Travelling Light

Being a parent means, luggage.  Before you are a parent you can leave the house with minimal stuff, a bit of loose change in your pocket, some keys.  Once you are a parent you need lots, and lots, of luggage.  When the child is small this is disproportionate to its size; pushchair, nappies, food, wipes, spare clothes etc. etc. etc.  The amount you take with you decreases slightly at each stage.  My children now being in their teens I need very little, though I still find iphone apps (to keep them entertained) and some kind of peppermint (as a distraction from impending starvation) useful.

Today, however, my children are elsewhere; and I am alone.  This is not common and therefore disconcerting.  I plan the time when they're away, I have a mental list of things to do.  Normally this takes about an hour.  Then I am stuck.

So I took myself for a walk.  Not round the village where I live (in spite of it's charms, and vivid orange bin bags).

  I drove up to the woods, strapped on my all terrain walking shoes and set off. 

King's Wood, Challock, Kent

I resisted my natural urge to take luggage: water in case I'm thirsty, iphone with compass in case I get lost and/ or break my ankle, snack in case I get hungry, shark-repellant Bat spray in case I am attacked by a Great White - (it all makes sense if you watch this film http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0060153/) and so forth.   
It put me outside the space I am comfortable in, carrying so little.  But I also felt light, and just a bit brave.
I have struggled, in recent weeks, with my post-tornado existence.  The sheer effort of keeping going, and a new consciousness (how am I still doing this?) has brought me to a grinding halt.  In my semi-collapsed state I am minded of this story and thought, from Tony de Mello's book "Taking Flight":
"Two men were once walking through a field when they saw an angry bull.  Instantly they made for the nearest fence with the bull in hot pursuit.  It soon became evident to them that they were not going to make it, so one man shouted to the other, "We've had it! Nothing can save us. Say a prayer. Quick!" 
The other shouted back, "I've never prayed in my life and I don't have a prayer for this occasion."
"Never mind.  The bull is catching up with us.  Any prayer will do." 
"Well, I'll say the one I remember my father used to say before meals: For what we are about to receive, Lord, make us truly grateful."

... In the game of cards called life one plays the hand one is dealt to the best of one's ability.  Those who insist on playing, not the hand they were given, but the one they insist they should have been dealt - these are life's failures.  We are not asked if we will play.  That is not an option.  Play we must.  The option is how.

And after all that deep and meaningful stuff it's time for a cup of tea. 

Lightbulb

I was driving back from Morrisons today, with essential food items for my children's return from their Easter trip (and the ingredients for chocolate brownies for celebratory baking) when I had a lightbulb moment.

It was about acceptance.  I have been thinking of acceptance as the holy grail of the grief process, the point at which one might reach a kind of zen calm (I typed zen clam first of all, and then wondered how a zen clam might view this situation).

I have, until this moment, thought that  acceptance would be like a giant eraser, rubbing out all the unpleasantness of the past nine months and moving me to a place where I smile, nod sagely and agree that everything's for the best. 

I realised today that acceptance, that is, coming to terms with the reality of a situation, does not mean you have to like it (the situation).

This is a huge relief.  I am dealing with it, I am still living, I am doing my best to embrace my "new life".  But I don't like that it happened, I wouldn't have chosen it.  I am increasingly convinced that I will be ok. But it won't ever be gone completely, in time it will hurt less but it won't ever not be a regret.

This makes me breathe an internal sigh of relief.  I don't have to like it, or think it's a good thing.  I think I have been attempting some twisty mental gymnastics over the past few months, putting a brave face on, trying to persuade myself that in some strange way it's all good. 

Do we do this too much now?  Do we try so hard to be together people, having all our assorted crap thoroughly sorted, so that we can't say, you know what, it sucks, but in spite of that I'm not going to give up, or stop brushing my hair, or forget to wash the school uniforms.  Life can be really pants, and that's ok.

The sudden rush of relaxation is brilliant, I can go back to watching Jam and Jerusalem (http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006ncn0) and eating Easter eggs. 

Getting it together

I was reading a blog post here http://growandbegrown.blogspot.co.uk/ and it reminded me of this episode of the "popular US Sitcom" Friends.  Monica has a cupboard (aka closet) which is always locked. Now being a fan of the show you will know that Monica is the Empress of Neat Freakiness and Goddess of Clean.  Everything in her life is tidy.  When the cupboard is finally opened it is chock full of crap, everything piled up in a heap.  A whole mess of stuff.

It made me think about a tendency I have to "tidy".  Not specifically in a real way (though it has been known). More in a "life" kind of way.  I want to deal with stuff and move on.  I want to line all the different perspectives and emotions up, work through them in a systematic way and then pack them neatly up in lines, or file them, alphabetically, or maybe in time and date order.

Of course "life", by it's very nature, resists that.  "Life" is chaotic and crazy and unexpected and bonkers.  It can be dangerous, risky, beautiful, wild, surprising.  It doesn't want to be filed or labelled because the minute you do that it will smirk at you and change and defy the carefully shaped hole you have tried to squeeze it into.

I am getting better at just letting it happen.  There are days when I slip into old habits, thinking I actually have some kind of control (much hysterical laughter). But when I stop thinking that it becomes much easier, more fun, gentler, exciting.  When I let go of my categories, and they float up and around me like bubbles and pop in the sunlight, I feel a slow unclenching in my chest and I breathe differently.  It scares me.  But it feels more hopeful. 

I am hoping to one day make peace with my own "cupboard", the messy, junky, broken, crappy bits of my life, to lay them out in the sunlight, because they are part of me, they make me who I am, even when they are ugly and jagged around the edges.  And then eventually the grass will grow around them and blur the edges and soak them away.

