Feminine Wiles?

Recently I made a discovery which shocked me and made me wonder where we are going in our journey to achieve some very worthy aims. Does the end always justify the means? Does history teach us nothing? Do we need, as women, to ignore integrity, our sense of fairness and our democratic principles in order to develop our potential? Is this really what we want?

Please don't get me wrong. I am all in favour of women developing their potential. Of course I am. I enjoy seeing women bringing their own impressive and highly individual brand of creative energy, lateral thinking and feminine genius to a range of tasks that have  previously been a strictly male only preserve. I love seeing women freed from their traditional roles - if that is what they choose - to explore new settings and compete side by side with their male counterparts in a variety of exciting ventures.

 

You are sensing a 'but'. Right! Sadly, that is true.

 

The discovery I referred to is possibly something that other less naïve and squeamish members of 21st century society are already aware of and maybe are comfortable with. I don't know. However, I learned recently that in order to 'redress the balance' and correct the inequality in the relative numbers of male and female Members of Parliament, we are currently 'fixing' the short lists for electing MPs so that an all-female short list can now guarantee the desired female candidates in a number of selected constituencies. I confess I was shocked. Maybe I am over-sensitive, but can someone with a better grasp of history please tell me what is the difference between the current situation and the widely practised atrocity of 'rotten borough' election methods in bygone centuries in this country?

Apart from the fact that (hopefully) under the current system no money changes hands, I find it difficult to see what is the difference between fixing the shortlisting  of candidates (and then the subsequent vote) by squires and other members of the class hierarchy and the current practice of fixing shortlists in favour of female candidates. Please enlighten me if I am showing signs of paranoia or an excessive predilection for an outworn concept of democracy. In the bad old days squires and their lackeys toured drinking houses and hovels to impress on their employees and tenants that voting for the 'wrong candidate' would result in deprivation, eviction and unemployment. Sometimes a bribe of 'cakes and ale' would be offered to further tempt men (for no women had the vote anyway) to use their precious vote according to their employer's wishes. Moving to the present time, where we have evolved into a much fairer and more even-handed bunch, much as I love the idea of men and women having equal access to the opportunity of procuring seats in parliament, I would much prefer to see an equal contest conducted on a wholly democratic basis. Do any other women agree with me?

It seems to me that in a 'contest' where the entire adult population has been enfranchised, it is unnecessary to give any further advantage to any section of our society (even women!) than the one they already possess, i.e. one adult, one vote. If there are any other built-in inequalities in our system, surely we should be looking at the regulations governing who is able to shortlist candidates and what are the criteria by which prospective candidates are screened. Of course we want a fairer system and we want access to the very best government our country can procure, but can it really become fairer by means of a method that involves short list fixing?

Stop, Stay, Listen!

"Stop, Stay, Listen!" A command rings out! This is no hesitant, polite suggestion. It signals a cry of the heart and, to my mind, operates as the complete opposite of that other call to action: "Ready, Steady, Go!" where the athletes line up, flexing their muscles, willing themselves to compete, to achieve their very best and to win. "Stop, Stay, Listen" is a very different mindset and setting aside time for this writing exercise with fellow writers is an interesting task.

 

It goes against the grain. These days the call to action is a call to accept challenges, to get stuck in, to manage, achieve, multi-task, move on, speed into the future, compete and overcome obstacles in our way. 2012's Paralympics were the peak of our achievements in this mode and it is a mode that is worthy of acclaim and admiration.

 

"Stop, Stay, Listen," however, suggests an entirely different way of being, more in tune with that other, alternative lifestyle of mindfulness, living in the moment and enjoying the present for what it is without worrying overmuch about the future and all its complications and consequences. To stop in our tracks in the midst of our business and reflect, regroup, find time for ourselves and for our companions, friends and relatives is a precious thing. But it is a difficult thing, possibly as taxing on the energy, the mental processes and the need for persistent endeavour as its opposite.  Stopping is something which is unsolicited, thrust upon us at a most inconvenient moment, through illness, bereavement or some other major upheaval in our lives. Cancer survivors frequently speak of being arrested, brought up short, forced to reassess and adjust their value systems, attitudes to family and friends and worldview. Stopping is an abrupt form of therapy.

 

To stay is a new way of being for me. All my life I have been on the move. New homes, new jobs, new locations, new friends... Now, with the onset of retirement and the slowing down process of ageing (well, yes, a little!), I have to face a new challenge - that of staying rather than moving on. The 'me' I am now may stay a little longer than the former 'me's; there may be a little less shape-shifting going on. The home I now live in may well be my home for a little longer than I have been used to. I may have to get used to spring cleaning it now and then rather than simply abandoning it and moving house!

