Fairy on the Christmas tree

Thanks to my time off work, I’ve been able to have a couple of long weekends at my mum’s in the last two months. My youngest sister has timed things to be there with her baby daughter, when I was. The first granddaughter. And the sweetest little topoftheChristmastree poppet if I ever saw one. I don’t get to see my sister often enough; to be there with the two of them has been wonderful. 

My youngest brother was also there, last time I was down. And commented on how moving it was to see what feels like four generations of women arranged on the sitting room floor making cooing noises. (My youngest sister was born when I was 16. A colicky baby, I used to push her around my home town in the pram whilst revising for my exams. I did sometimes wonder if people might think I was a teenage mum. As it happens, I hadn’t so much as held a boy’s hand at that point in my life. And not many new mums would have been learning physics equations. But anyway.)

Sitting opposite my mum, on one of these visits, I watched her holding the baby. And I was struck by how lovely she is. What a generous smile. Such a twinkle in her eye. I don’t think you could find a more engaging face. So full of sparkle and life. I spend a fair portion of my time at home regressing to my teenage self, quicker than you can say ‘Jack Spratt’,  and feeling irritated by all the things that are different from my own home. Which can leave me less inclined than I might be, to appreciate  the good stuff. 

So I want to commit to writing, just how wonderful my mum is. Especially now, at Christmas-time; and this one, when I’m having her at my own festive table for the first time in all my years!

Mum didn’t have the easiest time as a child. My grandmother was frequently very unwell, and from an early age it was my mum who stayed at home, missing school, in order to help look after her, and keep things straight and tidy. Money was very tight. She remembers a stranger putting some money through the door in an envelope one Christmas. And eulogises about oranges in a way that would have you believe they were formed from molten gold.  I’m not here to tell her story, but suffice to say she fought incredibly hard to get into Salisbury college and become a teacher. And had to teach science because that was the only course that had a place. This explains how I came to be taught the facts of life in diagrammatic form in the sand on Studland beach. And probably why she really wanted both my youngest brother and I do study law. He did. (But his true love is tractors.)

Because she’s strong and able, I’m not sure that we’ve shown her enough appreciation. I don’t think she’s prioritised her own needs enough, and friends would say the same is true of me (and most women, probably, though that is changing).

So it doesn’t entirely make sense that of  the many things I appreciate about my mum, the ‘do as you would be done by’ mantra is the one I’m most grateful to have witnessed, time and time again, and by which I try and live my own life. I’m also so proud of her ability to get on with pretty much anyone, find common ground, and bond. I love  her wit, her intelligence, her sense of fun. She’s glass half full. Can do. ‘Yes, let’s.!’ Good humoured. Generous, kind. 

As to her inner world, I don’t see much of that. Or her vulnerabilities. I’m posting with this blog entry a photo of her in a Christmas panto from when she was a girl (bottom right). She says that at the end she stood on the stage, waving, unaware that the rest of the cast had left, to the embarrassment of her brother. She’s like a twinkling little fairy. So sweet. Still shining. 

Caravans and parachutes

And so it was, I found myself letting go. On the bedroom floor of the spare room of the woman I met in the sauna.

She came round and had two breathing sessions with my son. Who, it turned out, was carrying such tension in his little body that after starting to let go himself, through the breathing exercises she is teaching him, he wanted to curl up and sleep all day. 

I chugged though some sun salutations in the kitchen while they were working together. ‘That’s not really going to do it for you’, she said. ‘I’d like to work with you as well.’

And thus, my journey into breathing and releasing in a whole new way, has started. Particularly into an area at the centre of my back which has always felt as though it’s harbouring something that needs shifting. ‘The back of the heart,’ she said. ‘The bit that’s isn’t always open and giving to others’. 

‘My tittage weighs a ton,’ I said. ‘It’s where my bra does up.’ 

She looked at me. ‘I want you to stop talking now, lie down, and do what you’re told,’ she replied. If she’d been a man I’d have been putty in her hands at that point.

