I have had a break from blogging - quite deliberately. I was off work last week, and took some time to sit and think, write poetry, sip coffee in cafes... all those things we do when we have Spare Time.
When I was younger, I was aware of the vast amount of thoughts going through my head (at such speed, too!) and it used to drive me to the brink of insanity. Why couldn't I stop thinking? Would I ever be able to stop the ideas from coursing through my brain for long enough to relax?
I managed it, in the end. I learnt to Be Still and Know, to enjoy silence, to watch the flame of a candle and lose myself in the ever-changing shapes, to sit by the sea and become one with its rhythms... I even stopped and smelt every rose I passed as I walked along.
More problems began when I started work. Motherhood, whilst frantic, I found provided endless opportunities for Being - not always just when I wanted, but every day there was a sense of treasuring what I had, of this being a never-repeatable phase of my life. The silences were rare, candles a little dangerous with toddlers around, but there was the joy of teaching people new to the planet the art of Doing Little and Enjoying Much. I was blessed with daughters who very early on appreciated the hush of a church, or the sun on the sea. Together we experienced the everyday wonders which enrich our lives.
But then I started work. It felt - feels at times - like a strait-jacket around my soul. I'm not complaining about having to earn a living - not at all. I feel privileged to be able to do so, especially in these turbulent times. I have to confess, though, that I have a particularly bad case of the 'Rather-be-elsewhere-blues' at times.
Most of the time I knuckle down and get on with earning my crust. But occasionally I allow myself the luxury of wondering how and why I ever got drawn into the rat race. It was never what I wanted. And yet I was inexorably sucked in, just like everybody else. I admire those who make a break for it, dash for the wall and scale it in one leap... in my heart I'd love to follow them, but then I lose my nerve...
How have we reached this place? A place where everyone buys into the same lie - that money is worth more than the right to take a day to lie in the grass watching clouds, or paddle in the sea and listen to the eternal rhythm of the tides? Why is it such a disaster that money has finally been shown up as the false god it has always been? Why are we so surprised that a system built on greed and keeping up appearances, where time with our children is valued less than time at our desk, is finally collapsing before our eyes?
Why do so many think it is perfectly okay to 'earn' bonuses of over half a million pounds, whilst others see their homes repossessed? To focus in, as someone who has struggled with the fact that my monthly deductions total more than my friend's gross income, how can we die of food whilst others die without it? For every morbidly fat person fitted with a gastric band, there is probably a whole village starving to death.
When did all this become acceptable? How did our values change?
And please God, will this recession turn us around at last and let us see once more the things which truly matter in life?
Thursday 26 February 2009
Sunday 15 February 2009
Are we there yet??
"We are not human beings on a spiritual journey. We are spiritual beings on a human journey."
(Stephen Covey/Teilhard de Chardin).
I just found this quote. I like it, though the nit-picking part of me wants to say, "I think we're both, actually." But enough with the nit-picking! I like the way he has flagged up our spirituality.
Some readers will already be wondering if they need the sick-bucket. That word 'spirituality' pushes so many buttons, doesn't it? To be clear, I'm not talking about anything imposed on us. Systems, beliefs or practices - they are all ways to manage humanity's awareness of The Numinous. What I'm interested in is where that feeling comes from.
Just as most of my gay friends were aware of their orientation well before puberty, I knew early on that I was (for want of a better word) spiritual. My family never went to church yet when I was about 9 I became aware that I wanted to learn to pray. I decided that I needed candles and a crucifix to do this - I have no idea where that came from. So I bought a tiny standing crucifix, some very small candles, shut myself away in the attic and sat absorbing the peace (I was a very troubled little girl).
My first prayer was a shining example of Science meeting Faith. I wasn't quite sure whether you were meant to leave a gap for God to answer, and it would have seemed rude to talk through Him; so I left pauses just in case - until I realised He probably wasn't going to say anything just then, when my prayer took on a fluency and urgency as I needed to get out and spare myself more embarrassment. This was it:
"God..? God... Um... I feel a bit silly... ... ... I don't know how to pray... But then, you know that already... if you're there. (Brightening) And if you aren't there, then nobody's heard this! Help me believe in you. Amen."