 

Listen! The most difficult challenge of all. Growing, as I said earlier (in an unguarded, self-confessional moment), a little older, I am beginning to develop that common phenomenon, shared by many of my peer group, of complaining that the television is indistinct, that young people mumble, that no-one makes quite enough effort any more to enunciate clearly so that I can understand. On the other hand, I am convinced that those around me, especially my husband, who share a similar experience, never listen! It's not that they are becoming hard of hearing, it is simply that they do not concentrate, are not interested, let their attention wander and therefore fail to pay attention to the treasures that pour from my lips. Listen, I say to him! Just stop and listen!

 

Joking aside, the art of listening is a very valuable commodity. It is an art few of us have. The art of a good conversation is a wonderful skill, to be treasured on the rare occasions that is encountered. It is at best a meeting of equals. I speak; you listen. There is a pause for reflection. Then you speak; I listen. Wonderfully simple! But how often does that happen? Most conversations are muddled, stilted, an aggressive competition or a disjointed babble. Why? We have lost the art of listening. One of the things I love best in rural Wales is listening - to the silence! Climb up one of the steep, wildflower-lined, country lanes that lead out of our village up onto the surrounding hills and stop... stay... listen. What will you hear? Mostly nothing! Nothing at all. Not a car, not a lorry, not an angry voice or a crying child. Just silence, punctuated occasionally by the call of a lamb for its mother or the mewing of a buzzard soaring far above you. Listen to the silence. It is the best music of all and healing for the soul.

Menagerie

 

It’s a strange sort of day

And I can’t work it out.

My bed’s full of bears

And my bath’s full of trout.

There’s a pig in the shower,

A giraffe on the path

And I’m sure I just noticed

A bat on the hearth. 

It’s a strange sort of day

And I can’t get it straight.

There’s a herd of white rhino

Just come through my gate.

There’s a flock of grey geese

In the hall by the stairs

And a small troupe of mice

On the dining room chairs. 

It’s a strange sort of day

And I’m feeling quite faint.

If I see one more sheep

I shall make a complaint.

Did I eat too much cheese?

Stay too long in the sun?

But it’s just like the zoo

So perhaps I’ll have fun. 

Well, the bears had some buns

And they shared them with me

And the mice said they’d like

To stay with us for tea.

Then the rhinos got stuck

As they came through the gate.

By the time it was fixed

It was getting quite late. 

Then the pig left the shower

And went back to the mud

But it left the tap running

And now there’s a flood.

When I’d cleaned it all up

I was ready for bed

But guess who was there

Even though they’d been fed! 

But I slipped into bed

And I turned out the light.

Then the bears started growling

And gave me a fright.

It’s been a strange day,

But not quite what it seemed:

I’m so glad I’m in bed

And it’s only a dream.

 

 

Snatching Time

 

 

 

 

I thought I was quite good at taking time for myself. Being an ME sufferer for some years now, I had got used to pacing myself and interspersing periods of activity with time for rest, relaxation, meditation, sitting in my garden watching the flowers grow... I learned to use the hours when my husband was out at work (earning enough for two of us - just - thank God) and I had all that time to fill with leisure activities so that when I ran out of energy I could flop in a chair and do something restful that I grew to love. Writing became one of my first loves. My garden was the other one. Putting those two together was my shortcut to heaven.

 

Gradually things improved and I got a part-time job which I also enjoyed. But the hours at home still gave me plenty of time for myself and I would sit, watch, listen, sense, think and write to my heart's content. I think some of my fit, healthy friends were a touch jealous of my disability!

 

Nowadays we have just moved house and my husband is semi-retired. Two good reasons for being busy. Two? Well, I went to a great workshop the other day and discovered I'm not so good at taking time for myself as I thought I was. Read on! Dr. Julie Leoni, a charming, unassuming, ordinary person, like the rest of us in every way except for the slightly intimidating doctorate, told us a little of her life history, documented in greater detail in her latest book: Love Being Me. From being a busy wife, mother, teacher, trainer and coach she snapped one day and turned into a jelly-like shivering wreck, lying on the floor, howling and scribbling. How did that happen? Basically through a wrongly-motivated sense of priorities which left Julie and her personal needs way at the bottom of the list, only ever receiving attention when all the 'important' things of life were finished - which, of course, they never were. A process of unlearning, learning and re-learning followed until Julie arrived at the point at which she finds herself today - loving herself and taking time out of her busy life to make sure she does more and more of what she loves to do. Life is too short to do anything else.

 

Inspired by her workshop and book, I have come to a realisation. I am not so good any longer at taking time for myself - only snatching it! Snatching it is different and still involves relegating myself and my needs to the bottom of the pile, to be achieved only when the more 'necessary and important' tasks are done. As a result I become tired, I start to 'do' out of a position of drivenness and rushing to meet deadlines and I become duller and less vibrant as a person. Like this I have less to offer the world. In actual fact, Ihave learned that all of us have a lot to offer the world - wisdom, energy, inspiration, creativity - if only we abandon our regime of guilt, 'should', other people's demands and unjustified 'needs'. Of course, it's great to help those around us, lovely to have time for other people we love or just those around us in our wider community, but if we forget ourselves and allow life to squeeze out those moments of self-awareness and just 'being', we're lost.