Anyway. It felt good. I felt more relaxed than I have for a long time. Definitely releasing stuff. Apparently you can learnt to breathe in a way that has your diaphragm massage your heart. I’m going back for more. And as it happens we may do a skill swap as she wants me to help her with a writing/marketing thing. More serendipity. As I do, of course, have one eye on the 31 January when I am *supposed* to be returning to work. 

***

Before I decided to take this break, I happened to have a session with my work coach, in which I wanted to start thinking through my next steps, and what I wanted my immediate future to look like. I was coming to the end of my ‘Headship’ and didn’t want to return to Deputy. I’ve outgrown it. 

The ground I have covered with this woman - the ground we cover in every session - is incredible. As a regular self-doubter, she has really helped me get to grips with who I am, recognise what I have to offer, and actually articulate the skills and values I bring to the roles I take on, not just at work, but in all aspects of my life. 

It was in a session with her that I conceived of melting down various pieces of jewellery, including my parents’ wedding ring, and turning them into a talisman for my 50th birthday (a step in my journey of accepting all of who I am, and my life story). In another, I filled a metaphorical pencil case with the stuff I needed to help me feel prepared for a senior position I’d been recruited to. I’ve been really struck by how so much of being coached for leadership, especially as a woman, is about really understanding, owning, and learning to appreciate, who you are. So that you can be authentic. And enjoy it. Another time, I will write about the ramparts at the top of a tower I felt I had finally been allowed onto, in that senior position, and how it made me realise quite how much I value and therefore advocate for transparency in the workplace.

In this particular session, I really needed some prompts to help me think some specific things though. Start making some decisions about what to do next. She showed me some pictures. One was of a skydiver, just outside a plane. ‘God, no.’ I said. A picture had prompted what my tired brain could not express. Unusually for me, the last thing on earth I wanted was an Exciting Challenge. One decision made. 

She showed me some more images, which refined things a bit. And then a picture of a caravan. A simply-painted Romany gypsy-style caravan. My heart started to sing then and there. ‘Now you’re talking!’ I said. But why? I couldn’t say. I knew it was on a metaphorical and literal level that I wanted that caravan. My dad - who made things such fun and so exciting when we were kids - took us on holiday in a horse-drawn caravan on the Norfolk broads before the divorce. But I wasn’t harking back to that. Perhaps I was acknowledging a desire to have a tiny, womb-like space to make a den in. A place to hide away in for a while. Maybe it was the wheels that appealed to me: the symbol of journey, adventure and change.

I don’t know (yet), but that caravan has often entered my consciousness since that session; in fact writing about it is on my ‘creative list’. Alongside many other things, including the story I want to write that will link all the fragments of pottery I found on the beach at Lyme Regis last summer. Or was that the year before? Covid. The years are merging into one. I think maybe I want a space in which I can sit, unobserved and breathe. Call my own. 

***

Some weeks, and a fairly horrible attack of covid later, (made all the worse by the fact that I got it on holiday, and about as far north in the United Kingdom as you can go), and I had to make a decision about the work situation. I got some post-it’s out. Red for fears, green for questions and yellows for reasons why I needed to take a break. I ended up with one red: ‘that I end up unemployed and washed up’; two questions: ‘how much will it cost me?’, and ‘what terms will they agree to?’. Hundreds of yellows. On the first, I wrote: ‘Breathe.’

And so, as I say, here I am. Letting go. Learning to breathe. Taking time to do this reflective shit. Making some changes. Building my skylark. And, in the process, creating some ducking great flying thing of a caravan that I have yet to see the prototype of but which I know I am going to adventure in. My Phoenix will power it with her fire. 

Houses, and *stuff*

I’m focussing on letting go of stuff. Stuff that doesn’t serve me. So that I can focus on the full force of Being and Enjoying. And give way for space to breathe more fully and laugh more. And not agonise about shit I can’t do anything about. 

I don’t think of myself as a particularly materialistic person. I mean, I couldn’t survive without my specific brand moisturiser, dental floss and a comfortable bra, but those three things aside, I am not really much of an acquirer of physical matter. In fact, one of my ambitions is to pack the things that really mean something to me down to the size of a large suitcase. I’d  then capture that stuff in a series of images I can save online somewhere and, Bob’s your uncle, I am free. 

