How far have we travelled?

Just this last week I received an unexpected short course in essential life skills. Who would have thought a tiny baby could teach me so much? How did that tiny scrap of humanity, barely three weeks old, arrive in the world with so much understanding, sensitivity and wisdom to share? Just one week in the presence of purity, simplicity and baby know-how transported me into another world – his world. The world of baby Oscar is a world of delightful innocence, breathtaking naivety and, at the same time,  an awe-inspiring realism. Oscar’s world is about essentials: sleep, feed, bath, love – possibly not in that order. Oscar’s world is alternately full of the most amazing peacefulness and the most heart-rending screams. But a contented baby is one of the most heart-warming sights in this world; the sight of little Oscar, fast asleep, cheek resting on his tiny hand and breathing with deep little sighs of contentment is a wonder to behold. Tiptoe softly around him in case you awaken this blissful repose.

 

Oscar’s needs and wants are simple: the sound of a familiar voice, the smell of his mother’s skin, the ever-ready milk bar, the long awaited touch of Daddy, home at last from work and caressing him with eager fingers...

 

Pure as the driven snow – a cliché in most circumstances but a mysterious truth when applied to babies. Oscar is a January baby and pushing his pram through the piles of freshly swept, pure white snow seems oddly appropriate – a crisp, pristine snowy vista, under skies of perfect blue, as a fitting backdrop for this most perfect new life, soft, white and baby-new. A new, unblemished life, a blank canvas awaiting whatever life may bring, unsullied by the ugliness of life’s disappointments, hardships and imperfections, but sparkling in the sunshine, full of promise. This image will be fixed in my mind forever. In Oscar’s world the closest attention is paid to the tiniest details: a small fleck of yellow sleep is gently brushed from Oscar’s eye; the tiniest of milk spots detected on his little forehead is brooded over anxiously. Pure as the driven snow.

 

Where did we go wrong? How did life get so complicated? How did we stray so far from the basics? We have lost our inner peace. In our adult worlds of street-cred and worldly wisdom we have strayed so far from the contentment we once knew at the touch of a hand, the sense of belonging and being loved, through the simple awareness of the nearness of family and friends and the joy of unashamed eye to eye contact. Oscar gazes into my eyes, unblinking, soaking up the warmth and admiration I give him and returning it willingly, without a hint of distrust or suspicion. This last week has been a week of de-tox, a health farm retreat, whilst a crash course has been delivered in the basic joys and essentials of life itself. Thank you Oscar.  

Head over Heels

Such a nice expression for being in love, being full of joy, being passionate about something or someone! It was Valentine´s Day the other day and a good time for being head over heels. However, in addition to all that, right now I´m verging on being heart over head - that´s something different. House hunting is a serious business. When you´ve at least semi-retired (isn´t that all any of us do these days?), sold up your house abroad, left your expat life behind and come home, finding a new home is all important. Serious stuff which requires a lot of thought and careful planning and all the wisdom of age...

So what are we doing? Well, it´s a long story. Years of planning went into this. Months of sitting at the computer screen researching locations, researching houses for sale, canvassing family and friends for their valued opinions... and dreaming. Ah, that´s where the plan breaks down. Dreaming gets you into a load of trouble! It´s good to dream. One should never lose that capacity, for idle day-dreaming, passionate longing, pleasant, lingering thoughts of ideal locations, romantic pastimes...

Until the dream threatens to become reality! Maybe not the whole dream - that´s probably more than anyone can ask for in these days of recession, tough love and doing the right thing. But at least a part of the dream - something which touches the heart whilst not wholly satisfying the head´s stringent list of requirements - might be possible!

So that´s how a sweet little bungalow on the west coast of Wales, close to the beach and set admidst green hills (made green by rather too much rain, it´s true), slipped through the practical net and landed there in the middle of all our planning and refused to go away. Unlike all our other favourite internet properties which we saved on the computer for later when our house had been sold, this one stayed there, tantalisingly real, as a tiny possibility for one day fulfilling those dreams. Naughty really, but nice. It´s a bungalow, after all, and within easy walking distance of shops, health centre and train station. There´s a pharmacy nearby and a library (at the moment) and a flat walk along the seafront to keep us healthy and fit, with a tennis court for gentle exercise, so what could be wrong with that? Well, that´s what we tell ourselves. We´re being careful. Well, that´s it for now. I´m wearing my heart on my sleeve, telling you all this, but it´s uppermost in my mind at the moment...