 

Currently, my ME condition is improving - hooray!! I have had energy for this new phase of my life, for packing and unpacking, for the time-consuming and exhausting activity of house-hunting, for the stresses and strains of being temporarily of no fixed (permanent) abode and the rigours of adjusting to somewhere new. In fact, I am re-energised by all of this! I am delighted to have the love of my life increasingly more present in my everyday life as a consequence of his (almost) retired status. Again, hooray! But I have realised, these past few days, that this has given me two more reasons to cease taking time for myself. I no longer have hours to 'fill'.

 

We are engaged together on the busy and delightful tasks of unpacking and creating our new home. We have endless (it seems) boxes to unpack. We have new friends to make. We have new activities to try out. We have new places to explore. We have each other for company and can plan the days together. But those times of gentle contemplation, those moments for reflection, those hours filled with writing can now only be snatched, not taken. I have to guard against this. I am hearing no judgemental sounds from my husband. None at all. They are only in my head. He is happy for me to take time. He is aware of my still fragile reserves of energy and my need for rest. It's only me, still learning to love myself, to love being me and to indulge myself now and then - or maybe more often than that! I'm on a learning curve again - from snatching to taking - from a sneaky, guilt-ridden activity squashed into moments when my husband is in the shower or I have already done my share of the chores, to a willing, whole-hearted conviction that I am worth it. And so I am! Thank you Julie Leoni! I needed that timely reminder.

 

 

Beam me up, Scottie

11.30 a.m. Sunday morning. I am sitting in a big, brown leather armchair in a hotel lounge with my husband and a pot of rich dark coffee by my side. It's raining, I'm tired and this is the best morning's relaxation I can think of. The Sunday papers were not delivered to the hotel this morning, I heard. It's a remote spot. But the view from the hotel lounge is a panorama of green and brown, a soft, moist, misty, majestic landscape - mountains and lake - Snowdonia's best.

 

This is home now. It's hard to make that sink in. I've never lived in the mountains before. But this is my home. I've been transported, I think - beamed up! I've gone boldly, where I at least have never gone before. From the flatlands of northern Europe I have travelled, been moved on flawlessly, seamlessly, from my old life to this new one - a magic conjuring trick, performed while I was sleeping. In fact, it has been nearly five months since I slept in my big pine bed in my Netherlands home. Such a lot has been accomplished since then: cleaning, packing up, searching for a new home, arriving, cleaning once again and unpacking... But it seems like only yesterday and now the transformation is complete. I am back, like  before, sleeping in my own bed, cooking in my own kitchen, eating off red and while tulip crockery at my big, old, antique pine dining table with the same familiar bumps and scratches etched into the wood, and sleeping once again in my comfy old bed. It's all just the same as before and yet all so totally different.

 

Can this really be me? Can I really be here? Soft, green, misty, moisty mountains - you are my home now.

Forward Planning

Today I am schizophrenic. It is almost too much. The present... the future... which shall I choose? I am bombarded by sensations. A pleasant cooing draws my attention. My new grandson is gurgling at me. He is learning to reproduce some of the sounds he has been hearing around him for so long. He 'chats' to me - at least I like to think so. I talk to him, just a sentence and then he coos in reply. I smile exaggeratedly and he giggles. His mother loves his giggles so much that she is tempted, against her better judgment, to continue the game until his giggles are overtaken by a hiccup, and then another one. Suddenly he is overcome by a succession of loud hiccuping, his little frame shuddering with the force of those unsolicited little eruptions in his tiny body. It is a shame to make him hiccup, but such fun to hear him giggle!

 

My grandson clutces at my finger. He has a tenacious grip. I gently rub bunny's ears against his soft skin and he responds, leaving go of my finger and reaching for bunny's ears, enjoyin the sensation of softness, much nicer than grandma's crinkly fingers.

 

He is a treasure - a very present treasure. But, all at once, I am fast forwarded, my attention slipping from baby's grasp, my thoughts wandering down country lanes, my ears catching the birdsong and my nose scenting the sea breezes. My new home! Suddenly it is present with me. Only ten days to go until we are catapaulted into the new life we have chosen. My inner eyes rove around my new home, planning colour schemes, placing furniture, mentally unpacking boxes of forgotten things from the store and stowing them neatly in cupboards.

 

Our pictures will be the fnishing touch - the icing on the cake - remining us of former dwelling places, documenting the passage of our lives. Now a third dimension enters - that of the past. We will choose carefully from the boxes, gently unwrapping and matching each one to its own surroundings, its colour scheme and mood. Past, present and future. Multi-tasking. Life is a schizophrenic kaleidoscope - so many memories, sensations, hopes and dreams. It is a rich, heady mix that takes a lifetime to process. I am a wealthy woman - I have a past, a present and a future and the capacity to enjoy them all at once.