So, when I refer to stuff, I’m not really talking about possessions. Except that I realise actually, I am. 

I have mentioned before that I suffer from terrible nightmares about houses. Whereas, as a teenager, I managed myself to teach myself to fly from the back of the faltering aircraft I was slipping from, and play among the rooftops of the town I lived in, I have made meagre progress with the houses ones. They appear as a sequence of houses that I am thrilled to be moving into (a new one each time) and each of which is unique and wonderful in some way, save for the fact that they are always unfinished/falling down/several storeys high and wobbling around all over the place, and I am not just scared to death but also angry and disappointed. 

I am pausing for a moment in my writing to observe those feelings. A therapist friend once told me that every time we feel a specific feeling, we experience its predecessors as well. And I’m all too aware of early causes of fear and anger that cut me so deep I’ve struggled to completely heal. 

I’ve always assumed that the nightmares stem from my ex’s over-enthusiasm with DIY that at times left me feeling utterly broken and scared of plummeting  to Australia. I won’t rehearse the scenarios here. My eldest son has told me, outright, however, that ‘these nightmares are so obviously about much more than houses, mum.’ 

Well, they are and they aren’t. Leaving houses behind in a way that felt untimely has been a theme of my life. I’ve been back as an adult to visit the house we left when my parents split up. And the house we left when my mum remarried. I mourn not being there when not grandparents’ house was cleared and wish so much that I had been able to have some things that went other ways. In particular some china kittens emerging from seashells that I would have cherished. (And the bright pink polystyrene glittery turrets my granny got hold of from the window display in Beales of Bournemouth one January and hung in the sitting room at Christmas, thereafter, along side home-made cones of coloured card with baubles dripping from them). I visit the highlands of Scotland as often I can, to check that the Croft we owned as a child is still there and waiting for me. I have told the boys that one day we will raise an army and win it back. 

I now have a new house to add to the list - the beautiful old place my dad has recently left in Cumbria, to move into sheltered accommodation in Poole. Leaving aside the gaping hole blown into my life by my parents’ divorce and the headfuck that is them now living, once again, within spitting distance of one another, I was devastated not to be able to say goodbye to that place; devastated not to get up there and nobble a vanful of stuff that held memories for me. I had covid; I simply couldn’t. I asked my dad for a handful of things I thought he might be able to put on one side for me. How much I wanted his collection of pottery made in the highlands that mean so much to both of us.

It’s just stuff, right? Stuff, and houses. Bricks and mortar.  Nothing I need. But I feel bereft, again. No so much, but the feeling is there, in its needling repetition. If I’m honest, a feeling that somewhere along the way, the fact that some of this stuff matters to me, has been ignored or forgotten. Not intentionally. And tat I have just, once again, missed the opportunity to say goodbye in the way I needed to. So that I could close a metaphorical and literal door behind me. Have, if only a modicum, of control over how the chapter ends. Let me remember to give my kids some influence over the chapters we share. 

I’m conscious that I probably need a good slap, writing in this self-indulgent way about things that have to be left behind. But it’s helping me understand who and why I am. Perhaps my ramblings will resonate with someone else, and help. Maybe my kids, one day. And as I reflect on the closing of chapters, I’m musing on the theme of ceremony, and whether I can recreate an opportunity to say goodbye to some of this stuff, that will enable me to let go, in a different, more substantial way.

That feeling of ‘so near and yet so far’, from those nightmares, intrigues me. It’s a feeling I can relate to yet have no recollection of experiencing. Yet even as I write that, I have a sense that I have not allowed myself to. There I am,  on the cusp of moving into this huge, rambling, crazy, multi-levelled house; part wood, part growing out of trees. Lifts and staircases. Magical and mysterious. Everything I wanted, yet skeletal and collapsing. Why? WHY? I don’t remember ever feeling so close to having everything I desired in a material or any sense. Except perhaps as the blonde-bunched pre-schooler who ran around a large garden in a towelling bikini with a violin tucked under her chin. Why does that feeling haunt me so in these nightmares? Always moving in, always about to be given some bad news. Is that the divorce, still? My own marriage? The fear of losing something I want so very much? The fear of things around me collapsing, crashing down? I fear that I am not worthy. That I don’t deserve my castle with turrets?

