Let’s Fuck This Shit Up (I). And a dusky pink pinafore.

I thought I’d dip my toe into the water of these words. I have an occasional shiatsu (sounds like a small dog now that I’m writing it, hope I’ve got the right word?) session to support my well-being, and my most excellent practitioner lent me the phrase. It sounds better than, ‘Let’s try hard to change some deeply-engrained habits and live differently’. I’m probably going to come back to the full strength of it when my cylinders are replenished. And I think I’ve got a campaign in mind to attach it to. Watch this space. And by the way, it’s International Women’s Day in early March. 

I always thought of myself as the kind of person who embraces change. Then one day I observed the colossal wave of emotion that rose within me on finding someone else sitting in the seat I usually occupied in the office (those were the days!).  I went to hell and back when the email system at work changed to something in a BLUE colour. My point being that the truth is that I can find change pretty difficult to navigate. And accepting that there are things you might need to address does not make doing them differently any easier.

Of course I don’t mean having a sausage sandwich when you really fancy a fishfinger one, just to shake things up. I mean ‘differently’ as in, ‘no longer doing the things that may feel comfortable because they’re what you’ve always done, but are actually not that great for you/are downright harmful to you’. For example, choosing to step away from always taking responsibility for stuff, eg your sons’ dirty laundry stashed below their beds, even though it comes naturally to you. Throwing your to do lists to the wind. Stopping and being silent when your self-worth is built on what you describe as ‘goals’ that you move into a ‘done’ list. (For a while, at least.) Looking into a mirror and saying ‘I love you’, even though it makes your stated inability to run as far as a bus stop manifest as a marathon sprint to a sporting event you’re going to have to participate in. Easy, tiger.

Years ago, my dad had some feldenkraise sessions to help deal with a problem that meant the fourth finger on his left hand would, randomly, start doing the dance of life to its own beat. As a violinist, this was Not Good. I remember him telling me that his instructor had suggested he try and do things in a way that would be counter to his usual instinctive response, to get his synapses forging new connections. This included things like putting his left foot onto the bottom of a flight of stairs, rather than his right. Subtle interruptions to one’s routine. This idea really stayed with me - 30 years later I often change feet when approaching a staircase. (Weirdly, as long as they are made of stone and in big places like train stations or amphitheatres. No idea why.) 

I get this weekly feel-good email newsletter. I’ve lost count of the times the content has spoken to me in a way that would suggest that the universe is looking out for me (or that I’m well-tuned into my own echo chamber or something). Last week I opened one that had arrived back in December, and which shared a story about the time the author had stepped away from a well-paid job. Ha! And then I opened another, which was, guess what? -  about the art of doing things differently: try dressing up if you usually dress down! Wear jewellery even if it’s not your thing! Ok, so neither of these spoke to me, in as much that I almost never do either of those things but…. It gave me food for thought. Perhaps I could find a dashing suitor if I wore a gown to the ballet? And I guess there may be some merit in picking the sausage sandwich, after all.

Anyway. Let’s just say that in my own way, and in the spirit of gentle self-love (which sounds really wrong) I’M FU**ING THIS SHIT UP. (I deleted ‘trying to’, because I’m trying not to try.) 

In other news, It did not occur to me until after I had picked them, that my bathroom tiles and wall paint are not just the dusky pick colour of the corduroy pinafore dress with metal clasps that I had as a child. (I am drawn to relics of my childhood like a moth to a flame.) They are also vagina incarnate. And were glued to my wall yesterday. Change? Let’s hope they are an omen. 

Night-time fears, being alone and frozen peas

How alone the dark of the night can seem. I woke at five this morning, and it took only a few seconds of consciousness for chilly pangs of anxiety to take charge of my abdomen. It was cold. I put my head under the duvet, curled onto my side and called for my Pheonix. But she was absent. Probably curled, egg-like, in some embers or rolled-up forgotten carpet.

My sons had both, unexpectedly, gone to their dad’s for the night. These days we don’t have a routine for this - I just encourage them to go when they feel like it - which is why, I suppose, I hadn’t made plans for the evening. Not that my life is full of social plans. And covid has knocked so much on the head, that doing very little is the new normal. 