Writing My Way into Dark Corners

A good friend has advocated writing as a means of therapy – of turning the searchlight on ourselves to light up those hidden corners we are reluctant to think about. It will be a kind of spring cleaning, she implies, that will rid my soul of clutter and cobwebs and enable me to go forward into the future with confidence and clear purpose.

 

There are no cobwebs in my house. I am certain of this. Every inch, every corner, every tile in the bathroom, every corner of the oven is scrubbed, polished, de-cobwebbed to the satisfaction of the new owner who has now taken up residence. My home is in store, cleaned, packed and polished and waiting patiently (and somewhat expensively) to be directed by its owner to a new start.

 

There may, however, be a few cobwebs lurking in the corners of my soul. Which way then shall I direct the searchlight of my writing in order to identify the muddled thinking, secret fears, the self doubt and the inertia that crouch there, unseen and undisturbed, limiting my potential, spoiling my creativity and shackling me to the past when what is needed at this present time is a bold, confident stride into the future?

 

I am playing for time. I am procrastinating. I will begin my probing search into the dark corners, one at a time. A week of house-hunting lies behind me – in a familiar, well-loved setting. I have visited and re-visited; I have scoured the internet properties; I have visited those same houses with a mix of shock, horror and delight! They say the camera never lies – well, I can assure you that in the hands of an estate agent it does! Careful perusal of the details gives you information and, with years of experience behind you (a little of it spent working in an estate agent’s office), it is easy to spot the omissions, the jargon and the deliberate ambiguities. But nothing can prepare you for the insidious deceptions of the wide-angled lens or the glossy images it produces of tiny, cramped kitchens, doors falling off hinges, peeling metal gutters and rising damp. Only a hands-on approach reveals that.

 

So I am harbouring disappointment in the dark corners of my soul. I have been lied to and misled. But what you see is what you get – not what you read on the internet. Not all the news is bad. I have seen some lovely homes, lovingly cared for by responsible owners, tastefully decorated, thoughtfully improved. Only the fatal flaw spoils these dream houses. And there always is one. Have you noticed that? The rooms are light and spacious, the kitchen is just my choice, there is a downstairs loo and an upstairs bathroom... and the flaw? The garden is damp, narrow, overlooked by trees and faces east. There will be no sun in my garden except whilst I am still in bed. Yet another dream house is perfect in every way – small, but perfect – the owners have thought of everything. But there is no garden. The perfect seaside location, a quiet country road – but no garden. The agents forgot to mention that.

 

I am walking a tightrope between adventure and security. I have found some possibilities – not perfect, it is true – but possibilities. Now another secret fear lurks: is it all too familiar? I have lived here before. It is easy to find my way around. I have favourite picnic spots, favourite walks, handy DIY stores, much-loved teashops and cosy inns. It makes me feel secure, safe, ‘at home’. But where is the adventure in that?

 

This week I am standing on new ground. I have driven ‘north’. North is different from south – that’s why it is an adventure. But I am lacking that cosy sense of belonging. The architecture is different; the countryside is hilly, driving is tricky. The beaches are grey and wild; the villages are grey and no-nonsense, no frills, no chocolate box thatched cottages. The differences do not end there – the people are different too. How long will it take to achieve that sense of belonging? Will it ever come? Or will I die a lonely old woman in a tumbledown cottage (amidst stunning countryside) that no-one ever visits? That is my fear speaking – the fear that lurks in these dark corners I am writing my way into. I must confront it and discover what it is and decide if I need to give in to its persistent whining.

 

What kind of person am I and which bits can I change? Do I want to change? I am not a city person; that much I know. Living the urban life for so many years, I have tired of its tarmacked streets, its graffiti, the ugly back streets, rundown shopping streets and jostling crowds. I have wearied of its noise and the feeling of being alone in a crowd, shopping amongst people that I do not recognise. I long for community, neighbours who know my name, green fields and peaceful country lanes with birdsong in the air. But maybe I am not a village dweller either. Deprive me of retail therapy (in modest amounts), visits to local cinema, theatre, art gallery and library and I shall be a dull, unhappy person, especially in winter. The bright lights are not for me, but neither is a constant diet of wet fields and muddy footpaths. So I am balancing on another tightrope, it seems, between city and country. It appears that I am scurrying in the direction of the perfect small market town location, surrounded by peaceful, green countryside and within striking distance of the sea.

 

For the sea has always charmed me: traditional seaside, with wide sandy bays, or small hidden coves, wheeling gulls, ice cream stands and the smell of seaweed. To be separated from my beloved sea would be a fate hard to bear. I am a seaside person. I love to feel the breeze in my face and the sun on my back as I stride out along the prom.

 

But I am deviating from my dark corners. These things I already know; they are clear to me. But there is muddle and self doubt here which refuses to allow these diverse impulses and desires to be resolved into a clear plan of action. I am afraid that what I want cannot be found. It requires a lot of luck to find this complex combination of circumstances at a price I can afford and I am not sure I am a lucky person. I know there are some that are; they live the enviable lives that I am dreaming of. But here’s the darkness in my soul – my doubt that I am one of those lucky people.

