marvel. The more imaginative the story, the better the pictures were. These are the kind of books I aspire to produce. I want to write the books that I would have loved to own as a child, to tell the stories that would have stirred my imagination. I don't know if I have the skill to do this, but I like to have a strong goal to aspire to.
This first book I am working on though, is much simpler than that. It comes from an idea I had ten years ago. Ten years, I ask you! So many times I had to put it aside 'to be continued', and so many times my husband inquired if I had "given up on it, then?". This is why the excitement I feel now, as it nears completion, is like a small, underground volcano erupting beneath my breastbone. I can feel it tremor inside me, chilling my breath internally like a fresh breeze. It has a pulse of it's own. I tell myself "this is it - this is what My New Life feels like". It is here, it is beginning, it is mine at last.
Saturday 24 October 2009
Galloping forward
Day 39
Hell's bells, but I'm cooking with gas now. Even though I have a blazingly good hangover and can hardly write, I know I'll be able to finish the last four pages of my book today. (Thank God I can touch type, because looking at the screen is easier than looking down right now.) Went out for dinner with some lovely neighbours of ours last night, and were having such a good time we didn't even leave the dinner table until 11.45. Got to bed rather late, and spent a lot of time in the night applying 4head, but still feel really excited about cracking on with the next bit of my book, (whereas usually I would be needing to rest for a day or so). This is brilliant.My 'To do' list currently looks like this -
- Finish the Blue picture - tick.
- Do the Multi-coloured picture - tick.
- Design the last page - tick.
- Start on the filling pages - tick.
Only got four more filling pages to go and all the designs are done. These will be completed today, then Steve and I will go to Hobbycraft tomorrow to get some silk-painting basics. Once I have some samples of how the finished illustrations will look on silk, then I can contact publishers and agents and start trying to get some interest. Then it all turns from an idea into a reality - yikes!
So, need to have a bath (and clean off last night's make up which is drifting down my cheeks), and get something to eat to settle my stomach. Need to kick the cat off her place on top of yesterday's paintings. Need to work for maybe five hours, then clean up and pack everything I don't need away, ready for the silk-painting to start. Then it's 'all systems go'.
I can't quite believe that after all these years of having to put this off because off ill-health and other hindrances, that the moment of completion is nearly here. It doesn't seem quite real. Feel happy and daunted and nervous and excited, all in equal measure. Time to put myself on the line and find out if anybody is interested in this book - whether I can actually make it happen.
So, a big 'thank you' to all those involved in the making of the film 'Julie and Julia', because it inspired me to start this blog, and to believe that I could use it as an aid to achieving my goals, the way it did for Julie. It has definitely helped keep me focused and determined, all through a shitty month, and I heartily recommend doing it. Watch this space to see how I get through the next bit, as I've no idea what will be required of me. My latest Rune spread described this as the "empty-handed leap into the void". No kidding.
Friday 23 October 2009
Out to lunch
Day 38
Being invited out for lunch is one of the great pleasures in life. That the lunch took place in a Uni canteen is a couple of points down, but that it was in the company of Sarah and Kate is hundreds of points up. Sarah and Kate were mature students on my Art and Design Foundation course last year - Sarah is now at the Uni up the hill, and Kate is doing her second year of the foundation course. She also lives almost next door to the Uni, which is handy.
I have missed being at college quite strongly at times, especially in the first few weeks after we broke up. I didn't know what to do with myself for a while - there was no routine, no deadlines, and no-one setting any projects in motion - and I felt adrift. So I was concerned that I would suffer horrible jealousy pangs when I visited Sarah's studio, and that this would dilute my focus for getting on with my book.
Luckily, it didn't happen - I have clearly moved on - and so I was able to enjoy seeing her work, her workspace, and Kate's work as well, without regret at passing by the chance to go to Uni myself. Although I had the option, the timing was all wrong, and finances were too unstable, and besides, I had put off finishing my book all the time I was at college, and it felt the right time to push on and finish it. (Not lazy, just busy, see?)
I do enjoy seeing people that I care about, and who have been immersed in the same situation as I have, pulling forward and making progress in their work. Kate's painting is coming on a treat, which is fabulous considering she only started painting a few months ago. And when I say painting, I don't mean nice studies of landscapes or still lifes, oh no, not on this course. Our tutor (or torturer) would turn us inside out, guiding us towards finding our own 'unique means of self expression using paint as a medium', and it was bloody hard graft. I would come home completely exhausted, and thankful that I was only doing it part-time. Didn't clean my house for a year.
Sarah is hampered by the lack of facilities at the Uni at the moment - she's not allowed in the printing room for months yet apparently - but is still showing a confidence in her work that is new. I'm really looking forward to what she will produce in the next few years, which is when the jealousy will probably kick in too, as she's really talented.
When this book (and the others that I have planned to follow it) is finished, I want to get a studio and get painting again. As the best work I did before I left college was huge - six feet by five feet six, known as 'The Beast' - I can't do it in the corner of my bedroom, as I had previously planned. That's the thing about college - you go there thinking you know what you will learn, and what you will do when you come out, and it turns out to be entirely different. Bit like life really.
Being invited out for lunch is one of the great pleasures in life. That the lunch took place in a Uni canteen is a couple of points down, but that it was in the company of Sarah and Kate is hundreds of points up. Sarah and Kate were mature students on my Art and Design Foundation course last year - Sarah is now at the Uni up the hill, and Kate is doing her second year of the foundation course. She also lives almost next door to the Uni, which is handy.
I have missed being at college quite strongly at times, especially in the first few weeks after we broke up. I didn't know what to do with myself for a while - there was no routine, no deadlines, and no-one setting any projects in motion - and I felt adrift. So I was concerned that I would suffer horrible jealousy pangs when I visited Sarah's studio, and that this would dilute my focus for getting on with my book.
Luckily, it didn't happen - I have clearly moved on - and so I was able to enjoy seeing her work, her workspace, and Kate's work as well, without regret at passing by the chance to go to Uni myself. Although I had the option, the timing was all wrong, and finances were too unstable, and besides, I had put off finishing my book all the time I was at college, and it felt the right time to push on and finish it. (Not lazy, just busy, see?)
I do enjoy seeing people that I care about, and who have been immersed in the same situation as I have, pulling forward and making progress in their work. Kate's painting is coming on a treat, which is fabulous considering she only started painting a few months ago. And when I say painting, I don't mean nice studies of landscapes or still lifes, oh no, not on this course. Our tutor (or torturer) would turn us inside out, guiding us towards finding our own 'unique means of self expression using paint as a medium', and it was bloody hard graft. I would come home completely exhausted, and thankful that I was only doing it part-time. Didn't clean my house for a year.
Sarah is hampered by the lack of facilities at the Uni at the moment - she's not allowed in the printing room for months yet apparently - but is still showing a confidence in her work that is new. I'm really looking forward to what she will produce in the next few years, which is when the jealousy will probably kick in too, as she's really talented.
When this book (and the others that I have planned to follow it) is finished, I want to get a studio and get painting again. As the best work I did before I left college was huge - six feet by five feet six, known as 'The Beast' - I can't do it in the corner of my bedroom, as I had previously planned. That's the thing about college - you go there thinking you know what you will learn, and what you will do when you come out, and it turns out to be entirely different. Bit like life really.
Thursday 22 October 2009
Mars and Venus, at it again
Day 37
These days, I often find myself fascinated by the ways in which men and women differ. I think it is a reaction to my upbringing in the seventies, when the ethos was all about proving we were the same. It has always been glaringly obvious that we are not, but it took the 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus' books to really bring the issue to the forefront. Nowadays, for instance, educationalists are finally agreeing that girls and boys learn in different ways, and classes are getting segregated again (in certain subjects), to ensure that no sexual group is disadvantaged by a teaching style that is more suited to the other. Hurrah for that.
I went to my Book Group last night, which is all female, and I found it very interesting as an example of how women bond together, as apposed to men. They are a really lovely group, assembled by my mate Rebecca, who is a genius at finding nice people. My son Joe has this talent too - he has always attracted good sorts - and it is a skill that should never be underestimated.
What I observed last night was this - when a group of women get together, some age old genetic programming seems to kick in, compelling us towards certain behaviour patterns, probably dating back to our time saying "ugg" in caves. I'm not suggesting we turn into Neanderthals, (unless it's a hen party at a Chippendale's concert, and a lot of shorts have been consumed), but that our tendency to want to coalesce closely as a group, dates back to our earliest need for survival thousands of years ago.
Think about it. The men have gone hunting. They need to be focused, risk-taking, able to solve problems very quickly, and highly competitive if they are to survive and ensure their offspring live to adulthood. The women are at home in the cave. They need to be multi-tasking, risk-averse, empathetic, and able to bond and work as a group, if they and theirs are to flourish. Different lives, different skills. The women must form a tight unit, a whole whose parts have equal value, able to depend on each other and looking out for the welfare of all the children, not just their own. Empathy is not just a socially sophisticated form of communication - in this community, it is the bedrock on which their survival sits.
In today's society, we have no need or desire for that level of rigidity. We are free to explore and express who we are in myriad ways, which is great. Men can be multi-tasking and empathetic, and women can be focused and competitive. This is all as it should be. But then you put us in a single-sex group, and our genetic heritage tugs just a little at the strings.