I’d laid on the sofa, feeling listless, and watching a few episodes of series four from the set of nine I’ve become absorbed in on Netflix. It lacks intellectual weight and only just holds my attention, but the writer (can I say that?) in me observes the excellent character development and enjoys that it has a feisty black female lead; the romantic in me cannot help but be absorbed by the eyes and charisma of the male lead (who plans fun stuff and understands why handbags are a third lung and looks so dashing); and the part of me who loves lovely clothes enjoys the aesthetics of those. And the bodies they hang on. 

I rolled off the sofa and did some stretching and breathing while my before-bed HRT gel sank into my bat wing area. After sighing a bit and helpfully getting rid of half a box of After Eights, I decided to send my restless loneliness to bed, in the knowledge that today would be another day. 

But in my heart I was carrying the knowledge that, cumulatively, I’ve weathered an awful lot of lonely evenings, stymied by lack of energy, company, or the wherewithal to plan ahead. And liberated as I felt by my divorce, not all of the grass is greener. There are days I’d give my right arm to wake up next to the warm space that had been recently vacated by a man who had gone to make me a cup of tea that we would enjoy in bed together. (Not that this ever happened in my marriage, I must say, because he was not a tea or coffee-drinker, and we never woke from choice at the same time.) Thank god for the boys who wake up and say ‘Morning, Mum!’. And the routine of tending for them that, irritating as it can be, keeps me from the cliffs of mental abyss at times.

But, back to 5am. And the cold in the pit of my stomach. Am I doing the right thing, letting go of a busy and interesting job? That gives my life structure? That makes evenings and weekends feel precious, by contrast? Can I let go of a job that gives me a sense of status, connection, networking opportunities, insider knowledge? What if this is it? What if my body and mind never straighten out? What if I am destined for perpetual restlessness and sometime-loneliness? What if I lose my house because I can’t make my mortgage payments? What if I slip into a massive scary lonely mental rut with part of the purpose of my life stripped out of the equation - I might go for days without interacting with people. 

Fear of being alone is not something I’d ever really considered. But I am afraid. Afraid of not getting a place back on the treadmill if I step off it. Afraid of never finding someone who will be there to hold me in the middle of the night. Afraid that this is It. 

These are the things that were making me shake with fear. 

But what will really change if I don’t embrace free fall?

I turned on the radio. Heard an advert for a programme on modernism I’d have liked to listen to. Ignored a programme on city farms. Shouted at my cats several times to get out and leave me alone (I think they have fleas again). Turned the radio off. Steadied my breathing. The panic subsided. Sleep returned.

I woke up thinking how great an invention frozen peas are. All those meals for which peas have become the staple green to accompany the yellow and brown. Imagine if we parents had to shell them? How different life would be. Less circular. More broccoli. 

I was in a bell tent in a park on a hill with a bunch of women with babies I didn’t know and whose names I couldn’t remember. I was worrying about which pronouns to use to refer to them. Someone came in to announce that they were going to put windows in the bell tent and mirrors in the panes of glass in the street lanterns so that we could see the view.

On caravanning, freefalling and blocked stuff

I have been busy caravanning, the last couple of weeks. That sounds a bit dodgy, and as I was possibly the last person in the universe to find out what dogging is (with the probable exception of my mum who may well read this and learn now) I hope I haven’t accidentally implied I’ve been doing something more exciting than I actually was. 

I say ‘busy’ caravanning, but it’s actually been a kind of ‘lying on the floor feeling dizzy’ thing, as my head, my heart and my Phoenix battle out a set of changing scenarios that will determine my next steps. This has involved quite a lot of squirming and rolling on my part, and quite a lot of dive-bombing and pecking on the part of my Phoenix. I never knew she had it in her. Once the decision has been made, I expect to embrace the biggest freefall of my life. (The second-biggest was probably asking God to take me during a panic attack when I was 21. He/she/it didn’t.) More on that when it happens. The freefalling, not God taking me. I hope. 

Ironically, as I try to let some things in my life go, I have been encountering a number of blockages. One is my chimney (not a euphemism) that has bricks lodged inside it. Possibly dislodged by the builders, in getting the roof done, and it seems that the only way to remove them is by cutting into my newly plastered roof wall. Arghhhhhhhh. Everything is held up. 

Also blocked are a number of gutters. Also thanks to falling debris. And my downstairs hallway, since my cats have taken to defecating there, in protest at the ongoing building works, falling of debris, etc. Gee whizz. 

