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.

An Unanswered Question

"So, how do you think of yourself?" she hit me with. "Here we go" I thought. I pondered the question for a while. "Do I have to answer that one?" I said. "Well, have a go" she said, a touch impatiently. The interview had dragged on a bit, mainly because every time I answered a question she couldn't resist chipping in with her own experiences and slant on the subject. We had some experiences in common, it was true, she a Dutch woman living in Wales, and I a Brit, recently returned from a prolonged stay in her home country. However, I thought I had done pretty well so far, attempting to answer all her intrusive questions, but I thought for a bit longer, then took the plunge.

 

"Well, I think of myself on more than one level, I guess. Inside my head I still think of myself as the thirty year old I used to be, bright, alert, intelligent and full of energy. That's who I am. But then, on the outside, there's the person I've become - older, iller, slower, less energy, but I know I'm the person on the inside really and I get frustrated when other people view me as that sick, slow, not very bright person they sometimes see now." Her eyes glazed over and she paused in the middle of trying to write my answer down in her notes. ("Got my own back now" I thought uncharitably.) "I'm not sure I know what you mean" she said. It seemed perfectly clear to me; I live with it every day. "Well, at university, as a mature student, when I did my degree" I said hesitantly, not liking to mention it, "I got a first. I'm not like that now, of course, because I get confused and I can't concentrate and I forget things..." She still didn't understand and seemed a bit threatened by my mention of my 'first'. "I just don't feel like I ought to be like this" I said "and it's hard to adjust... When I compare myself with other people my age..."

 

She cut me off. I had obviously transgressed. "Oh no," she said "you mustn't compare yourself with anyone else. We're all different." I sighed. Of course we're all different, but I knew something was wrong. I knew who I was and how to think of myself - shy, reserved, a bit awkward, a bit insecure, but bright, alert, quick thinking, creative, resourceful - at least, until these last couple of years when memory loss and depleted energy banks had dogged me, edging in on me like the ever creeping tide, slow but relentless. Anyway, it took quite a bit of intelligence and resourcefulness to deal with this new phase of life that had been thrust upon me. How should I think of myself? I'd always been bright, near the top of the class, able to achieve without any substantial effort. Now things were different. Now I had 'learning difficulties' and every new task that presented itself required effort. Now I was lagging behind, not really '21st century', living in a time warp because I couldn't keep up.

 

"Don't compare yourself with anyone" she insisted. "You seem overly worried about how others see you - you're too old for that." "Thanks" I thought "you be me!" I looked at her, seated at the table, pen in hand, trying to assess me, define me, label me. I looked again. She seemed sure of herself, but somewhat challenged by the demands of her job. Her hair was spiky, dyed, modern; her dress was short and she sat, defiantly, legs a little apart, aggressively her own person. She appeared to have more confidence than me, more sure of her own abilities but maybe a bit jealous of my early retirement which had actually thrust us into financial and a host of related problems, but probably seemed like a good idea to someone still struggling with the increasing demands of change in a stressful and tiring job. Would I swap? Probably not. After all, as she said, we're all different; she was herself and so was I, whichever of my two disparate selves I turned out to be.

 

I had learned something. The me inside was still the same - stubborn, clinging to its own identity and doggedly persisting in its pursuit of the experiences and values that made life worth the effort, irrespective of the challenges that it threw up on the way. I could still do with some help, but maybe this wasn't the place to find it.

Bison Repair Kit

We drove past them the other day: a whole herd of brown, oddly shaped animals, with that distinctive curve where regular cattle don't have one. They were grazing happily in the enclosure and seemed blissfully unaware of the large sign in the driveway next to them indicating that the Bison Grill was situated right next door. An ominous sign if you are a fully grown, healthy bison. It seemed a bit bizarre, here in the midst of the Welsh countryside, amidst rolling, green, Welsh hills and next to the main road. They looked healthy enough, which made me wonder about the need for the Bison Repair Kit which I found in the shed shortly after we had moved to Wales. A number of things turned up in our removal boxes which surprised me a little. They must have been buried in the depths of our previous shed at our last address and we had had no need for them recently. Certainly, I couldn't think of any particular reason why we should have needed to repair bison in the recent past. We have experimented with owning rabbits, guinea pigs, Russian hamsters (which sadly couldn't be repaired after they quickly fell ill), cats and a dog. But no bison.