In Book Group last night, for instance, there was a slight but distinct lack of ease about disagreeing with each other over our enjoyment (or not) of the book we had chosen. Opposing views did not springboard us immediately into an excited Jeremy Paxman style heated debate, about the pros and cons of said offering. More frequently, in fact, we found ourselves looking for points that we could agree on, and the discussion was much more voluble and seemed more comfortable, when we could.
Indeed, even at the end Rebecca proposed a secret ballot to vote for the next book choice, so that no-one would feel coerced into agreeing with the choices of another. This was not a reflection on the integrity of the group - nobody there was pushy, domineering or manipulative, far from it - but a recognition of the inbuilt desire to form a solid group, where experiences are empathised with, and decisions are made by the group as a whole. The cult of the individual did our foremothers no service, and our cell memory still resonates with this knowledge at a primal level.
This tight, all-encompassing bonding, of which women are capable, is an extraordinary thing. It is at it's best in the friendships that last a whole lifetime, in the commuities where it's strength can move mountains, and where a collective sense of purpose and vision holds out against all odds. They say a man will save his wife from a burning building, whereas a women will save her children. I believe a sisterhood would save each other's children. Brilliant.
These days, I often find myself fascinated by the ways in which men and women differ. I think it is a reaction to my upbringing in the seventies, when the ethos was all about proving we were the same. It has always been glaringly obvious that we are not, but it took the 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus' books to really bring the issue to the forefront. Nowadays, for instance, educationalists are finally agreeing that girls and boys learn in different ways, and classes are getting segregated again (in certain subjects), to ensure that no sexual group is disadvantaged by a teaching style that is more suited to the other. Hurrah for that.
I went to my Book Group last night, which is all female, and I found it very interesting as an example of how women bond together, as apposed to men. They are a really lovely group, assembled by my mate Rebecca, who is a genius at finding nice people. My son Joe has this talent too - he has always attracted good sorts - and it is a skill that should never be underestimated.
What I observed last night was this - when a group of women get together, some age old genetic programming seems to kick in, compelling us towards certain behaviour patterns, probably dating back to our time saying "ugg" in caves. I'm not suggesting we turn into Neanderthals, (unless it's a hen party at a Chippendale's concert, and a lot of shorts have been consumed), but that our tendency to want to coalesce closely as a group, dates back to our earliest need for survival thousands of years ago.
Think about it. The men have gone hunting. They need to be focused, risk-taking, able to solve problems very quickly, and highly competitive if they are to survive and ensure their offspring live to adulthood. The women are at home in the cave. They need to be multi-tasking, risk-averse, empathetic, and able to bond and work as a group, if they and theirs are to flourish. Different lives, different skills. The women must form a tight unit, a whole whose parts have equal value, able to depend on each other and looking out for the welfare of all the children, not just their own. Empathy is not just a socially sophisticated form of communication - in this community, it is the bedrock on which their survival sits.
In today's society, we have no need or desire for that level of rigidity. We are free to explore and express who we are in myriad ways, which is great. Men can be multi-tasking and empathetic, and women can be focused and competitive. This is all as it should be. But then you put us in a single-sex group, and our genetic heritage tugs just a little at the strings.
In Book Group last night, for instance, there was a slight but distinct lack of ease about disagreeing with each other over our enjoyment (or not) of the book we had chosen. Opposing views did not springboard us immediately into an excited Jeremy Paxman style heated debate, about the pros and cons of said offering. More frequently, in fact, we found ourselves looking for points that we could agree on, and the discussion was much more voluble and seemed more comfortable, when we could.
Indeed, even at the end Rebecca proposed a secret ballot to vote for the next book choice, so that no-one would feel coerced into agreeing with the choices of another. This was not a reflection on the integrity of the group - nobody there was pushy, domineering or manipulative, far from it - but a recognition of the inbuilt desire to form a solid group, where experiences are empathised with, and decisions are made by the group as a whole. The cult of the individual did our foremothers no service, and our cell memory still resonates with this knowledge at a primal level.
This tight, all-encompassing bonding, of which women are capable, is an extraordinary thing. It is at it's best in the friendships that last a whole lifetime, in the commuities where it's strength can move mountains, and where a collective sense of purpose and vision holds out against all odds. They say a man will save his wife from a burning building, whereas a women will save her children. I believe a sisterhood would save each other's children. Brilliant.
Saturday 17 October 2009
Having a weepy day (sniff)
Day 32
Nostalgia is an odd word. It pretends to be your friend - "come with me," it beckons, "and I'll take you back to your happy place". Well, mostly it doesn't - it takes you to a rose-tinted, sentimental, heart-string pulling pastiche of what is really stored, in those dark recesses of one's mind.
Today I am all stirred up with memories, and Nostalgia is up to it's tricks. Apparently, it never rained in my childhood, my siblings and I never argued, friends were constantly available, I was never frustrated by my much younger sister, or snubbed by my much older brother. The pain I felt when my parent's fought is now less than a stubbed toe in my memory, and the fear I felt when that wrath was directed towards me - so severe that I spent whole days hiding in the hen house - is but a whisper, a ghost, a nothing.
It is valuable, I suspect, to be able to rose-tint one's past, cauterising old wounds with forgetfulness, and applying the band-aid of diminishing reality to that which was less than perfect. But those old injuries can't heal if left in the dark for too long. Nor do they if one constantly picks at the scabs of them either, so how do we find the 'happy medium' that allows release from the pain, without losing accuracy of recall?
Courage, perhaps, is the first pre-requisite. To take one's past in all it's imperfect detail and declare "this I liked, thank you, this I didn't - but it happened, so be it, and maybe I don't know the whole story". We don't have to condone the injustices in our pasts, but that needn't stop us learning from them and moving on.
Acceptance comes next - to remember that which is painful to remember, the sorrows and losses, the heartbreaks, the things we regret or left unsaid. To take all of the memories of those we may have loved deeply and lost tragically, and say "I wish we'd had longer, but you did your best and I did my best, and all that we shared - good and bad - is of value to me". To hold a space inside us for it to be OK the way that it was.
Forgiveness comes last of all. The ability to forgive those who hurt us or left us, to forgive life for being too hard, too scary, too short, too long, etc., and above all, to forgive ourselves for not being perfect, for not knowing what the future would hold, for being merely human.
I sometimes want to remember only good, gorgeous, lovely things about my sister, but that would just be Nostalgia taking away half of my life with her, half of my memories. So even though it hurts today, I'm going to let it all in, every last bit.
So, come back Caron, in all your glory and humanity, and I will remember and be thankful for all those years we shared. Every row we had, every sulk you prolonged, every bit of temper I lost at you, every laugh we shared, every game we played, every dress of mine you borrowed and cut the sleeves off before giving back, every meal you cooked badly, every day that was made brighter by your presence, every song we sang together (even though you had to stick your fingers in your ears not to sing along with my part), every time you copied me and I got pissed off, every time I missed you and then you'd suddenly call, every time you got absolutely plastered, every time you over-bleached your hair, every time your visits were too short, every time you tidied up and I never found anything again. I choose to welcome it all, to treasure it all, and to censor nothing. That is what you are worth.
Nostalgia is an odd word. It pretends to be your friend - "come with me," it beckons, "and I'll take you back to your happy place". Well, mostly it doesn't - it takes you to a rose-tinted, sentimental, heart-string pulling pastiche of what is really stored, in those dark recesses of one's mind.
Today I am all stirred up with memories, and Nostalgia is up to it's tricks. Apparently, it never rained in my childhood, my siblings and I never argued, friends were constantly available, I was never frustrated by my much younger sister, or snubbed by my much older brother. The pain I felt when my parent's fought is now less than a stubbed toe in my memory, and the fear I felt when that wrath was directed towards me - so severe that I spent whole days hiding in the hen house - is but a whisper, a ghost, a nothing.
It is valuable, I suspect, to be able to rose-tint one's past, cauterising old wounds with forgetfulness, and applying the band-aid of diminishing reality to that which was less than perfect. But those old injuries can't heal if left in the dark for too long. Nor do they if one constantly picks at the scabs of them either, so how do we find the 'happy medium' that allows release from the pain, without losing accuracy of recall?
Courage, perhaps, is the first pre-requisite. To take one's past in all it's imperfect detail and declare "this I liked, thank you, this I didn't - but it happened, so be it, and maybe I don't know the whole story". We don't have to condone the injustices in our pasts, but that needn't stop us learning from them and moving on.
Acceptance comes next - to remember that which is painful to remember, the sorrows and losses, the heartbreaks, the things we regret or left unsaid. To take all of the memories of those we may have loved deeply and lost tragically, and say "I wish we'd had longer, but you did your best and I did my best, and all that we shared - good and bad - is of value to me". To hold a space inside us for it to be OK the way that it was.
Forgiveness comes last of all. The ability to forgive those who hurt us or left us, to forgive life for being too hard, too scary, too short, too long, etc., and above all, to forgive ourselves for not being perfect, for not knowing what the future would hold, for being merely human.