I blew the candles out and scurried downstairs.
I'm not sure how long I continued going to my little Chapel, as I called it - I think I'd probably got the idea from one of the 'Katy' books although the rather Roman Catholic slant was all my own. It was a place of peace for me, until one day presumably it wasn't, and I became a Lapsed Attican. I thought no more about it for a few years, until my friend asked me to join the Church Choir. This in turn exposed me to Sunday School and, having grandly told the Professor of Astrophysics who ran our class that at 12 I considered myself too intellectual to be a Christian, I eventually came to believe in the God of the Anglican Church, and had a very dramatic conversion at 14. I firmly believed that this was an answer to my prayer in the attic years before.
Now I'm going to cut a VERY long story short. It includes my realisation that there were other ways to be Christian (it was years before I realised I had become not just a Christian, but an Evangelical - and that possibly it didn't fit my spiritual personality), my involvement in the Charismatic movement, and twenty years as a Vicar's wife during which I broadcast, wrote articles for the Parish magazine and helped many people come to a faith in Jesus.
Fast forward past the divorce (amicable) and the realisation that there were other ways to be spiritual, and the excitement at escaping the confines of The Church and being able to choose what worked for me. Others who have trodden this path will know that it takes a long time to shake the conditioning, to stop feeling guilty for daring to question, and to look at what exactly was going on at conversion.
I can't shake the belief that there's Something More to life, however I no longer have any conviction that it's the God Christians have made in their own image. My very brief toe-dip into Neuro-Linguistic Programming led me to the conclusion that my dramatic conversion was indeed profoundly healing, but that it was explicable in various ways, only one of which 'proved' there was a God. I had always said, right from my arrogant Sunday School days, that God was my Working Hypothesis - that I would change my beliefs if I ever found the evidence pointed in another direction. At the time I said it, I never thought that it would, but the spirit of enquiry was genuine.
And over the years I became less and less convinced that the Church had The Truth. It wasn't just a case of seeing many good, altruistic people who worked tirelessly for the good of others with not a shred of religious faith. It was many things. I think in the end I could no longer go along with telling people that prayer 'worked' when I had to go through so many mental gymnastics to believe that.
"God ALWAYS answers, but sometimes it's 'No'."
"There is some deeper purpose to this that we don't know about."
"You need more faith." (To be fair, I always spoke out against that one).
"Prayer is a mystery."
That last one is true. But nobody ever addressed the uncomfortable truths, such as people in other religions also praying in tongues, or the fact that other faiths also prayed and ascribed answered prayer to a different god.
I set time aside to wrestle with the concept of prayer. My problem was that it was held up as something we ought to do, handing all the results over to Someone who Knew Better than us. At best it seemed feeble to spend time on something which might not get results whilst teaching people that it did. At worst, I began to see people all around me happily refusing to take responsibility for their lives:
"Well I've prayed about losing weight, but nothing's happened."
"I'm very unhappy with X but I know God wants me to stay."
"I'm waiting for God to give me the go-ahead to apply for another job."
etc, etc, etc...
Suddenly, just as I had had a blindingly dramatic conversion, I had another experience of seeing with an outsider's eyes how ridiculously naive it all seemed. A Deconversion, if you will.
Which as you can imagine, presented me with a problem. What had happened to me at 14? Well, at the time of my conversion, I was deep into self-hate. And in NLP terms, I connected to the strongest anchor imaginable. The Creator told me He loved me. If that was good enough for Him, it was good enough for me. The waves of relief and joy as I accepted myself were real enough - and they were profoundly linked with Church (I 'prayed the Prayer' in a Choir stall).
Now, I began to wonder if I hadn't given a lot of the credit to God when at least some of it ought to go to me. I had perhaps tapped into my own inner resources, but believed myself to be so powerless that I had to ascribe those resources to some external person.
Hmmm. This currently works for me - it's still a hypothesis, though. And it is hugely important to me that I don't diss others' beliefs. I quite accept that other people can believe in Christianity with full integrity - it's just that I can't any more.