 

I have seen something here. My friend was right. The searchlight attached to my pen has illuminated something I did not know before. I am afraid I am not a lucky person. But luck can be made and it is most often achieved by those who have confidence in themselves to go out and look for it. Some of us are going to be lucky in life – why should it not be me? Why not? I will take my courage in both hands and continue my search for a new life that will make me happy and fulfilled, tailor-made to my own rather unusual list of requirements.

New House, New Baby?

A glance around the room...  

My life has folded,

Concertina-d,
Shrunk,
Compressed itself,
Compartmentalised,
Deconstructed.
 

Time for stock taking:

Inventory of
Reduced circumstances.
 

On the second shelf

‘Essential supplies’ –
Wine and beer cellar,
Tea and coffee refills,
Beneath them
A row of shoes,
Waiting to go
Somewhere.
 

The top shelf

Casts light on the proceedings.
Will it light up the way ahead?
A row of candle holders
And tea lights
From the dining room drawer,
Reminiscent
Of a hundred candlelit dinners.
 

In between,

A selection of favourites:
Books, music,
A tin of sewing things,
Crossword puzzles,
An address book
Full of family and friends
And a stapler
To hold everything together.

A biscuit tin,

Showing Van Gogh
In pensive mood,
Creating
Something bright and new.
Artist’s materials at the ready.

We too stand to attention

Like a tube of oils,
Squeezed,
Contained,
Till we can emerge boldly,
Shiny and bright,
Onto a new canvas.

My old life

Crammed into this tiny space,
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting
For a new birth.

A life in miniature,

Like my mother’s life
At the end:
The remnants,
Crammed into one room,
A nursing home room -
Coffin-shaped -
But surrounded by memories
Of a life
That lived and loved.

But I’m not finished yet!

A new life
Will emerge
From this chrysalis –
A one-off original,
An artist’s creation,
Out of the fragments –
Just wait and see...

Hey presto!

The jack-in-a-box
Will spring open;
Remnants of my life
Bursting out,
Regrouping,
Restoring my life
To active duty
From this passive waiting time.

 

Room at the Inn!

It's a strange Christmas this year... In October I decided to make my Christmas cake and puddings. My mother always said these should be made early in order for the flavours to develop and mature so that they would be at their best by the time Christmas came. I took her advice for once this year, although she has been gone for nine years now. Mothers know best.

Late in October I sold my house! Since then there has been a mad, crazy scramble to sort, pack, clean, tidy, organise, cancel, say goodbye... no time for baking; no time for Christmas.

Now it's Christmas Eve and I discovered that this year, just like before, there is room at the inn! We're homeless since three days ago - new people own our house now, our belongings are in store and we're off to find a new home. But we haven't found one yet and I'm so glad that I have a family back home and they're willing to share theirs with us! Thanks sis!

We have two whole rooms and a bathroom of our own. We have shelves and a couple of cupboards. We have overflow space in the garage for all our extra things we may need before the removal company redeliver our things to our new address. We have central heating. We have a warm bed and we're invited for Christmas. We have a turkey. And there's Christmas cake and pudding! But best of all we have family. Pretty good for a couple of refugees!

Thank you family! And a very merry Christmas, one and all.

Finding joy

At a recent gathering of the writers circle I belong to we were set the task of spontaneously writing down the things we find joy in. The results were revealing, giving us space and time to think about the things that make us really happy - a heart-warming task worth trying, especially on a rainy day like today!

I find joy in the early morning city streets, in the sunlit pavements, in the quirky shops in quiet backstreets, the cafes where sleepy passers-by sip cappucinos and plan their day. I find joy in the tall, white gracious embassy buildings, hiding their secrets, the untold stories of a thousand expats, each with their own histories, living in this bustling, surprising city.

I find joy in companionship. I find joy in the exchange of gossip, of individual lives lived in such a variety of ways. So many expressions of life.

I find joy in the sharing of our creativity. So many angles and perspectives. So many ways of saying the same thing. We experience life and death, sickness and health, friendship and alienation, joy and grief and our history, in so many ways, is the same - and yet differently expressed. I find joy in that.

I find joy in my garden. That is no secret. This year I have found joy in an abundance of blossom. It is a good year for blossom - I find joy in that. I find joy sitting in my garden, on the little terrace outside my back door, with the sun overhead, pouring its warmth and blessings on my little garden. I find joy in frothy, white hydrangea blossoms, yellow roses, perfectly formed, tall, slender foxgloves opening up their patterned trumpet flowers to soft, velvety bees. I find joy in that.

Joy can be a mindset - or not. I must work a little to find joy. There can be hindrances, sickness, griefs and irritations of all kinds so I must find my joy. I must choose to make time for it.

                                 Delft Blues

                                 Under the shade of a tall, willowy poplar

                                 I lay down to rest.

                                 The water drifted lazily by me

                                 And I slept.