I sometimes want to remember only good, gorgeous, lovely things about my sister, but that would just be Nostalgia taking away half of my life with her, half of my memories. So even though it hurts today, I'm going to let it all in, every last bit.
So, come back Caron, in all your glory and humanity, and I will remember and be thankful for all those years we shared. Every row we had, every sulk you prolonged, every bit of temper I lost at you, every laugh we shared, every game we played, every dress of mine you borrowed and cut the sleeves off before giving back, every meal you cooked badly, every day that was made brighter by your presence, every song we sang together (even though you had to stick your fingers in your ears not to sing along with my part), every time you copied me and I got pissed off, every time I missed you and then you'd suddenly call, every time you got absolutely plastered, every time you over-bleached your hair, every time your visits were too short, every time you tidied up and I never found anything again. I choose to welcome it all, to treasure it all, and to censor nothing. That is what you are worth.
Friday 16 October 2009
Finding my direction
Day 31
It's been a whole month since I started My New Life, and it's not exactly what some might call a roaring success. For the most part, I have had one virus after another, and got very little done. My house is a tip. My body is less of a temple, and more of a disused garden shed - full of junk. My career is moving forward at a hesitant snail's pace, and my energy levels are at an all time critical low.
Still - I'm happy , and I choose to believe it can only get better from here. Even if it has been one hell of a month, health-wise, I did manage two of the preliminary drawings for my book, one of which only needs some colour changes, which is a quick fix. By the end of this next month, I should be able to finish all of the drawings, and start on the silk-painted samples.
The finished illustrations will be silk-paintings, because the colours in that medium are as bright and bold as stained glass windows. This is a book about colour, so the pictures really have to pack a punch, and silk-paintings will do that. While Steve is out of work, I don't have the money to buy all the paints, gutta, silk, brushes etc., that I need, so some samples (using up what I have left from years ago) will have to do to for now.
When my son Joe was born 27 years ago, I discovered how much of a full-time job motherhood was going to be. I realised I would have the time to work and be a mum, or be an artist and be a mum, or work and be an artist, but not all three at once. So my work would have to be as an artist, or I would have to give it up or shelve it for a really, really long time, and I couldn't bear to do that.
Not having any artistic training until recently, it has taken a while to find my direction. Before Sam came along I was exploring lots of avenues and gaining valuable experience. After Sam, of course, my life ground to a halt with the illness that I am now finally putting to rest. It may have been a long road, but there are ways in which it has been productive. I gained a lot of maturity and self-discipline in that time. I know better now how to use my time effectively, and have found out what is worth doing, and what not to be distracted by.
So roll on next month, it's going to be a good one - I can feel it in my waters, as my old Gran used to say. When you consider how much of the Human body is made up of water, then that must be a good thing, (though when I was a kid, I always wondered what she was doing trying to feel her pee).
It's been a whole month since I started My New Life, and it's not exactly what some might call a roaring success. For the most part, I have had one virus after another, and got very little done. My house is a tip. My body is less of a temple, and more of a disused garden shed - full of junk. My career is moving forward at a hesitant snail's pace, and my energy levels are at an all time critical low.
Still - I'm happy , and I choose to believe it can only get better from here. Even if it has been one hell of a month, health-wise, I did manage two of the preliminary drawings for my book, one of which only needs some colour changes, which is a quick fix. By the end of this next month, I should be able to finish all of the drawings, and start on the silk-painted samples.
The finished illustrations will be silk-paintings, because the colours in that medium are as bright and bold as stained glass windows. This is a book about colour, so the pictures really have to pack a punch, and silk-paintings will do that. While Steve is out of work, I don't have the money to buy all the paints, gutta, silk, brushes etc., that I need, so some samples (using up what I have left from years ago) will have to do to for now.
When my son Joe was born 27 years ago, I discovered how much of a full-time job motherhood was going to be. I realised I would have the time to work and be a mum, or be an artist and be a mum, or work and be an artist, but not all three at once. So my work would have to be as an artist, or I would have to give it up or shelve it for a really, really long time, and I couldn't bear to do that.
Not having any artistic training until recently, it has taken a while to find my direction. Before Sam came along I was exploring lots of avenues and gaining valuable experience. After Sam, of course, my life ground to a halt with the illness that I am now finally putting to rest. It may have been a long road, but there are ways in which it has been productive. I gained a lot of maturity and self-discipline in that time. I know better now how to use my time effectively, and have found out what is worth doing, and what not to be distracted by.
So roll on next month, it's going to be a good one - I can feel it in my waters, as my old Gran used to say. When you consider how much of the Human body is made up of water, then that must be a good thing, (though when I was a kid, I always wondered what she was doing trying to feel her pee).
Thursday 15 October 2009
Building bridges with my computer
Day 30
If wellness is a state of mind, then it's time I saw a shrink. Have finished the antibiotics, and am now coughing like a fifty-a-day fag and whiskey man, and I've never smoked in my life. Bought some cough medicine yesterday, but it did nothing except bring me out in a rash. Am now coughing, spotty and itchy, and getting less attractive by the minute. Will go back to the doc's again this afternoon, c'os I'm really bored with this.
The computer died yesterday and Steve had to go out and get a new hard drive or something. He described the noises it made as it croaked, with as much feeling and sympathy as if it had been one of the kids. The relationship between a man and his PC is clearly a sacred and wonderful thing. So, he sat in the hole in the wall that we call an office, tending it's fevered brow or whatever it is you do until late last night, and now it works agin. Thanks sweetheart.
To me computers are just metal boxes, that I don't find particularly attractive and am often confused or irritated with, but I know that they represent something else entirely to others in this world. My husband often shows me pictures of some latest fabulous electronic gadget and uses the phrase 'sexy' to describe it. 'Sexy'?! - I ask you, maybe this is where I'm going wrong.
Despite the fact that I really rather like Science Fiction, (having an older brother who would pass on Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov books), I've never subscribed to the 'computer as a living thing' point of view. I don't think for one minute that my home PC will one day develop consciousness and run off with the hoover, to plot world domination and the overthrow of the human race, for instance.(Though I don't mind if the iron develops an ability to work independantly).
I do treat my plants with care though. I fuss about trying to find the right position for them - not enough sun, too much sun, away from a radiator, out of draughts etc., and I think they grow better because of the attention as well as the right conditions. Maybe I'm missing a trick with computers. It's easier for me with my plants, because they are much more clearly organic and full of life, and I can relate to their vibration as a life force. Perhaps if I remember that computers are also made from things on this planet - they have copper wire for instance, and even the plastic casing was once a natural substance from the Earth - then I can connect to them better. Maybe then they'll work better for me.
So, starting today, I shall send the computer a positive thought and thank it for allowing me to write my blog.
I'm absolutely not giving it a name though - there are limits.
If wellness is a state of mind, then it's time I saw a shrink. Have finished the antibiotics, and am now coughing like a fifty-a-day fag and whiskey man, and I've never smoked in my life. Bought some cough medicine yesterday, but it did nothing except bring me out in a rash. Am now coughing, spotty and itchy, and getting less attractive by the minute. Will go back to the doc's again this afternoon, c'os I'm really bored with this.
The computer died yesterday and Steve had to go out and get a new hard drive or something. He described the noises it made as it croaked, with as much feeling and sympathy as if it had been one of the kids. The relationship between a man and his PC is clearly a sacred and wonderful thing. So, he sat in the hole in the wall that we call an office, tending it's fevered brow or whatever it is you do until late last night, and now it works agin. Thanks sweetheart.
To me computers are just metal boxes, that I don't find particularly attractive and am often confused or irritated with, but I know that they represent something else entirely to others in this world. My husband often shows me pictures of some latest fabulous electronic gadget and uses the phrase 'sexy' to describe it. 'Sexy'?! - I ask you, maybe this is where I'm going wrong.
Despite the fact that I really rather like Science Fiction, (having an older brother who would pass on Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov books), I've never subscribed to the 'computer as a living thing' point of view. I don't think for one minute that my home PC will one day develop consciousness and run off with the hoover, to plot world domination and the overthrow of the human race, for instance.(Though I don't mind if the iron develops an ability to work independantly).
I do treat my plants with care though. I fuss about trying to find the right position for them - not enough sun, too much sun, away from a radiator, out of draughts etc., and I think they grow better because of the attention as well as the right conditions. Maybe I'm missing a trick with computers. It's easier for me with my plants, because they are much more clearly organic and full of life, and I can relate to their vibration as a life force. Perhaps if I remember that computers are also made from things on this planet - they have copper wire for instance, and even the plastic casing was once a natural substance from the Earth - then I can connect to them better. Maybe then they'll work better for me.
So, starting today, I shall send the computer a positive thought and thank it for allowing me to write my blog.
I'm absolutely not giving it a name though - there are limits.
Tuesday 13 October 2009
Getting going again
Day 28
Woke up with searing backache - not unusual, usually goes after a hot bath - but today it was worse than ever, didn't lesson with the bath, and pain killers only dented it. Not to worry. Realised that if I was going to spend the day roaming round the house bent double, hands scraping along the floor like an Uran Utang, I might as well make the best of it.