As I write, I am reminded that I am building a room with a view. A top level of my own home. A space for me. That will not fall down*. The crows’ nest to my Skylark**. Perhaps I can combine a roof-warming celebration with some kind of godalmighty letting go? A very wonderful, funny and intelligent person I know has suggested I get a telescope and cannon. It could be a New Year’s party of a lifetime. Watch this space. And in the meantime, a photographic offering, if I can work out where to put it, of the dolls house I had as a child. Given to me by our German friends Walter and Ruth. Or was that a shop? Anyway. I don’t remember the house ever actually having dolls I played with in it. This year, with the contents of my attic round about, it has candles and some other childhood memories. 

*I have checked this many times with the builders who have remained patient, cheerful and reassuring on the matter

**I refer to Noah and Nelly’s.

Disappearing act

My Phoenix is a fickle thing. So strong and determined, yet so able to vanish without trace when I need her most. How easily, at times, her embers can be fuelled into a rage of flames by just the slightest whisper of a breath. The mightiest of mothers, fiercest of friends, most loyal of lovers or defender of the desperate can rise from that heart of hearths.

But sometimes, when I find myself flung into the most shadowy corner of a dank grotto in winter, I cannot summon her for love, money, nor a waxy firelighter. (Catnip to her soul. Note: I ate part of a firelighter when I was a mere smattering of a little thing, while listening to my Wizard of Oz LP. Even now I can’t pause to smell them without wanting to tarry awhile and nibble.)

I am seeking to learn from this. Embrace her absence. Perhaps she is silent so that I can fuel my voice. Lessen my oscillations. Fine-tune my reverberations. Turn away from the inner shouting that can make me feel so worthless and insubstantial. But how I wish I could summon her. Some of her heat would burn away the grip of the creeping dank tendrils of clawing doubt that assails me. 

Perhaps I’m looking for her in the wrong place? Must I start manifesting to reach her presence? So help me god, no. Perhaps I need to stare into the face of the cold and know that the weeds will slink away soon enough. Perhaps there is a magic potion I could acquire. How can she come and then be gone with such frequency and ease?

Today, I muse upon these things. In a steamy orange-lit coffee house where everyone is coughing. 

Note to self: firefighters and fireflighters were produced by my autocorrect. I could have some fun with these.

On tenderness

What a beautiful word, I was thinking this morning: tenderness. And what a beautiful space it occupies. You can’t be tender without being attentive, slowing down, thinking about the other person; where they ‘are’ and what they need. 

Tender implies something physical and loving. The way a mother (in my case at least) pushes the hair away from her child’s eyes. The way a lover might move his partner’s hair to behind her ear. A romantic cliché that makes my tummy flip, nonetheless. You can’t rush in to stroke someone’s cheek at 100 miles per hour. 

The tender touch of a lover is something I miss. I’ve been shocked, since my divorce, at how tender and loving touch can feel even when administrated by someone who claims not to have an emotional connection with you. It’s been a while since I’ve borne witness to touch that was genuinely loving, or not. 

We can be tender in our verbal exchanges, too. Seek to understand the other. Listen. Give words of comfort or reassurance, delivered in a gentle voice. How often am I rushed, brusque, impatient? How often do I give what I yearn for myself?

I remember sitting and talking to my ex mother-in-law for hours. Her Greek was broken and she was not an educated woman but an actress incarnate, and the force of her personality pushed through the spaces that words could not and shared the essence of what she wanted to say.  

She told me that no-one else had sat and listened to her. Heard her stories, without interruption. I’m not sure if that’s true but I held her hand. Wanted to be close to her. Wanted her to know that I loved her and cared about her. She is very poorly, in Albania. I hope I will see her again before she passes away. I recorded some of her stories and songs; images of her rolling filo sheets for baklava, or wielding the wooden broom she kept behind the kitchen door, for both sweeping and dramatic effect. My boys will have these memories.