                                 The rustle of the leaves and the rippling of water

                                 Mingled with my dreams.

                                 The blackbird sang in the tops of the trees,

                                 Drew my attention.

                                 ‘Rest here awhile in peace’ whispered the poplar,

                                 It seemed to me.

                                 ‘Slow down, slow down’ bubbled the stream,

                                 ‘No need to rush.’

                                 The blackbird called from the tops of the trees:

                                 ‘Make time to be joyful!’

                                 And under the shade of the willowy poplar

                                 I smiled and was at peace. 

Linguistic Kaleidoscope

Recession:
The wave of progress falters.
Relentless pounding on the shore
Recedes as the tide turns.


A downturn:
An inverted smile.
The disappointing of our expectations
While the economy wanes.


Affordability:
Euphemism for no choice -
What we persuade ourselves
Can be afforded – or must.


Economic viability:
How many lives can we save?
How many kidneys, hearts, livers
Can we afford to repair or replace?


Sustainability:
How many wells can be dug,
Mouths fed, babies born
In this modern day economy?


Adjusted:
Wages down, prices up,
The interest on our savings plans…
Rarely in our favour.


Human resources:
Cogs in a machine;
A subtraction from the jobless total.
Is that all?


A challenge:
Another hardship faced
That must be endured stoically,
With a smile.


Kaleidoscope:
Our changing meanings,
Rearranging patterns,

Spinning round and round.

The poem is short but this story is a long one, it seems. We began so long ago, even before Northern Rock and the newly-coined phrase: the Credit Crunch. It seems a long time ago now and we thought we were reading a short story. Now it is becoming an epic novel and still the saga continues. It is still current news. The media love it. Even the government of the Netherlands has been dissolved due to the inability to agree on a plan of austerity measures. Nothing has changed, except that we have become used to it. It is still about dwindling pensions, increasing taxes, spending cuts and unemployment. Gradually it is changing our outlook on life and our language reflects it. It gives out the subtle message that life is simply about money - about lots of it or about having less: too much or too little. Is that all? I hope not. It is a sad story, that's true, but we are made of stronger stuff and we will get through this and find another tale to tell with a happier ending. At least, I am trusting so.

Life's Little Luxuries

The day is rushing by me. I’m tired, but pleased with myself. I made myself do the cleaning first thing, before anything else, before I had time even to think of putting it off! It’s enough! I’ve cleaned, shopped and done some research for family birthday presents, strolling about armed with pen and paper, making notes, writing down prices and annoying shop assistants by asking questions, comparing prices and buying nothing. Not yet! That will come later when I’ve had time to think.

Thinking – that’s one of life’s little luxuries. It’s so good to stop, to sit idly by the window of ‘Het Konings Huys’, the friendly hotel restaurant in the market square at the heart of town. The King’s House! Well, there’s a fitting place to while away the morning, taking time for a spot of ‘mindfulness’.

Time to reflect, time for me, time to let life drift past taking my thoughts with it and restoring my soul. The music wafts gently over me… “this crazy life…”, “whatever comes our way” – snatches of a song that enhances the moment, slows me down. I didn’t really need the coffee but I needed to stop. If not, I would have hurried straight home and found myself mechanically embarking on the next task on my list. It’s my day off, but there’s still a long to-do list. It’s time to firmly push away all thoughts of what is written on it and drift! So I’m here in this hotel instead.

Living in the present – so hard to do! Enjoying the moment! Last year our annual summer getaway took us to Wales where, totally won over by some clever internet photography, we fell in love with an idyllic, riverside, Welsh holiday cottage and buried ourselves there for a whole week of blissful doing nothing. This year we will return – for two weeks! A bubbling stream burbled on past the kitchen window, stopping me in my tracks time and again, entranced by its simple beauty and making it impossible to continue on my way without slowing down to match its gentle rhythm.

I am learning, slowly, that life is too short to be busy all the time, however pressing the need. As I sit, I soak up the knowledge that there is a flow to life if only I just stop once in a while to acknowledge it. There is a stream that beckons me to jump in and be washed downstream in its gentle, invigorating flow and give up the relentless fight through today’s list of chores. Often enough, I find that, re-energised by these moments of reflection, I have more than enough – later- to see me through the day and accomplish at least enough of the necessary tasks to send me to bed happy.

Mindfulness, meditation, enjoying the moment – there will never be another moment precisely like this, with these people in this place… I think maybe I need to learn this, to practise, to perfect the art. It’s a lot more fun than housework… but maybe, with practice, I can find a way of relishing the moment and enjoying even that for what it is… Maybe…? Maybe I need another cup of coffee while I think about it.

My PC (Post-Christmas) Blog

Crisp, cold mornings - how we love them! Revel in their bright, inviting, deeply motivating energy. Let's get out there! A brisk walk, healthy, invigorating, blowing away the cobwebs, exercising our weary limbs, nudging our jaded metabolism into action, bringing a rosy warmth to our cheeks and a sparkle to our eyes. A healthy lifestyle for the taking - who needs the gym? Actually, it's raining today, so maybe I do!