 

The kit was housed in a small tin and contained nothing which looked at all useful for bison. On asking my longsuffering husband, I eventually discovered that the kit was once used to repair, not bison, but bikes! Silly me, I should have known that.

 

I have a way with words. I love new words and odd configurations of words and we have some wonderfully interesting discussions over breakfast sometimes about words and phrases we have just discovered or suddenly started to look at in a new, inquisitive way. I came across a list on his desk one morning a long time ago, early in our married life. It was about Bill. But I couldn't recall either of us knowing anyone called Bill. Anyway, from the list I discovered that Bill needed to be watered, garaged and serviced! I should have known, really, that this simply entailed putting a few cheques in envelopes, but for some reason I was in a quirky mood that day and misread the information on the list in a new way, which my new husband found quite charming and original. I wonder how he deals with this charming trait now, after 38 years of marriage...

 

 

Foggy Brain Disease - Welcome to My World

Most of the dates I learned at school have gone by now, sunk beyond trace in the murky depths of my consciousness, together with all the other pieces of information for which my brain apparently had no use. Unlike my brother-in-law's brain, which records all facts, regardless of their usefulness, and still has the ability to search, categorise and reproduce them, mine is a little less inclusive.

 

Some dates, I discovered, are less definite than others. There are some dates about which even the scholars are unwilling to be specific and for these there is a curious little custom which has been developed for the purpose: the use of 'circa'. Circa is the Latin word (and therefore highly prized by scholars) for 'around' or 'approximately'. It can be denoted in short form: c., prefixed to dates of which one is unsure. So an event which happened somewhere between 1921 and 1923 might be recorded in history books as having occurred c.1922 - i.e. 1922 or thereabouts. Welcome to my world - the world of uncertainty!

 

These days I am a little unsure of most things. Suffering, as I undoubtedly do, from memory issues and pending an assessment by my local Memory Clinic which will inform me what kind of memory issue it is deemed to be, I inhabit a c.world - a world of approximation, where the facts are uncertain. Maybe it will turn out to be early onset dementia (that dreaded condition); maybe it will prove to be yet another symptom of the ME label which has been affixed to me in these last years. We shall see. Treatment may be necessary; adjustment will undoubtedly be required.

 

Much of the population, these days, is familiar with the e.world: a world of virtual reality. We are used to e.books, emails and e.newsletters. Only a select few of us (many in advanced years) inhabit the c.world of approximate reality. It is an annoying world, frustratingly limiting and socially debilitating. It has an amusing side, fortunately, but only when mixing in the kind of company where 'senior moments' are commonplace and understood. Of course, if, like me, you suffer from this kind of memory issue a little early in life, it can be somewhat less humorous when you find that your brain functions seem sometimes to be on a par with those of an 80 year old. Anyway, enough negativity for now...

 

My entry to the c.world has been gradual, only gaining a little more speed in recent months and years. Faced with the difficulties of 'downsizing' and 'de-cluttering' recently, I have joked about the desirability of reaching that point in one's mature development when memory fails and it is possible to reserve space on the shelf at home for only one book, one CD and one DVD. At that point in time I would need no more because it would be perfectly acceptable to work through each to the end and return immediately to the beginning and start again, without noticing the repetition. Black humour indeed!

 

However, now it is becoming increasingly possible to identify the seeds of such behaviour in myself, it has become more of a likelihood and less of a joke. I am perfectly capable nowadays of reading a novel through to the end without registering either the author or the title. I can watch a 'whodunnit' on the television without, at the end, knowing either who 'dunnit' or what they are supposed to have done. Somewhere in the middle I always seem to lose the plot. I am perfectly capable of reading (and understanding) the facts and figures contained in an information book but retaining almost none of it. I am well-practised at forming well-founded opinions, based on well-researched facts and figures, but reaching the end of the book, article, newspaper article or TV programme in which I found them with a grasp of only my opinions and not a single fact that brought me to these conclusions.

 

It is this kind of behaviour nowadays that begins to make life somewhat limited. The social implications for this kind of memory loss and resulting uncertainty (my c.world) are extensive. I have begun to notice a loss of confidence in social interaction with friends and colleagues. I can no longer be certain of anything! Whilst living in the Netherlands our central heating was regularly serviced by Meneer Rodin, whilst the book I am currently reading on Modernist Art describes the work of famous French sculptor, Rodenburgh ... or is that the other way round? I watched a fascinating documentary last night about a trip to Chile (or was that Peru?), starring the rather good-looking travel writer who did that series about train rides last year... well, it might have been a couple of nights ago... well maybe it was someone else who did the train rides... well, anyway he was rather nice to look at... Do you wonder why I participate less in group conversation these days? Ask me to back up my opinions on anything and I am reduced to a blubbering wreck, unable to be certain of anything and feeling totally foolish. I may well be right in what I believe, but have no way of proving it. Alternatively, I may have mistaken Rodin for Rodenburgh and be making a complete idiot of myself.