Sitting down was relatively comfortable, so Steve did all my walking for me, and I painted the next two pictures for my book. Have just finished now, and have no more backache than I would have anyway, bent over a drawing board all day. RESULT!
Now my health is almost back to it's usual level of not-very-good, I'm really keen to get the book finished, as this will be the biggest part of creating My New Life. I need to re-do the pictures I have done today, as they were rough drafts to check out composition and colour balance, but this is good progress and I am feeling considerably chuffed. When I first started this book, it took me a whole week to do one picture as my health was so rubbish. Then it would have to be followed by several weeks rest before I could do the next. So, having done two in one day - well!
My newest resolution, therefore, is to finish all the pictures within the next month, including samples in silk. This is more exciting than daunting, so I must have turned a corner somewhere, because I feel back on track. Isn't life wonderful? I must remember that illness is just that - it is not a barrier or a handicap, but something I can work around on the good days, or even totally ignore like today.
Woke up with searing backache - not unusual, usually goes after a hot bath - but today it was worse than ever, didn't lesson with the bath, and pain killers only dented it. Not to worry. Realised that if I was going to spend the day roaming round the house bent double, hands scraping along the floor like an Uran Utang, I might as well make the best of it.
Sitting down was relatively comfortable, so Steve did all my walking for me, and I painted the next two pictures for my book. Have just finished now, and have no more backache than I would have anyway, bent over a drawing board all day. RESULT!
Now my health is almost back to it's usual level of not-very-good, I'm really keen to get the book finished, as this will be the biggest part of creating My New Life. I need to re-do the pictures I have done today, as they were rough drafts to check out composition and colour balance, but this is good progress and I am feeling considerably chuffed. When I first started this book, it took me a whole week to do one picture as my health was so rubbish. Then it would have to be followed by several weeks rest before I could do the next. So, having done two in one day - well!
My newest resolution, therefore, is to finish all the pictures within the next month, including samples in silk. This is more exciting than daunting, so I must have turned a corner somewhere, because I feel back on track. Isn't life wonderful? I must remember that illness is just that - it is not a barrier or a handicap, but something I can work around on the good days, or even totally ignore like today.
Wednesday 7 October 2009
What to do when it's really cold
Day 27
Many years ago, when I was a single parent on Income Support, my sister came to live with me for a while. College hadn't worked out for her and she wanted to find her direction in life. She couldn't get much dole as she was living with me, and jobs were thin on the ground at the time, (much like today), so we were both totally broke.
One night in December, we were squashed onto my bed, huddled under the duvet (as it saved on heating), looking through an atlas playing 'If you could go anywhere, where would you choose?' Not being from a family who ever travelled unless it was to an Auntie's house, we had little experience, and everywhere sounded exotic and wonderful to us. We settled on Casablanca, the name redolent with romance and mystery to our somewhat ignorant ears.
So it was, that a few months later, having suddenly been gifted a thousand pounds each, we decided to be sensible with half the money, and go to Casablanca with the rest. Unlike the image in our heads, Casablanca turned out to be a bit of a dump in 1984, so that is why we were travelling around Morocco, looking for authentic experiences (and getting stuck on a bus to Marrakesh at four in the morning).
I've always travelled hopefully - I find few things as enriching as journeying along unknown roads. There always exists the possibility for limitless discovery, if you head for somewhere you've never been before. Today, as I am tired and a little worn out after my fab weekend, I was wondering how to apply that sense of hopefulness to the life I am inhabiting now. In My New Life, I don't want to waste time or take any day for granted.
So I stood in the garden and let myself Be. I heard the sounds of Blackbirds, magpies, and children playing in a school playground. I could smell the coal-dust tang of smoke from someones fire. I looked down and saw the perfect red of a fallen Maple leaf on a deep green table. I lifted my head, and saw a plane so high up in a clear blue sky, it could have been coming from Mars. The sun warmed my face. The air was crisp. The moment - perfect.
I step back inside, feeling as if - for one split second - I had been on a journey, and was now back, renewed, refocused, and at peace. Sometimes, it seems, it is not where we go, but how open we are to being there, that counts.
Many years ago, when I was a single parent on Income Support, my sister came to live with me for a while. College hadn't worked out for her and she wanted to find her direction in life. She couldn't get much dole as she was living with me, and jobs were thin on the ground at the time, (much like today), so we were both totally broke.
One night in December, we were squashed onto my bed, huddled under the duvet (as it saved on heating), looking through an atlas playing 'If you could go anywhere, where would you choose?' Not being from a family who ever travelled unless it was to an Auntie's house, we had little experience, and everywhere sounded exotic and wonderful to us. We settled on Casablanca, the name redolent with romance and mystery to our somewhat ignorant ears.
So it was, that a few months later, having suddenly been gifted a thousand pounds each, we decided to be sensible with half the money, and go to Casablanca with the rest. Unlike the image in our heads, Casablanca turned out to be a bit of a dump in 1984, so that is why we were travelling around Morocco, looking for authentic experiences (and getting stuck on a bus to Marrakesh at four in the morning).
I've always travelled hopefully - I find few things as enriching as journeying along unknown roads. There always exists the possibility for limitless discovery, if you head for somewhere you've never been before. Today, as I am tired and a little worn out after my fab weekend, I was wondering how to apply that sense of hopefulness to the life I am inhabiting now. In My New Life, I don't want to waste time or take any day for granted.
So I stood in the garden and let myself Be. I heard the sounds of Blackbirds, magpies, and children playing in a school playground. I could smell the coal-dust tang of smoke from someones fire. I looked down and saw the perfect red of a fallen Maple leaf on a deep green table. I lifted my head, and saw a plane so high up in a clear blue sky, it could have been coming from Mars. The sun warmed my face. The air was crisp. The moment - perfect.
I step back inside, feeling as if - for one split second - I had been on a journey, and was now back, renewed, refocused, and at peace. Sometimes, it seems, it is not where we go, but how open we are to being there, that counts.
Goodbye to The Pink One
Day 26
So, Robyn, my niece, has gone home now but, true to form, she arrived wearing pink. We spent all of Friday night catching up with the family gossip, all of Saturday shopping, and all of today painting on silk and making greetings cards. I have definitely had a good 'girlie' fix and I am feeling much better for it, so thank you, Robs, my sweet girl.
It was nice to discuss one of my passions with someone - (interior design) - but I didn't realise how serious Robs was about it all, until she bought a ladder in an antique shop, to hang all her belts and scarves on. Very nice, very chic, and also very far away from her home in London.
Now here's the thing - she's going back on the train by herself, and her boyfriend only has a motorbike. And she brought lots of books and things down with her that she also has to carry back, and then I gave her her Dad's birthday present to take back as well.
So, we had stood in the middle of Green Street in Bath with her saying, "oh never mind, I'll leave it" and had turned to the left to go home, but then she'd said "but I really love it and I've been looking for one for ages" so we had turned to the right, and so on, and this went on a bit.
Then she said "Bev, help me make up my mind", "Will it be too difficult to get on the tube with?" and "Will I look an idiot carrying it?" So, I thought about it and what I thought was this.
When I was that age I went on holiday to Morocco, with my sister and my son Joe. I remember one particular early morning - we had to catch a bus from a tiny little village to take us through the Atlas Mountains at sunrise, to Marrakesh. We found we couldn't arrange a taxi for four in the morning, and so would have to walk the three miles or so to the bus stop. Then my sister got really bad holiday tummy and was hardly strong enough to walk, let alone carry anything, but we had to get to Marrakesh for the plane home.
So, there I was at four in the morning, wearing pyjamas c'os it was hot, with a huge rucksack on my back and a shoulder bag or two over each arm, carrying my sleeping five-year old, and supporting a groaning, white-faced sister with one arm, trying to get to the bus stop on time. (We made it, by the way, just in case you were worried).
And I thought, I'm really not the person to ask about looking stupid, and carrying heavy loads for long distances because I clearly have no perspective that's useful. But I helped her make up her mind anyway, and the ladder in now chuntering through Reading as I type this, and her boyfriend will meet her at the station without the bike, so It's happy endings all round.
As for the bus to Marrakesh, my son slept for the whole journey and my sister spent most of it with a flannel over her eyes, or head down in a carrier bag. But I watched a golden, glittering sunrise gallop across the mountains, illuminating the earth as if it was the very first day in the world, the bus screeching around hairpin bends, and dangling over precipitous drops. It was beyond fabulous, and I will never forget it. So even if it's difficult and you look stupid, do it girl, do it every time, is my advice.
So, Robyn, my niece, has gone home now but, true to form, she arrived wearing pink. We spent all of Friday night catching up with the family gossip, all of Saturday shopping, and all of today painting on silk and making greetings cards. I have definitely had a good 'girlie' fix and I am feeling much better for it, so thank you, Robs, my sweet girl.
It was nice to discuss one of my passions with someone - (interior design) - but I didn't realise how serious Robs was about it all, until she bought a ladder in an antique shop, to hang all her belts and scarves on. Very nice, very chic, and also very far away from her home in London.
Now here's the thing - she's going back on the train by herself, and her boyfriend only has a motorbike. And she brought lots of books and things down with her that she also has to carry back, and then I gave her her Dad's birthday present to take back as well.