Some years ago (well, actually, quite a lot of years), living in a small rural community, I remember those bright, chilly days, walking to work in the crisp, early morning, delighting in the sunlight, the white, frosted rooftops, the wintry gardens, full of orange rosehips and red-berried holly trees, tall, bleached pampas grasses and dark green fir trees. I would arrive at work breathless and glowing, my cheeks matching my warm, red, woollen scarf and my matching red hat pulled down over my frozen ears. "You look like a little carol singer" my friend, Gill, would tell me as I peeled off the layers of clothing and tried to thaw out beside the radiator.

Now Christmas is over for another year! That glorious post-Christmas feeling! Freedom from all the rush, the pressure, the present buying, the food shopping, the parties, the baking and basting and the eating and drinking... Time to put your feet up and enjoy a well-earned rest! Christmas! It's been a strange one this year. There are global problems - and not only in the eurozone. After two thousand years plus of revelling, a growing multi-culturalism and an obsession with political correctness, things are turning on their heads a little.

This year our Muslim friends from Turkey sent us warm greetings and wished us a 'Merry Christmas'! Another friend wished us 'wonderful holidays' and a 'holy 2012'. Another wrote from Australia, calling for us to banish 'winter festivals' and put the 'Christ' back in Christmas trees - a reasonable request considering the origins of the festival they celebrate! The British prime minister, uneasy at the state of the nation, has been urging us all back to 'Christian values' and the Queen herself, in her Christmas broadcast, called us all gently to account and surprised us all by recommending us to consider escape from the excesses of that 'recklessness and greed' that trouble us all by opening our hearts to the Christian Saviour!

These are desperate times and may call for desperate remedies. Time to find a balance between the relentless demands of the material world and spirituality? Doubtless there is a touch of political point-scoring involved here and definitions of 'Christian values' come in a variety of shades of colour, but there are interesting developments afoot in our weary and ailing world.

It's nearly 2012 already! Time to cast our minds back over the past year and evaluate. Maybe a brisk walk in the wintry weather is the first step towards clearing the head whilst we consider the options... Happy New Year everyone!

More than one way of killing a moggy

Actually, I like moggies. Growing up with a cat-doting mother, I soon learned to love these cuddly bundles of fluff and vividly remember attending another little girl's birthday party, where I stubbornly refused to join in any of the party games, preferring instead to spend the entire party cradling a tiny black and white kitten in my arms. The kitten subsequently came home with us, being almost ready for being parted with its mother, and spent the rest of its spoilt, happy life with us, under the name of Badger, a name chosen to reflect the elegant white stripe down the centre of its tiny nose and its sleek black fur.

So I wouldn't dream of killing a cat. However, I was reflecting today how times have moved on and how, in many areas, our views of life and our ways of going on have become so much more varied and diverse. A friend came to lunch with me yesterday. On entering our living room (for the first time), she exclaimed on how tidy it was - and indeed our whole house and garden. It's true - I like things tidy. I also find it difficult to work in a cluttered environment and feel constrained always to tidy things up before embarking on any new task. This can be a curse, as it means I achieve less than others whose tolerance for mess and chaos is higher than mine, but at least it means I get to live my life in the kind of surroundings I enjoy and feel comfortable in.

My friend is different to me. Leaving me, after lunch, she announced that she was going shopping. Her husband was returning home from abroad; the book club were visiting that evening and it was her turn to entertain and to provide drinks and snacks; she was playing tennis at 5 o-clock. Her lifestyle is different to mine. She confesses that she is always in a hurry, always late for everything, that her house is muddley and untidy. But her agenda is full and her life hectic. Why not? My early upbringing had a huge focus on 'right' and 'wrong' - there were rules for everything. So in those days one of these options would have to be 'the right way' of doing things. These days there is room for all points of view. Well, no, (let's be honest) for many of them, although current fashions in British politics may have a decreasing list of what is considered to be 'the right thing'. However, one of us is untidy and a bit disorganised and achieves a lot, the other is tidy and enjoys the resulting peace and calm. No problem, we're all different.

Last week we visited family: two days' drive to stay with our daughter and son-in-law. Times have changed since the days when my own mother used to come to stay. For days before her visit I would torture myself with a hectic round of cleaning and tidying - if I didn't she would run her finger along the surfaces with a look of disapproval on her face when she found the hidden corners of dirt! She was no dragon, just a normal, caring mother of her generation - houses must be clean and tidy: it was just an accepted fact of life. Another non-negotiable fact was that the cake tin must always be full and meals on time. Again, her dutiful daughter did her best to oblige and still does - old habits die hard!

However, my daughter and son-in-law work very hard at their jobs. There is little time for extra housework in their busy schedules. Abandoning my mother's traditions, I told them in my very best 21st century enlightened mother's role: 'Don't you dare clean the house before we come - we can help with that if necessary when we arrive - you have enough to do already. Don't worry about special meals - we can help cook.' Hurrah! The age of tolerance has come and we are not all expected to live in the same way! There is more than one way of killing the poor mog!