I’ve been doing this advent yoga thing each morning. Making a herbal tea from my advent tea calendar, lighting a candle and then doing sun salutations. I started with one and I’m adding an extra each day. Dinner may be late on Christmas Day. It takes a while and I lose count easily. 

After my exertions this morning I sat quietly, cross-legged on my mat. I invited my Phoenix onto my lap. Closed my eyes and felt her brimming warmth kindle my spirit. As the minutes passed, she softened. The burning expectancy that so often makes her wings quiver started to calm. 

As she settled, I listened to her silence. Heard her need for quiet, for tenderness, to be held. And, very gently, I stroked her feathers, careful not to ruffle them. Gently traced along the crest on the top of her head with my finger. Watched a tear that slid down my cheek and onto hers steam and sizzle, then disappear. 

On stadia (kinda)

The other weekend I went to a performance at a big stadium for what I think was only the second time in my life. (I must resist temptation and not digress onto amphitheatres, since in trawling my memory for stone memorabilia I came across Epidavros which, silent among the aromatic pines, is one of my favourite places in the world.)

The first was when I took my little sister to a Spice Girls’ concert at Wembley in about 1998, when I was 28 - so she must have been 12. I made her wear combats, bring waterproofs and a thick hoodie (it was May), and I took a thermos flask and huge cheese and pickle sandwiches. It was that much of a big deal. She came up on the train from Dorset (also a big deal) and stayed the night with me at my flat near Manor House.

We arrived at the stadium to a sea of pink and sequins. The average age of the (mostly) girls was about seven and of the (mostly) mums, about the same as mine. The stage was like a speck in the distance. Everyone was chanting ‘Spice Girls’, clap clap clap. And eating candy floss and burgers. It was not the first time I have over-thought what an occasion might require. However I was very glad of my thermal vest and trainers last Saturday. 

I spent most of the journey up bickering with my Phoenix which kept jumping onto the dashboard to obscure my view of signs for services when they appeared. I’d had to leave youngest on his own at home, my ex being two and a half hours late in picking him up and not answering his phone. Whilst lateness such as this was not entirely out of his ordinary, especially coinciding, as it did, with something nice I had planned, I was struggling with driving north and away from a potential problem. Eldest spoke to me from the back seat where he was sprawled, tired from the exertions of ‘getting food’ in town with some mates before we left: ‘I’m worried about daddy, mum.’ I won’t repeat here the expletives I yelled into his speaker call when we finally got hold of him. 

There isn’t anything I can say about the game in the generic sense, that hasn’t been said and that wouldn’t annoy genuine supporters. A modern-day equivalent of Shakespeare with full audience participation. An incredible and at times hilarious performance. Males expressing emotion, en masse. I can’t pretend I didn’t feel like an observer and an outsider, but I loved every minute nonetheless, especially the crashing cheers and reverberating ‘om’ that only a multitude of low-pitched sighs could produce. YesyesyesyesyesnooooooOOooMMmm. Lush!

Me getting us there very (stupidly) early meant we could watch people arriving. It also meant that we could visit the shop and get eldest’s surname printed on the back of his shirt. It gave me one of those moments, wishing his was the same as mine. In front of us was a grandad, a dad and two sons, having a great day out together. I wondered if my eldest noticed too, and felt self-conscious being with his mum. I looked around the crowd and wondered how many people had cancer/covid/tickets to Dubai - according to the digital screens, all of the Etihad cabin crew have been vaccinated. Did anyone else resent having to eat a vile vegan cheese and onion pasty as the only non-meat option? And drink zero coke, no full fat. Urgh.

What I most enjoyed (apart from watching my son out of the corner of my eye trying to record the whole thing on his phone, which meant he was trying to immortalise the experience) was the SPIRIT of the occasion. A massive gert bunch of people, there because they wanted to be there, physically, mentally, totally present. Cheering, sighing, singing, breathing in the moment. Mindfulness in action and the best quids I’ve spent in ages. I want more.