So, we had stood in the middle of Green Street in Bath with her saying, "oh never mind, I'll leave it" and had turned to the left to go home, but then she'd said "but I really love it and I've been looking for one for ages" so we had turned to the right, and so on, and this went on a bit.
Then she said "Bev, help me make up my mind", "Will it be too difficult to get on the tube with?" and "Will I look an idiot carrying it?" So, I thought about it and what I thought was this.
When I was that age I went on holiday to Morocco, with my sister and my son Joe. I remember one particular early morning - we had to catch a bus from a tiny little village to take us through the Atlas Mountains at sunrise, to Marrakesh. We found we couldn't arrange a taxi for four in the morning, and so would have to walk the three miles or so to the bus stop. Then my sister got really bad holiday tummy and was hardly strong enough to walk, let alone carry anything, but we had to get to Marrakesh for the plane home.
So, there I was at four in the morning, wearing pyjamas c'os it was hot, with a huge rucksack on my back and a shoulder bag or two over each arm, carrying my sleeping five-year old, and supporting a groaning, white-faced sister with one arm, trying to get to the bus stop on time. (We made it, by the way, just in case you were worried).
And I thought, I'm really not the person to ask about looking stupid, and carrying heavy loads for long distances because I clearly have no perspective that's useful. But I helped her make up her mind anyway, and the ladder in now chuntering through Reading as I type this, and her boyfriend will meet her at the station without the bike, so It's happy endings all round.
As for the bus to Marrakesh, my son slept for the whole journey and my sister spent most of it with a flannel over her eyes, or head down in a carrier bag. But I watched a golden, glittering sunrise gallop across the mountains, illuminating the earth as if it was the very first day in the world, the bus screeching around hairpin bends, and dangling over precipitous drops. It was beyond fabulous, and I will never forget it. So even if it's difficult and you look stupid, do it girl, do it every time, is my advice.
The Pink One
Day 24
Many, many years ago, when Joe was three years old, we spent a family xmas with my brother and his family at his mother-in-law's house. My dad was with us, and being the fabulous grandad that he was, he was chasing the children around, playing hide and seek, giving them 'pony' rides, and being 'the monster' (grrrr). Little Joe - in an apoplexy of excitement - had momentarily forgotten his cousin's name, and was fleeing from Grandad (not very convincingly) screaming "Get the pink one, the pink one!" This was his two year old cousin, Robyn, my brother's daughter, and even though she is now twenty-six, she is still, pretty much, the pink one.
So, Robyn is coming to stay for the weekend, and my head is happily buzzing with "the pink one is coming". She is a very lovely young woman, full of life and humour, gets on well with everybody, creative, easy-going, beautiful without knowing how much, and kind and generous. Doesn't get much better really.
I don't get to do girlie stuff much, having sons and a proper bloke for a husband. Also, we've moved around so much that every time I've got a good 'best friend' sorted, I've had to leave her behind. So Robyn is my chance to be a 'girl' for the weekend. We'll look in shops that sell stuff with frills on and I'll have someone to share that with. Can't wait. Hope my energy holds out enough, as the antibiotics are working, but slowly. At least I'm in charge of my limbs and can type today, but am happily past the contagious stage.
My real 'best friend' was my sister Caron, who died fifteen years ago. We were so close it was like having a twin. I hardly ever had to finish a sentence or explain anything, we could read each other's minds so well. Steve was always losing us when we went out anywhere, because - in the middle of talking about something else - we would both suddenly spot something interesting and veer off to look at it, while Steve carried on walking. Nothing was said, we just knew. It was lovely, it was special, and I am a privileged person because I have had that.
I thought I would miss her forever, but life is kind - my son Sam is so like her, both physically and in personality - and Robyn has her creativity, femininity, and sense of fun. She also left behind an adorable young daughter called Ruby (this year's most popular girl's name apparently - she was clearly ahead of her time). So, between the three of them, much of Caron lives on. I am lucky, indeed.
So, with an aching body but an excited heart, I'm going to clean out my guinea pigs now, because the pink one is coming and it's all good.
Many, many years ago, when Joe was three years old, we spent a family xmas with my brother and his family at his mother-in-law's house. My dad was with us, and being the fabulous grandad that he was, he was chasing the children around, playing hide and seek, giving them 'pony' rides, and being 'the monster' (grrrr). Little Joe - in an apoplexy of excitement - had momentarily forgotten his cousin's name, and was fleeing from Grandad (not very convincingly) screaming "Get the pink one, the pink one!" This was his two year old cousin, Robyn, my brother's daughter, and even though she is now twenty-six, she is still, pretty much, the pink one.
So, Robyn is coming to stay for the weekend, and my head is happily buzzing with "the pink one is coming". She is a very lovely young woman, full of life and humour, gets on well with everybody, creative, easy-going, beautiful without knowing how much, and kind and generous. Doesn't get much better really.
I don't get to do girlie stuff much, having sons and a proper bloke for a husband. Also, we've moved around so much that every time I've got a good 'best friend' sorted, I've had to leave her behind. So Robyn is my chance to be a 'girl' for the weekend. We'll look in shops that sell stuff with frills on and I'll have someone to share that with. Can't wait. Hope my energy holds out enough, as the antibiotics are working, but slowly. At least I'm in charge of my limbs and can type today, but am happily past the contagious stage.
My real 'best friend' was my sister Caron, who died fifteen years ago. We were so close it was like having a twin. I hardly ever had to finish a sentence or explain anything, we could read each other's minds so well. Steve was always losing us when we went out anywhere, because - in the middle of talking about something else - we would both suddenly spot something interesting and veer off to look at it, while Steve carried on walking. Nothing was said, we just knew. It was lovely, it was special, and I am a privileged person because I have had that.
I thought I would miss her forever, but life is kind - my son Sam is so like her, both physically and in personality - and Robyn has her creativity, femininity, and sense of fun. She also left behind an adorable young daughter called Ruby (this year's most popular girl's name apparently - she was clearly ahead of her time). So, between the three of them, much of Caron lives on. I am lucky, indeed.
So, with an aching body but an excited heart, I'm going to clean out my guinea pigs now, because the pink one is coming and it's all good.
Computers and kids
Day 23
Today I would like to focus on two things - one that frustrates me eternally, and one that delights me continually. Or to put it in today's parlance, there is two fings, right, one what I will diss, and one what I will big up, mos def.
The first (and the bane of my life) is computers. They are supposedly wonderful things that enhance our lives and make things easier, and they certainly would be if they did as they were told. But I am one of those people to whom electronic things object. They work perfectly well for my husband and sons, but as soon as that keyboard senses a hint of oestrogen, the damn things immediately want to play silly buggers with me.
I'm not as bad as my sister was. She could make anything with a plug on it go wrong. I left her for a weekend in my flat to look after my cat once and, when I came back on Sunday night, the kettle wouldn't work, the hoover was broken, the washing machine was at a standstill and she'd fused all the lights. She once bought a brand new stereo system - in the eighties they still were huge with buttons you had to press down - and it only worked if she wedged cut up matchsticks down the sides of the buttons to keep them turned on. Every time she took it back to the shop it worked perfectly, of course. Eventually she gave up and passed it on to me where it worked fine, I noticed, unless she was in the house or even on the phone, when I would find myself wedging matchsticks down it to keep the damn thing going.
So - I am not as bad as that, but there must be a genetic factor, something in our magnetic field perhaps, because computers really don't like me. When I ask my husband why it's doing something it shouldn't or failing to do something it should, his response - naturally enough - is that I've pressed the wrong button, or typed something wrong. And then he'll come in and do exactly what I have just done and it will recognise that 'daddy' is here and do everything right. Very frustrating.
Yesterday, for instance,I was trying to get to my email. That's all. I simply placed the cursor over the word 'mail', and clicked. It went into spasm. "Bad request" it screamed, in big, red letters, then went on to complain "your client has issued a malformed or illegal request"! My husband looked at me with kind, but pitying amusement, and said "only you", which wasn't helpful. Then he pressed the button and reached my email without any problem, so I tried again and it still wouldn't let me do it. Even as I type this there is a red 'ERROR' message at the top of the screen, detailing that my request cannot be processed, which is a bit confusing as I haven't requested anything.
So computers - you don't like me , so I don't like you - consider yourselves dissed.
Teenagers, on the other hand are a wonderful bunch of little aliens. In my own 'yoof', there was this horrible thing called 'The Generation Gap', which had been invented to stop people talking to each other like normal human beings. I'm terribly delighted to see that it doesn't seem to exist any more - at least not to the young people I have met in the last ten years or so.
I've just spent two years on a course aimed at school leavers, to prepare them for Uni. Thanks mostly to the sheer quality of the kids on the course, it has been close to the best two years of my life. They treated me as an equal and a friend, someone to go to for advice, and to give support and encouragement to, someone to share the gossip or a joke with, and to include in their lives. They always treated me as if age made me no different on the human level, and even sometimes as special because of it. They even enjoyed the fact, that having lived longer I had more mad stories to tell, which is just so sweet.