 

I am working hard on my sense of humour. No-one wants to listen to the grouses and grumbles of a chronically sick person. But I have my work cut out; this condition is hard to keep up with. It is continually running on ahead of me. Just as I think I have caught up and adjusted my store of jokes and black humour to suit, it takes another turn and I am forced to readjust my repertoire. Be patient with me, please! I'll get there in the end... if I can remember where I'm going.

 

 

Reciprocity: The Joy of Dialogue

Monologues are all very well. Done skilfully, an accomplished actor can keep his/her audience entranced for many minutes or even hours. Done badly...well.. enough said. A blog is a kind of monologue, I suppose, but open to the possibility of 'comment' or even 'chat'. At best it is a dialogue.

 

My aim, I confess, when writing my blog, is not for monologue. We all need human interaction in our lives and, whilst I get my share on a daily basis, with neighbourly chats, exchanges of merry banter over the supermarket checkout, cups of tea with family and friends and the growing number of clubs and societies with which I am affiliated, I can always use a little more sparkling repartee from the casual onlooker or blog reader.

 

Dialogue is a wonderful thing and I am always delighted when readers let me know that a) they have read my ramblings and b) even better, they have an opinion to express, a point of information to pass on or a complaint. For such things are the stuff of life to a writer - even the complaints!

 

For this reason, I would like to offer up a vote of thanks to my friend who writes: "White cherry blossom is on Murello cherry trees – we have one in the front garden which is going mad this year with blossom." Not a complaint but a point of information. So now we know! This is why the loveliest tree - the cherry - subject of my most recent blog appears decked out in white blossom in Houseman's poem, whereas my experience of cherry trees is mainly pink. Thank you, Rosemary. Maybe she will read this, maybe her interest in my blog will have waned by now. This is the precarious nature of blogging. But we have experienced dialogue, reciprocity and a mutual exchange of information and interest and I am satisfied.

 

Life, it seems to me, is at best about reciprocity. It sparks, inspires, annoys, infuriates, satisfies, delights and provokes laughter, tears and sometimes apathy. But it gets under your skin; it proves to me that I am alive - and that you are too! So keep it coming, please. I am happy to use my services (when inspiration strikes) to gladden, delight, inspire and annoy. Please feel free to do the same!

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

I believe very strongly in the principle of carpe diem or seize the day! My daughter and grandson have just been to visit and we had a great time. Not much domestic got done in those ten days. Oscar was having too much fun, playing on his first ever roundabout, putting Mr. Zebedee back to bed in his jack-in-a-box and letting the sand slip between his fingers on his first ever beach. Now the ironing is threatening to escape from the cupboard where I keep it imprisoned; there is a thick layer of dust over everything which is shown up right now by the glorious sunshine that keeps streaming in through the windows; the freezer is quite empty; I have writing to do; there are vegetables to plant out in the garden and ...

 

However! That glorious sunshine keeps on streaming in and spring has arrived! The local caravan parks are full of people ready for the Easter weekend that is approaching fast and the birds are singing in the treetops. A few lines of a much-loved poem keep turning over and over in my mind and I'm lost! Who cares about the housework? Who cares about the vegetables?

 

'Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide'.

 

That got me thinking. All the cherry trees round here are pink, not white! Is this another variety? A.E. Houseman* seemed quite sure his were white, but he lived in Shropshire - perhaps that's different.

 

'And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.'

 

There he goes again - ours are hung with 'cherry pink', not snow. And Houseman seems to think he has fifty springs left to go out and see them; I'm not too sure I have that many left, so all the more reason to go.

 

All in all, I seemed to have plenty of excuse to leave the housework behind today and saunter out up a country lane in search of the cherry trees, which is just what I did this morning, not that I found a white cherry tree anywhere, but plenty of other compensations! Imagine a country lane, with neat green hedges, covered in fresh, new, bright spring growth, lambs bleating beside their mothers in the fields, chaffinches and robins singing in the trees and all along the hedgerows a procession of yellow celandine, pale yellow primroses, white, starry stitchwort, golden dandelions and a scattering of bluebells and red campion - too early really, but there nevertheless! Bliss! So, yet again, I'm leaving this achievement-orientated world behind in favour of the natural world which somehow calls to me time and time again and tempts me outside to revel in it. It's now the cherry tree is hung with bloom - next week won't do. Carpe Diem!