Except for my other dream come true which is already tugging at my heartstrings (what a lot of wonderful expressions the English language has!). My new grandson! I´m no longer a grandma in waiting (see previous blog!) but a hands-on grandma with  four whole days of experience (almost an expert). So I have one dream in the bag now (and it´s a good one) and another one in process. 2013 has been quite a year so far.
 

A Brush with Death

House-hunting can be a joy or a frustration, but it certainly provides a fascinating window on the lives of others...

 

 

Dusk was falling in the town

As we entered the hidden back street,
Lit by a dim yellow lamp,
Retracing our steps
To red brick Victorian days.

We hesitated, uncertain,

Puzzled by this back-to-front house,
With its narrow path, leading
Past the outhouse
To the shadowed entrance.

Surely the back way in

But now opening onto the road,
The former front door
Leading nowhere but to the lawn,
A fence and a private car park.

A shadowy figure loomed up

Out of the dusk
Eager, extending his hand
In a friendly gesture –
Sharp, hopeful, ready to do business.

The agent led the way into Tombland.

At once we were trespassing
On the final moments,
The sudden demise, it seemed,
Of the former occupants.

Wandering from room to room,

We witnessed a life
Arrested in its prime,
A kitchen in working order,
A hairbrush lying on the mantelpiece,

Carelessly discarded,

Like the life of its owner,
Still bearing the dead hairs
Or did they still contain
Some residual growth?

Eerie, poignant signs

Of a life once lived
In these four walls,
Amongst spacious,
Well-appointed rooms.

Outside, leaving regretfully,

Coveting the space
But unable to detach ourselves
From this air of sadness
Pervading the house,

We stopped next door, arrested

By a scene from Christmas Future:
Scrooge among the tombstones,
Transfixed by the stone mason’s art,
Would we find their epitaph here?

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.

It Must Have Been Meant...

Is it my destiny? Was it written in the stars? Was it meant? Or maybe not. “Don’t worry – it didn’t happen this time for you... it couldn’t have been meant. Something better is waiting around the corner...” Modern speaks! A positive slant on life in the midst of uncertainty, in the face of many obstacles and in view of the economic climate... you know how it is these days. Trust in the process.

 

Is it a pro-active way of living? Does it encourage a positive mindset? Or is it maybe a touch too fatalistic? At first sight it appears a very positive way of living. If it works, it was ‘meant’; if it doesn’t work, it wasn’t meant so no-one need worry – a win-win situation. So far, so good. But look a little closer. There’s another dimension to this. Are we saying there’s nothing I can do? Is the future out of my hands? Does someone or something determine or pre-determine my destiny? And if so, who? In this modern world of many choices, how does that work? Our rights are growing every day: women’s rights, father’s rights, children’s rights, animal rights, the unborn child’s rights... but what if they are not ‘meant’? Maybe something else better is around the corner when someone walks over, ignores your rights, disregards, tramples on your liberty, aborts you...

 

Scratch the surface. So much progress. So many changes, many of which we do not like. But we say “there’s no point in complaining – don’t try to go against the flow, it’s not worth it. Anyway, you can’t turn the clock back.” Why not? We do it every autumn. We do it with our fashions – retro, the 60’s look, in dress, in music, in decor, so why not in concepts and lifestyle? If we try something new and find it not to our taste why not rewind, go back, reverse the process and try again? Why not learn from our mistakes – a pro-active lifestyle. We have outlawed the caste system; our status in life is not written in concrete – or in the stars. We are people of choice, we have free will - that is what makes us human – and we can go forward, backwards or side to side. So let’s try some lateral thinking this year. Who knows – maybe this year our New Year’s resolution might be to go backwards again to find something better. Maybe that would be cool.

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.

 

Bright New Year

A Double Act

Dank, muggy Christmas:

Misty dampness, drizzling rain.
Only the lights
Strung out over the town
Alleviate the gathering gloom.
 
At last brightness dawns:
A clear, cold sky
And a pale, wintry sun.
Our spirits rise
To greet the New Year.
 

Again and again

The pattern is repeated,
The famous double act,
Mr. Nice and Mrs. Nasty,
Sometimes in reverse:

A bright shiny Christmas,

Making the lights on the tree
Brash and gaudy,
Then a dark, relentless,
Depressing New Year.
 
Better this present way,
Emerging from December’s darkness
Into the New Year
With joyful expectation
Of another new beginning.