Joe is now 27 and Sam is 19, so we have had all of their friends round for years and they are an equally fine bunch of people. The most defining characteristics are their openness to others, their thoughtfulness and lack of judgement, and their willingness to listen to you (as long as you're not their actual parent, of course). I know I was not like that with my friend's parents when I was young. I was polite to them and dutifully thankful if they had fed me or I had stayed the night, but I wouldn't have sought them out for a conversation. And I certainly wouldn't have been inviting them to foam parties (thanks, but no thanks, Aysha).
I will be eternally grateful to the young people who have already passed through my life, and for those yet to come. Their spontaneity is infectious, their curiosity enriching, and their creativity a delight. (Some of the giggling, shrieking or grunting I can live without, but it's a small price to pay).
So - lovely young people - consider yourselves bigged up.
P.S. Have just tried to publish this post and it won't let me, and have had to ask hubby to step in. It knows, you see.
Today I would like to focus on two things - one that frustrates me eternally, and one that delights me continually. Or to put it in today's parlance, there is two fings, right, one what I will diss, and one what I will big up, mos def.
The first (and the bane of my life) is computers. They are supposedly wonderful things that enhance our lives and make things easier, and they certainly would be if they did as they were told. But I am one of those people to whom electronic things object. They work perfectly well for my husband and sons, but as soon as that keyboard senses a hint of oestrogen, the damn things immediately want to play silly buggers with me.
I'm not as bad as my sister was. She could make anything with a plug on it go wrong. I left her for a weekend in my flat to look after my cat once and, when I came back on Sunday night, the kettle wouldn't work, the hoover was broken, the washing machine was at a standstill and she'd fused all the lights. She once bought a brand new stereo system - in the eighties they still were huge with buttons you had to press down - and it only worked if she wedged cut up matchsticks down the sides of the buttons to keep them turned on. Every time she took it back to the shop it worked perfectly, of course. Eventually she gave up and passed it on to me where it worked fine, I noticed, unless she was in the house or even on the phone, when I would find myself wedging matchsticks down it to keep the damn thing going.
So - I am not as bad as that, but there must be a genetic factor, something in our magnetic field perhaps, because computers really don't like me. When I ask my husband why it's doing something it shouldn't or failing to do something it should, his response - naturally enough - is that I've pressed the wrong button, or typed something wrong. And then he'll come in and do exactly what I have just done and it will recognise that 'daddy' is here and do everything right. Very frustrating.
Yesterday, for instance,I was trying to get to my email. That's all. I simply placed the cursor over the word 'mail', and clicked. It went into spasm. "Bad request" it screamed, in big, red letters, then went on to complain "your client has issued a malformed or illegal request"! My husband looked at me with kind, but pitying amusement, and said "only you", which wasn't helpful. Then he pressed the button and reached my email without any problem, so I tried again and it still wouldn't let me do it. Even as I type this there is a red 'ERROR' message at the top of the screen, detailing that my request cannot be processed, which is a bit confusing as I haven't requested anything.
So computers - you don't like me , so I don't like you - consider yourselves dissed.
Teenagers, on the other hand are a wonderful bunch of little aliens. In my own 'yoof', there was this horrible thing called 'The Generation Gap', which had been invented to stop people talking to each other like normal human beings. I'm terribly delighted to see that it doesn't seem to exist any more - at least not to the young people I have met in the last ten years or so.
I've just spent two years on a course aimed at school leavers, to prepare them for Uni. Thanks mostly to the sheer quality of the kids on the course, it has been close to the best two years of my life. They treated me as an equal and a friend, someone to go to for advice, and to give support and encouragement to, someone to share the gossip or a joke with, and to include in their lives. They always treated me as if age made me no different on the human level, and even sometimes as special because of it. They even enjoyed the fact, that having lived longer I had more mad stories to tell, which is just so sweet.
Joe is now 27 and Sam is 19, so we have had all of their friends round for years and they are an equally fine bunch of people. The most defining characteristics are their openness to others, their thoughtfulness and lack of judgement, and their willingness to listen to you (as long as you're not their actual parent, of course). I know I was not like that with my friend's parents when I was young. I was polite to them and dutifully thankful if they had fed me or I had stayed the night, but I wouldn't have sought them out for a conversation. And I certainly wouldn't have been inviting them to foam parties (thanks, but no thanks, Aysha).
I will be eternally grateful to the young people who have already passed through my life, and for those yet to come. Their spontaneity is infectious, their curiosity enriching, and their creativity a delight. (Some of the giggling, shrieking or grunting I can live without, but it's a small price to pay).
So - lovely young people - consider yourselves bigged up.
P.S. Have just tried to publish this post and it won't let me, and have had to ask hubby to step in. It knows, you see.
Quarantine us now
Day 22
My body is now is system overload, so I have given up and gone to the Doc's for antibiotics. Apparently, I have an ear infection (which I knew), a throat infection (which I suspected), and now a chest infection as well (which I caught off Sam, who came home at the weekend with a bit of 'flu).
He's not doing too badly because he is young. He just sleeps - for hours and hours and hours - and his body gets on with repairing itself while he's unconscious. I remember being like that at his age, those days when if sleeping was an Olympic sport, I could probably have got at least a Bronze. Marvellous.
Steve is now living in a hotbed of infection and nasty bugs and is coping quite well. He's managing not to go down with anything himself but I think he's feeling a lot worse than he says. Yesterday, for instance, he got out the ironing board to attempt the ironing pile and managed two t-shirts before needing a bit of a sit down. Gave me a lovely smile and promised to do another two later.
So the big question is (and thanks for your comment, Lucie sweetheart), did I get more ill because I thought I would after doing my Rune cast, or did that just predict it accurately? Sam thinks the former, and gave me one of those slightly pained looks that kids do, when they despair of bringing you up right. I'm not so sure, because I thought it might indicate I would just take longer to get well than anticipated - I don't recall thinking I'd actually deteriorate.
Ah well, it is how it is. Me and the sofa are now so welded to each others shapes that dinner and a movie seems appropriate. I'm taking so many pills (including vit C and painkillers) that I'm expecting McNulty to do a wire-tap on me, and I'm still bored rigid cos my heads too wobbly to read. My New Life, it would seem, is temporarily on hold. Hey ho.
My body is now is system overload, so I have given up and gone to the Doc's for antibiotics. Apparently, I have an ear infection (which I knew), a throat infection (which I suspected), and now a chest infection as well (which I caught off Sam, who came home at the weekend with a bit of 'flu).
He's not doing too badly because he is young. He just sleeps - for hours and hours and hours - and his body gets on with repairing itself while he's unconscious. I remember being like that at his age, those days when if sleeping was an Olympic sport, I could probably have got at least a Bronze. Marvellous.
Steve is now living in a hotbed of infection and nasty bugs and is coping quite well. He's managing not to go down with anything himself but I think he's feeling a lot worse than he says. Yesterday, for instance, he got out the ironing board to attempt the ironing pile and managed two t-shirts before needing a bit of a sit down. Gave me a lovely smile and promised to do another two later.
So the big question is (and thanks for your comment, Lucie sweetheart), did I get more ill because I thought I would after doing my Rune cast, or did that just predict it accurately? Sam thinks the former, and gave me one of those slightly pained looks that kids do, when they despair of bringing you up right. I'm not so sure, because I thought it might indicate I would just take longer to get well than anticipated - I don't recall thinking I'd actually deteriorate.
Ah well, it is how it is. Me and the sofa are now so welded to each others shapes that dinner and a movie seems appropriate. I'm taking so many pills (including vit C and painkillers) that I'm expecting McNulty to do a wire-tap on me, and I'm still bored rigid cos my heads too wobbly to read. My New Life, it would seem, is temporarily on hold. Hey ho.
Sunday 4 October 2009
What the Runes told me
Day 19
When I was in my mid-twenties I was introduced to a wonderful lady called Eva. She lived in a big, rambling house in Ipswich, that was always full of interesting people of all ages, but none were more fabulous than Eva herself. She was a magnificent titian-haired Scot, who told me she had once been put in charge of an old-peoples home by her father. Horrified by the amount of prescription drugs they were on, she threw them all away and gave them each a bottle of whiskey instead. They all had a fine old time until her dad found out, and that was the end of that job.
She lived near a new-age commune - a lovely place, where Eva did massage courses, I think. I was just at that age where I was trying to find the 'meaning of life' (sad, I know, but we've all got to go through it),and this was my first introduction to people who thought in a less established way about things. I had a great time there, and so did my young son Joe - lots of non-competitive parachute games and maypole stuff.
Whilst staying with Eva, she showed me her Rune Stones - some of what she called her 'Pokey Hat business'. She wasn't particularly 'Glastonbury', if you know what I mean, she just kept an open mind about everything, and if something worked, that was good enough for her. I liked the process immediately, and have had my own set of Rune Stones now, for twenty-five years.
So this morning I did a Rune cast, and frankly, it was a bit disappointing.
My 'Past' was Othila which is about shedding skins and letting go, so that was OK.
My 'Present' was Isa, which denotes standstill, non-movement and not being able to get anything done (no kidding!). Again, fair enough.
My 'Future' was the Blank Rune, which indicates that nothing is predestined here, and all future paths are open to me. Thank you very much, that'll do nicely.