When we arrived, we found - guess what! A spotless house, homemade cakes, a fridge full of our favourite things and a pre-planned menu for the week! My daughter is even tidier than I am! The only difference was the meal times - son-in-law now works so hard that dinner is served just before bedtime (well, ours anyway). But these days who cares?

Peaceful Protest

I watched a news item relating the growing surge of protest outside St. Pauls Cathedral, in the heart of London, close to the Stock Exchange and financial hub of the nation. I was fascinated to see hundreds of enthusiastic protesters camped in little domed tents on the pavement. It was reminiscent of the 60's, CND marchs and the like - the good old days of protest! The same phenomenon seems to be repeated in other financial centres - in Frankfurt and New York - and in numerous other high profile centres of population in the modern global village we call our world today. The activities began in New York, Wall Street, so the media tell us, and have spread into a large scale movement of (so far) peaceful protest.

Another news item showed marchers from the North East of England, repeating the historic Jarrow to Westminster march of a bygone age, anxious to highlight the injustices of unemployment and hardship in their region, one of the hardest hit of any in these days of economic crisis.

I was both intrigued and shocked. Intrigued because for many years, it seems, the voice of protest has been dormant, if not dead. Since the heady days of the 'winter of discontent', when half the British population seemed to be united in protest at economic conditions, growing costs and dwindling pay packets, the unions have been quiet, the strikers and protesters silenced, hounded into resignation and submission through government measures and public opinion, social pressures too hard to resist.

Suddenly protest is on the increase. What's happening? As an advocate of freedom of speech and the right to protest I applaud this development. The battles won by our early trade unions and political reformers cost too much to abandon now. Are we simply seeing a ground swell of complaints and grumbling at the current public measures to recover from the economic crisis we all face or are we witnessing a movement of radicals, similar in kind to the 'flower power' radicals of the '60s, who are sick to the back teeth with materialism and 'corporate greed' and want to see a paradigm shift in the way we conduct our lives?

A part of me is shocked that protest comes in so many unwelcome forms. In the last few months it has been expressed in riots, in looting, in the form of violent and anguished demonstrations in Greece, in Portugal, in Spain... And what are we protesting against? It's all about money! Too much money in some hands, too much power in the hands of some, too little money in the hands of others and too little power to change things. The campers are protesting about capitalism and greed; the rioters and the marchers are protesting about unemployment, poverty, rising costs and a decreasing benefits safety net. Long live protest and the right to protest! When we are fighting for survival we understandably lose some of our polite veneer and our tone becomes aggressive and urgent. We have seen a lot of excessive violence and a minority of people stirring up social unrest and criminal behaviour on the pretext of economic need.

But peaceful protest is a wonderful thing and I must confess a large part of me is impressed that there are people in the world who are prepared to stand up and be counted and say 'enough is enough'. Maybe there is another way to live which can cut through all this focus on getting and spending and find some more worthy things to live our brief lives for. Corporate greed has a corporate solution.

You don't know what you've got till it's gone

It’s a long time since Joni Mitchell immortalised those words – and that concept – forever with her hit song ‘Big Yellow Taxi’. ‘They took all the trees, put ‘em in a tree museum and they charged the people a dollar and a half just to see ‘em... Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone? They paved paradise and put up a parking lot!’ This was her outcry at the steady onward march of the city planners, filling the green spaces with concrete and the fresh air with exhaust fumes.

As a city dweller I often long for the day when (at least in my imagination) I shall retire to a country cottage with honeysuckle and roses around the porch and, with a bit of luck, the sound of the sea breaking on the shore not too far away. But sitting here, taking a pause from shopping in the pretty city where I live, I reflect for a minute on today’s checklist of pros and cons and do a reality check. This is Holland – the land of windmills and clogs! But even here in the busy city it’s market day and the bells from the church tower ring out reassuringly over the modern day shoppers intent on getting this week’s fruit and veg at the best price and filling their bicycle panniers with giant cauliflowers, ‘garden beans’ (broad beans in England) and fresh strawberries. The flower stalls are ablaze with colour and I speak severely to myself to avoid bringing home more lupins, roses, campanulas and exotic tropical flowers than one small patio can possibly take. I feast my eyes and turn away. Our garden is full already!

The cafés are full of retired couples, holidaymakers and solitary housewives, rewarding themselves for their labours with good Dutch coffee and apple cake. There’s a festive mood in the air. ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey…’ chime the bells. But today the skies are blue, with fluffy white clouds and a stiff breeze tempering the heat of the sun. A perfect summer’s day! It’s not always like this here, of course. But it stops me in my tracks and makes me think: ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone!’ Time at least to enjoy the present day ‘plus points’ before moving on to my country idyll. Living for the moment is a hard discipline, but it may have advantages.