Digging for gold

I have had a strange sensation this past week.  It began when I was listening to the album "Watermark".  This was something I used to listen to all the time about 20 years ago. 
Coupled to the music was the memory of a work experience placement I had when I was 16 at Canterbury Archaeological Trust.  It was a two week placement and I remember it quite vaguely apart from the smell of the finds room and the sensation of working, under a baking July sun, brushing away at ancient pieces of pottery embedded in the earth.

This new world I am living in is a place of discovery, like the dig.  For a long time I wore certain roles like garments.  The role of "wife" was one of them.  Now that that role is set aside I find myself uncovering the person I used to be.  It is a slow process and it is sensory stuff which helps with the brushing away of all the dirt.  There are moments when the brushing gets kind of painful and I want to heap all the dirt back over myself and hide.  But it's exciting (in a reserved, British way). 

I like the feel of the idea of discovering that person, before she got all hidden by roles and expectations.  I like the feel of how careful you have to be as you uncover something precious hidden in the earth, how gently you have to work, how it takes time and patience. 

Story of the day

You can subscribe to these little story snippets daily by googling STORYPEOPLE.  This is today's which I love...

Couch Explorer

When I was young I always wanted to go exploring in a cave and when I got older I finally did & it was dark everywhere & there were strange sounds like your stomach after a big meal & I couldn't wait to get out. I figured out later that I mainly liked to go exploring caves in my mind where I could be comfortable & not get dirty & cold. If you read too much National Geographic when you're young it's hard to adjust to the real world.

Carry On Regardless

There comes a time, in your travels (and specifically, today, in mine) where you need to re-evaluate the direction you're going in.  For a while you were travelling in one direction,  and it was good.  You were hopeful.  The horizon gleamed with new possibilities. Then your tornado happened.  In my case I decided the tornado wasn't going to interfere with my life's direction.  I was, in true Blitz spirit, going to keep calm and carry on.  The world might have changed completely around me but I was going ahead.

That was good.  I was being positive.  I was being optimistic. 

Until today when I realised I might have gone a bit beyond that and be being totally unrealistic.  I don't know at what point I passed the marker between optimism and delusion but it reminded me of this clip from The Holy Grail  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RZ-hYPAMFQ.

It's all very well trying to carry on regardless but sometimes you need to look at the reality of your situation (note to self).  This is actually, longer term,  showing yourself kindness.  Because if you keep on trying to do what is clearly not possible you will end up exhausted and discouraged.

Better to rest a while.  To have a good look at your surroundings and take in the place you find yourself in. It is not where you thought you would be, it might not even be where you thought you were.  But you can't find a way forward until you know your starting point, eh?

Tornado

Not a real one.  Something metaphorical.  Very little warning, unpredictable, taking apart the life you had in a matter of seconds and leaving you upside down in a tree looking at an unfamiliar landscape.

It's a sharp and twisted place, full of things you recognise, that was my kettle, that my favourite book from A level literature.  But they are out of context, the kettle wedged behind a broken cistern, the book spread out among planks and rubble, drifting away, page by page across the neighbours lawn.

Right way up again you try and make sense of your surroundings and just how this happened.  Yesterday the world was ordered, organised, everyone in the right places, relationships bumping along as they have for decades.  You had a sense of the future, because you knew the past.  You imagined life as a straight highway, that was where you were.  You are here now.  That direction is where you're headed.  It's clear, you think, straightforward, obvious.  There may be the odd unexpected diversion, maybe while they're filling in pot holes, but this is it.  It's your road.  You chose it.  Sometimes, when you were younger, you wished it was different, that there were more trees, or rest stops.  But for some time now you've been resigned to this way of travelling, it's not perfect, but it's known.

Standing on the debris strewn yard you begin to become aware that you are hurting, the bumps and knocks, the bruises, the cuts and scratches all waking up in a cacophony of searing sensations.  This is not the awakening you were hoping for, if something dramatic happened you imagined it good, a promotion, a fabulous work opportunity abroad, success for your children.

At points you can barely stand.  You have to stop your aimless wandering in the ruins, stick your head in your hands and howl.  How could this happen?  Why now?  None of it makes any sense, you wail.  It's so unfair.

Sometimes this will last for days, sometimes months.

Back in the day, when I used to watch Tony Hart on TV and Animal Magic, with Johnny Morris, I used to be fascinated by film played backwards (well I might still be, but they don't do it so much now, what with everything being so fancy and digital).  One day you wake up and you realise that this particular event can't be played back, unwound until it's all back the "right" way again.

That hits you, just below your stomach, like a punch.  It leaves an ache.  But it also shakes you awake.  There is no "way back".  There is, now, no safe passage to Alderaan.  That future is gone.
In your newly awakened state you begin to notice that the world is already different again, in between the rubbish weeds are growing.  You have a good look at the junk of your life, you work out what you can keep, what is worth holding onto, what might be salvaged. 

Creeping out from your tarpaulin-roofed shelter one morning you gather together your life, pick up your dusty coat.  There is nothing here for you anymore.  You are going to go and become a Jedi like your father.  Or, more likely, set off from this place, because here there is only mess and pain and regrets.  You start walking, away from the junked up neighbourhoods, already almost abandoned. You head out into the open spaces beyond the edge of town.  You feel unsteady, this journey is different, because you aren't sure there's a destination, and that sense of future is gone, you just keep putting one foot in front of the other, breathing steadily, looking off to the horizon, blurry and blue.

This is how it begins.