My 'Foundation' - the issue that is underpinning everything here - was Laguz, in reverse. Not really a surprise considering the state of my health at the moment, as it is all about being out of balance. It is also advising me to reconnect more with my inner self to shore up my strength. Got it.
My 'Challenge' - that which I next have to face - was Perth. This rune is all about things changing on a sub-conscious level, and therefore needing to let go and not obstruct the process. Sounds a bit tricky when you feel as rough as I do this week, but hey ho, I'll give it a go.
And finally, my 'Best Possible Outcome' was Algiz, reversed. Damn. Put bluntly this says, you're gonna still be ill, no-one can help you and things may not work out well for you either. Flippin' heck. That's my best possible outcome? I think I might just go back to bed.
When I was in my mid-twenties I was introduced to a wonderful lady called Eva. She lived in a big, rambling house in Ipswich, that was always full of interesting people of all ages, but none were more fabulous than Eva herself. She was a magnificent titian-haired Scot, who told me she had once been put in charge of an old-peoples home by her father. Horrified by the amount of prescription drugs they were on, she threw them all away and gave them each a bottle of whiskey instead. They all had a fine old time until her dad found out, and that was the end of that job.
She lived near a new-age commune - a lovely place, where Eva did massage courses, I think. I was just at that age where I was trying to find the 'meaning of life' (sad, I know, but we've all got to go through it),and this was my first introduction to people who thought in a less established way about things. I had a great time there, and so did my young son Joe - lots of non-competitive parachute games and maypole stuff.
Whilst staying with Eva, she showed me her Rune Stones - some of what she called her 'Pokey Hat business'. She wasn't particularly 'Glastonbury', if you know what I mean, she just kept an open mind about everything, and if something worked, that was good enough for her. I liked the process immediately, and have had my own set of Rune Stones now, for twenty-five years.
So this morning I did a Rune cast, and frankly, it was a bit disappointing.
My 'Past' was Othila which is about shedding skins and letting go, so that was OK.
My 'Present' was Isa, which denotes standstill, non-movement and not being able to get anything done (no kidding!). Again, fair enough.
My 'Future' was the Blank Rune, which indicates that nothing is predestined here, and all future paths are open to me. Thank you very much, that'll do nicely.
My 'Foundation' - the issue that is underpinning everything here - was Laguz, in reverse. Not really a surprise considering the state of my health at the moment, as it is all about being out of balance. It is also advising me to reconnect more with my inner self to shore up my strength. Got it.
My 'Challenge' - that which I next have to face - was Perth. This rune is all about things changing on a sub-conscious level, and therefore needing to let go and not obstruct the process. Sounds a bit tricky when you feel as rough as I do this week, but hey ho, I'll give it a go.
And finally, my 'Best Possible Outcome' was Algiz, reversed. Damn. Put bluntly this says, you're gonna still be ill, no-one can help you and things may not work out well for you either. Flippin' heck. That's my best possible outcome? I think I might just go back to bed.
Saturday 3 October 2009
Season of mists
Day 18
Before hefting myself from bed to sofa today, I paused by the window to gaze at my garden, and discovered one sure thing - from the drooping and dropping of petals and leaves, the abundance of berries in the hedgerow, and the withering chill in the air - Autumn is most definately here and the last, lingering days of summer are finally over. I love Autumn generally, with it's fresh winds after the heat of July, and the richness of it's fruiting after the floral dance of summer. Next week, however, I am travelling back to a place that is always sunny and clear and dry, and I am bright with anticipation.
As you know, I had a difficult childhood (because of my mother's raging mood swings), but there was one summer that none of that mattered. One summer - that in memory at least - is always safe and bright and free and happy. The summer we spent at Sissinghurst.
My father had a summer contract in the Kent countryside nearby. Mum would bundle us all into the car and we would drive out to drop Dad, then head for the nearest Pick-your-own farm, always on the lookout for things to stretch the budget. For every punnet of strawberries or raspberries we picked for them to sell, we could pick one for ourselves to take home, which Mum would then make into jam for the winter. So that was breakfast - sitting in a strawberry field with my big brother (working industriously - nothing has changed there) and my small sister wandering around, finding the biggest fruit, until her her pretty blue eyes beamed out over a bright red strawberry-smeared smile.
At lunch time, the car packed with the dazzling ripe smell of summer fruit, we took our picnic lunch to where Dad was working. We ate cheese and tomato sandwiches out of the back of the station wagon or leaning on a tree, and drank orange squash in that comfortable silence one gets after hard work.
Then it was magic time - Mum drove us to Sissinghurst Castle for the afternoon, and we were free. Even the name, the sussuration of it sliding off your tongue, evokes peacefulness and light. As a fanatical garderner and herbalist, this was my mother's dream place. I was terribly glad that we were usually alone there, as she would frequently snip of cuttings from the plants and secrete them in her pockets, to try and grow them at home.
It was always sunny there. We would run around and play hide-and-seek and explore. My brother was fabulously brilliant at making up games that made you feel grown-up and important, and required lots of silently sneeking up on each other without being seen. They were the happiest days of my childhood, without exception.
So next week, I am not going back to the real Sissinghurst, but somewhere better - to the Sissinghurst in my head, my memory and my heart. We are going to read 'Sissinghurst' by Adam Nicholson for my book group, and I'm so excited. As soon as this ear infection goes down enough for me to get out to the shops, then it's sod the groceries - I'm off to Waterstones, and a wonderful, rambling trip down Memory Lane - surely one of the best addresses in the world.
Before hefting myself from bed to sofa today, I paused by the window to gaze at my garden, and discovered one sure thing - from the drooping and dropping of petals and leaves, the abundance of berries in the hedgerow, and the withering chill in the air - Autumn is most definately here and the last, lingering days of summer are finally over. I love Autumn generally, with it's fresh winds after the heat of July, and the richness of it's fruiting after the floral dance of summer. Next week, however, I am travelling back to a place that is always sunny and clear and dry, and I am bright with anticipation.
As you know, I had a difficult childhood (because of my mother's raging mood swings), but there was one summer that none of that mattered. One summer - that in memory at least - is always safe and bright and free and happy. The summer we spent at Sissinghurst.
My father had a summer contract in the Kent countryside nearby. Mum would bundle us all into the car and we would drive out to drop Dad, then head for the nearest Pick-your-own farm, always on the lookout for things to stretch the budget. For every punnet of strawberries or raspberries we picked for them to sell, we could pick one for ourselves to take home, which Mum would then make into jam for the winter. So that was breakfast - sitting in a strawberry field with my big brother (working industriously - nothing has changed there) and my small sister wandering around, finding the biggest fruit, until her her pretty blue eyes beamed out over a bright red strawberry-smeared smile.
At lunch time, the car packed with the dazzling ripe smell of summer fruit, we took our picnic lunch to where Dad was working. We ate cheese and tomato sandwiches out of the back of the station wagon or leaning on a tree, and drank orange squash in that comfortable silence one gets after hard work.
Then it was magic time - Mum drove us to Sissinghurst Castle for the afternoon, and we were free. Even the name, the sussuration of it sliding off your tongue, evokes peacefulness and light. As a fanatical garderner and herbalist, this was my mother's dream place. I was terribly glad that we were usually alone there, as she would frequently snip of cuttings from the plants and secrete them in her pockets, to try and grow them at home.
It was always sunny there. We would run around and play hide-and-seek and explore. My brother was fabulously brilliant at making up games that made you feel grown-up and important, and required lots of silently sneeking up on each other without being seen. They were the happiest days of my childhood, without exception.
So next week, I am not going back to the real Sissinghurst, but somewhere better - to the Sissinghurst in my head, my memory and my heart. We are going to read 'Sissinghurst' by Adam Nicholson for my book group, and I'm so excited. As soon as this ear infection goes down enough for me to get out to the shops, then it's sod the groceries - I'm off to Waterstones, and a wonderful, rambling trip down Memory Lane - surely one of the best addresses in the world.
Friday 2 October 2009
You were great, Stella
Day 17
I am still giving my body time to heal itself of this ear infection and it's doing a damn fine job. Well done, white blood cells. Today I got by with just vitamin C and no painkillers - Yay. Still on the sofa in a smelly old dressing gown though, so a little way to go yet.
I was watching a film where Blythe Danner is discussing time travel with her soon to be step-grandson. "Would you go forward or back?" was the pertinent question, and it really got me thinking (because what else have I got to do until I can balance upright properly). They both chose forward as they would "want to know what happens", but I can't think of anything worse than taking all the surprises out of ones future. What would there be to wish, dream or hope for, if it was already decided and set in stone?
If one were able to go back, however, to those places of regret - of wanting to do things differently - could I really choose that either? Would I still have married my lovely Steve if I had known how much baggage we both brought with us, and how long it would take to work it out? If nineteen years of illness was the price I had to pay for my sublime son Sam, would I have thought twice about it? Would I have gone to art school earlier, learnt to drive younger, put off children until I was older, travelled more, earnt more money, had more security - where does it stop?
It is natural to regret sometimes, to wish "if only", believing it would have made ones life easier and reduced some of the heartache. But if I changed it, who would I be? What valuable lessons that are engraved on the bruises of my heart would I really wish to be without? What wisdom, hard fought for and hard won, would I trade?