In tandem with this, I have been doing a little bit of yoga every day. To help me unblock. (Not in *that* kind of a way.)  I never did make it to 25 sun salutations before Christmas, but I am slowly and surely building up my strength. 2022 is going to be the year I do a crab and a headstand (although having goals isn’t very yoga-like, I’m told) (by someone who wants me to help them market a yoga product…).  

Doing yoga makes me feel so wriggley and insidemyownbody and happy to be alive. I think perhaps yoga wants me to find it, because I have picked up two different copies, several years apart, of ‘Reawakening the spine’, on my way to the Spar. Where I live people put things they want to give away outside their houses.

I think this is really great. You go out for fishfingers and come back with Foucault. Over the years I have picked up a picture of flowers for my sitting room wall, an ornament of a ballerina, a lettuce leaf shaker thing (that I never used and put back) and a lot of books. I have given away some amazing stuff including a fully working upright fan, school shoes and several lamps. No genies. That I am aware of, at least.

Make of this what you will. 

A revelation, an egg and a horse

I had my almost-last coaching session today. And another big decision I am mulling over, to discuss. As usual, I threw thousands of pieces into the air; we caught some as they fell, let others fall to the floor, and in the course of our throwing and catching I ended up with a golden crown in the palm of my hand, as I so often do. 

I have some mantras for this year. Quelle surprise! One is about continuing the letting go of stuff that saps my energy and does not serve me. I made huge strides forward with this over Christmas, in deciding not to spend the big day in awkward discomfort with my Ex. Much better for both us that we get on with our lives now without dancing around one another in the form of a fictitious friendship.

Another mantra, about making the most of myself. Setting my bar high. Not being apologetic about who I am. And not gluing myself to people who are likely to let me down or end up relying on me in a way that isn’t good for either of us. 

And one about really working out what I want. I’m pretty good at clarifying what I don’t want (eventually), but proactively thinking through what I do, in detail - now that’s another kettle of fish. And if you’re not clear on what you want, at home or at work, how can you make it happen? Rock on the planning session I have in mind for the next new moon! 

Truth be told, I am still feeling really, I don’t know, like I’m ‘in recovery’. From everything life has thrown at me in the last however-long. Very ‘First World’ I know, but I have done my share of swash-buckling, and taking time out from work was acknowledgement of the rest I knew I needed.

Nearly four weeks of kids at home over Christmas has, however, blown quite a hole in my three months off work, and the me-time I’ve been creating. We also had an unexpectedly white Christmas, with the plasterers working on my roof up until the eleventh hour (or the 12th night or whatever it was), which left me with an awful lot of last-minute cleaning to do before my guests arrived. I think my tree spent longer propped up against the garden wall than it did in the house. Then I got a cold. 

So - back to my coaching session and there we were, catching snowflakes and hurling fir cones, and it was vital and stimulating and fun, and I knew we were getting somewhere - when my coach asked, ‘Where is your energy? What’s it doing?’. 

‘My Phoenix is keeping it alive,’ I said. And as I said this, I realised that she is. Keeping my flames alive; fostering them, like a precious egg, because my cup is not running over, at the moment. 

And then that caravan sprang into my mind! The one in the picture she showed me, a season ago. That I have been dwelling on, since. Wondering what it meant, and why it resonated so much. 

It’s my caravan, I realised. And I’m in it. It’s in a field, by a path. Quiet. Colourful, if a bit faded, on the outside, but dark and dusty within. There’s a mat and blanket on the bench, and maybe a candle. Because that’s all I need. Because I am resting. Keeping that egg warm. Re-fuelling in the half-light.

And as I looked at my caravan, in my mind’s eye, I felt this incredible sense of safety and abundance. And as my gaze broadened, I noticed a horse grazing, near the wagon, in the field. Something else hit me between the eyes: I’m on a journey. An adventure. There’s a good way yet to travel. This is just an almighty great pit stop. And right now, I’m really good, right where I am, in my caravan. And that’s ok. In fact, it’s more than ok. It’s great! It’s where I need to be. It’s where I want to be.

(And there are no post-its on the walls.)

You may guess what the decision I have to make, is. And you may like to hazard a guess as to which way it will go.