 

 

*A.E. Houseman, A Shropshire Lad

 

Anoraks and Slacks

We're natty dressers round here. We follow all the fashions and most of us, like the younger generation with their black leggings and fur trimmed little bootees, look pretty much the same. We have our uniform. The precise style has variations, however, which have a little to do with age differences. The forties - sixties age group tend to favour blue denim jeans or cords in a variety of autumnal shades. The older members of society go for looser fitting, more shapeless models - at best in tweedy fabrics, at worst in muddy coloured crimplene. The sweatshirt is a popular item in our collection of serviceable, wind-proof, rain-proof attire. In winter this is topped by a padded jacket or anorak. Smarter versions are available, including waxed jackets or quilted coats, mud-splashed but obviously once very expensive. The common denominator is the fashion accessory woolly hat, worn pulled down over the ears.

 

Then there's the issue of footwear. High heels, or pretty, strappy sandals are not really ideally adapted for spongy footpaths, ankle-deep puddles or muddy lanes, so gradually these highly desirable fashion items are relegated to the back of the wardrobe - weddings and funerals only. Instead, the only sensible thing to wear - and we do - has to be a pair of sturdy, battered walking boots or a pair of wellies, complete with their own layers of caked-on mud. It's not worth cleaning them; they'll only get dirty again.

 

In summer there are variations on a theme. On good days the sweatshirt may be abandoned, slung loosely around the waist (just in case the sky clouds over, as it often does). But on bad days, and along the windswept coast, the fresh breezes make a sweatshirt the ideal wear, even in summer. And footwear? Well, trainers are the only practical alternative for those lumpy, rutted footpaths. Even on a shopping trip, in Tywyn or maybe Aberystwyth, I may well be tempted to a stroll on the pebbly prom or the glistening, wet sands, so it's best to be prepared. On rare occasions, in really hot weather, trainers may be recklessly replaced with a pair of flip-flops. As I said, we're natty dressers.

 

As I write, I glance out of our front window and a sight meets my eyes, which confirms all that I have been telling you. Coming up the path, a small dog straining on the lead in front of her (or is it him? it's hard to tell), is a muffled up person exiting from our local caravan park. It is dressed in the normal, dark-coloured, baggy trousers, topped by a navy anorak and a navy woollen hat. The hat is the crowning glory: woollen, tied under the chin and pulled down over the ears, like everyone else's, this one is topped by two enormous round ears, making its wearer look like something closely resembling the dormouse at Alice's tea party. Perfect!

 

So, are we what we seem? Are we all country bumpkins underneath this rather uninspiring attire? Not a bit of it! Intellectual and artistic pursuits abound everywhere you look. Local libraries flourish; they will reserve anything you want from an extensive collection of public and academic libraries across the whole of Wales and we make full use of them. Local bookshops not only sell us the latest popular titles, but organise book signing events, writers' courses and promotions for new authors. Writers' groups and book clubs gather in many towns and villages and many communities still preserve - and use - their Reading Rooms and Literary Institutes.

 

Art societies are equally popular and more and more people seem to retire to this beautiful area, keen to develop their artistic talents: painting in oils and watercolours, sketching, pottery, textiles and other handicrafts. Visit any of the galleries, arts and crafts fairs or weekly markets of handmade produce and you will find exquisite art works, creative crafts of all kinds and home-baked items of a high standard. Art societies hold exhibitions each year where the artists are able to display and sell their work and commercial galleries and craft workshops delight locals and tourists alike.

 

There is more! Theatre groups abound and community groups of all kinds arrange outings for their members to plays, films, musicals and art galleries further afield. We may not have all the facilities for cultural entertainment close at hand but there is no lack of lively interest. Have you heard a Welsh choir sing? This deep-rooted cultural tradition still survives, amazing us by the rich harmonies achieved by male and female voiced choirs alike, performing in concerts and eisteddfods across the nation. No, we're not country bumpkins, despite the anorak and slacks appearance. Under the surface lurks a wealth of cultural and creative excellence. Just scratch the surface and remove the woolly hat!