Not much, I think.
I suspect my future - My New Life - will be created because of all that I am, because everything I have done up to this point has led me here, to this moment, and I was not ready before. I have regrets, of course, but what life lived, taking risks and meeting things head on doesn't?
I would change just one thing. There was a girl in my History class at school called Stella. I sat next to her two or three times a week and we got on OK. She was not popular or cool, but rather unfashionable and weedy, and her breath smelt like the very devil. I wish I had known that that was a symptom of the disease that killed her before she was nineteen. I wish I had appreciated her loyalty and kindness and grace more than my shallow teenage self did. When I left school and ran away to London with my boyfriend, I wish I had thanked her properly for the silver necklace she left for me at my parents house - expecting nothing in return, and probably knowing it was to be her last Christmas.
So, as I do not have a time-machine, Stella, I tell you this, wherever you are. I am a better friend to others when I have cause to remember you, and my precious silver necklace is the one single thing I own, that did not come from my famitly, that I would never part with. Your short life helped make me who I am. Thank you, babe, sweet dreams, God bless.
I am still giving my body time to heal itself of this ear infection and it's doing a damn fine job. Well done, white blood cells. Today I got by with just vitamin C and no painkillers - Yay. Still on the sofa in a smelly old dressing gown though, so a little way to go yet.
I was watching a film where Blythe Danner is discussing time travel with her soon to be step-grandson. "Would you go forward or back?" was the pertinent question, and it really got me thinking (because what else have I got to do until I can balance upright properly). They both chose forward as they would "want to know what happens", but I can't think of anything worse than taking all the surprises out of ones future. What would there be to wish, dream or hope for, if it was already decided and set in stone?
If one were able to go back, however, to those places of regret - of wanting to do things differently - could I really choose that either? Would I still have married my lovely Steve if I had known how much baggage we both brought with us, and how long it would take to work it out? If nineteen years of illness was the price I had to pay for my sublime son Sam, would I have thought twice about it? Would I have gone to art school earlier, learnt to drive younger, put off children until I was older, travelled more, earnt more money, had more security - where does it stop?
It is natural to regret sometimes, to wish "if only", believing it would have made ones life easier and reduced some of the heartache. But if I changed it, who would I be? What valuable lessons that are engraved on the bruises of my heart would I really wish to be without? What wisdom, hard fought for and hard won, would I trade?
Not much, I think.
I suspect my future - My New Life - will be created because of all that I am, because everything I have done up to this point has led me here, to this moment, and I was not ready before. I have regrets, of course, but what life lived, taking risks and meeting things head on doesn't?
I would change just one thing. There was a girl in my History class at school called Stella. I sat next to her two or three times a week and we got on OK. She was not popular or cool, but rather unfashionable and weedy, and her breath smelt like the very devil. I wish I had known that that was a symptom of the disease that killed her before she was nineteen. I wish I had appreciated her loyalty and kindness and grace more than my shallow teenage self did. When I left school and ran away to London with my boyfriend, I wish I had thanked her properly for the silver necklace she left for me at my parents house - expecting nothing in return, and probably knowing it was to be her last Christmas.
So, as I do not have a time-machine, Stella, I tell you this, wherever you are. I am a better friend to others when I have cause to remember you, and my precious silver necklace is the one single thing I own, that did not come from my famitly, that I would never part with. Your short life helped make me who I am. Thank you, babe, sweet dreams, God bless.
Thursday 1 October 2009
So that's why I feel like shit
Day 16
So, I have an ear infection, which explains some of the recent headaches and such. Annoyingly, things have to get quite severe before it becomes clear that it's not just my usual aches and pains, but something else on top. Am quite wobbly and dizzy as I type this, but am also quite bored, so am persevering.
Felt dreadful this morning, then took exception to something Steve said and BOOM! - dumped all my frustration and misery on him by having a real go at him over not a lot. Why do I do this? I know it's very human and I was really pulled down by the pains drilling into the left side of my head. I know I was over tired and over extended from gritting my teeth and pushing through when all I wanted to do was cry. I know all that, but really, is it a valid excuse?
Our relationship isn't perfect - rather more of a work in progress - but it won't get any better if I act like that. I resolve to treat him more as I would want to be treated, if the tables were turned, though it's quite hard, isn't it, to put yourself in somebody else's shoes.
Good old Mrs Do-as-you-would-be-done-by and Mrs Be-done-by-as-you-did from the 'Water Babies' would have something to say, I expect. Whenever I was ill as a child, I was left alone with a book as my nurse for the day, while my parents went to work. They had to - there was never enough money in the household as it was, without them taking days off. So chicken pox was 'What Katy did', and the german measles was 'Little Women', and I think the mumps was probably 'The Water Babies'. Weirdly, a burst appendix was 'The Pilgrims Progress' which had been left on the windowsill of my mother's room, where I was in bed as it was near the loo. Going into 'the slough of despond' whilst puking up black bile is too surreal for words.
Maybe the fragile state of a body below par is a fertile ground for influence, but I remember those books very clearly. A lot of my young childhood ones were heavily moralistic, with tales of female self-sacrifice and goodness being a major selling point. Compare and contrast the uncomplaining Helen from 'What Katy Did', suffering gallantly on her deathbed, trying not to make any trouble for any body, with, say, Tracey Beaker or Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Don't get me wrong, I loved the books and all the people in them. Like Jo in 'Little Women' I wanted to grow my hair so long I could sell it, don't ask me why. I wanted to dance like the girls in 'Ballet Shoes' (though I preferred tap) and above all, to vanish into a fantasy world through a wardrobe (though I was quite scared in dark, enclosed spaces). So have I modelled my I've-got-a-bug-and-I-want-to-die persona on my sickbed heroines of those old, much loved books? Do I feel so guilty about this morning because I think my husband doesn't deserve it (he doesn't), or because I have been programmed to aspire to something else?
I don't know.
I do know that I try to be Mrs Walk-a-mile-in-someone-else's-shoes-before-judging-them, and I think that is no bad thing. Can I get a bit more Mrs Do-as-you-would-be-done-by? Maybe. If it leads me to treat people with more understanding and respect without excluding myself from those values, then why not. I'm not into self-sacrifice - that is no gift to the person on the receiving end, but maybe asking myself "Is this how I want to be spoken to, and how much would I listen if they did?" might not be a bad thing.
So, I have an ear infection, which explains some of the recent headaches and such. Annoyingly, things have to get quite severe before it becomes clear that it's not just my usual aches and pains, but something else on top. Am quite wobbly and dizzy as I type this, but am also quite bored, so am persevering.
Felt dreadful this morning, then took exception to something Steve said and BOOM! - dumped all my frustration and misery on him by having a real go at him over not a lot. Why do I do this? I know it's very human and I was really pulled down by the pains drilling into the left side of my head. I know I was over tired and over extended from gritting my teeth and pushing through when all I wanted to do was cry. I know all that, but really, is it a valid excuse?
Our relationship isn't perfect - rather more of a work in progress - but it won't get any better if I act like that. I resolve to treat him more as I would want to be treated, if the tables were turned, though it's quite hard, isn't it, to put yourself in somebody else's shoes.
Good old Mrs Do-as-you-would-be-done-by and Mrs Be-done-by-as-you-did from the 'Water Babies' would have something to say, I expect. Whenever I was ill as a child, I was left alone with a book as my nurse for the day, while my parents went to work. They had to - there was never enough money in the household as it was, without them taking days off. So chicken pox was 'What Katy did', and the german measles was 'Little Women', and I think the mumps was probably 'The Water Babies'. Weirdly, a burst appendix was 'The Pilgrims Progress' which had been left on the windowsill of my mother's room, where I was in bed as it was near the loo. Going into 'the slough of despond' whilst puking up black bile is too surreal for words.
Maybe the fragile state of a body below par is a fertile ground for influence, but I remember those books very clearly. A lot of my young childhood ones were heavily moralistic, with tales of female self-sacrifice and goodness being a major selling point. Compare and contrast the uncomplaining Helen from 'What Katy Did', suffering gallantly on her deathbed, trying not to make any trouble for any body, with, say, Tracey Beaker or Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Don't get me wrong, I loved the books and all the people in them. Like Jo in 'Little Women' I wanted to grow my hair so long I could sell it, don't ask me why. I wanted to dance like the girls in 'Ballet Shoes' (though I preferred tap) and above all, to vanish into a fantasy world through a wardrobe (though I was quite scared in dark, enclosed spaces). So have I modelled my I've-got-a-bug-and-I-want-to-die persona on my sickbed heroines of those old, much loved books? Do I feel so guilty about this morning because I think my husband doesn't deserve it (he doesn't), or because I have been programmed to aspire to something else?
I don't know.
I do know that I try to be Mrs Walk-a-mile-in-someone-else's-shoes-before-judging-them, and I think that is no bad thing. Can I get a bit more Mrs Do-as-you-would-be-done-by? Maybe. If it leads me to treat people with more understanding and respect without excluding myself from those values, then why not. I'm not into self-sacrifice - that is no gift to the person on the receiving end, but maybe asking myself "Is this how I want to be spoken to, and how much would I listen if they did?" might not be a bad thing.
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