As for all my Christian experiences, they weren't a bad thing in many ways - except that I had given away a lot of my own power. Not only to God, but also to the Church itself, which influenced my actions, thoughts, feelings and even (as clergy) where and how I lived. I became aware, too, that there had been a lot of 'choosing what's difficult because it's what God wants' in my life. Development or self-punishment? The jury is now out...
I still don't see religious faith as a bad thing - I doubt I'd even be here without it, I was so screwed-up as a child. But I do feel that I've been robbed of faith in myself and that's unforgivable. Wow - even typing that word was a challenge. I've been so forgiving down the years. Who would have thought it might be damaging?
Well it is. I'm currently working hard to get in touch with my anger. I know it's in there somewhere but there is a veneer of saccharine lovey-doveyness stopping me accessing it. I have a horrid suspicion, you see, that anger needs to be visible. It needs to be heard. And then it can be released. I don't know where mine is, or what it's eating away at, but I know I need to get to it and allow it to have its place in my emotional world. Lots of people lose touch with their anger, but in my case the Church buried it for me. I don't NOW see a contradiction between love and anger coexisting, but I was taught for years that they couldn't.
To get back to my original theme, I see life as a journey. Nothing original there - religions down the millennia have all used that metaphor. Spirituality is how we make that journey. I'm eclectic now - I take what works for me. I doubt I'll ever go back to Christianity in its pure form, although never say never. I do believe in the Numinous, in some kind of order to the Universe, and I'm fascinated by all the Quantum Physics stuff which seems to me to say that we're made of nothing but energy. That opens up all kinds of metaphysical possibilities...
UPDATE! November 2010 - Made it through... can feel anger now but don't feel it (hope that makes sense). And realised that the chapel idea came from Louisa Mae Alcott, when Amy is sent away to avoid catching scarlet fever,and makes a chapel in which to pray for Beth,
(Stephen Covey/Teilhard de Chardin).
I just found this quote. I like it, though the nit-picking part of me wants to say, "I think we're both, actually." But enough with the nit-picking! I like the way he has flagged up our spirituality.
Some readers will already be wondering if they need the sick-bucket. That word 'spirituality' pushes so many buttons, doesn't it? To be clear, I'm not talking about anything imposed on us. Systems, beliefs or practices - they are all ways to manage humanity's awareness of The Numinous. What I'm interested in is where that feeling comes from.
Just as most of my gay friends were aware of their orientation well before puberty, I knew early on that I was (for want of a better word) spiritual. My family never went to church yet when I was about 9 I became aware that I wanted to learn to pray. I decided that I needed candles and a crucifix to do this - I have no idea where that came from. So I bought a tiny standing crucifix, some very small candles, shut myself away in the attic and sat absorbing the peace (I was a very troubled little girl).
My first prayer was a shining example of Science meeting Faith. I wasn't quite sure whether you were meant to leave a gap for God to answer, and it would have seemed rude to talk through Him; so I left pauses just in case - until I realised He probably wasn't going to say anything just then, when my prayer took on a fluency and urgency as I needed to get out and spare myself more embarrassment. This was it:
"God..? God... Um... I feel a bit silly... ... ... I don't know how to pray... But then, you know that already... if you're there. (Brightening) And if you aren't there, then nobody's heard this! Help me believe in you. Amen."
I blew the candles out and scurried downstairs.
I'm not sure how long I continued going to my little Chapel, as I called it - I think I'd probably got the idea from one of the 'Katy' books although the rather Roman Catholic slant was all my own. It was a place of peace for me, until one day presumably it wasn't, and I became a Lapsed Attican. I thought no more about it for a few years, until my friend asked me to join the Church Choir. This in turn exposed me to Sunday School and, having grandly told the Professor of Astrophysics who ran our class that at 12 I considered myself too intellectual to be a Christian, I eventually came to believe in the God of the Anglican Church, and had a very dramatic conversion at 14. I firmly believed that this was an answer to my prayer in the attic years before.
Now I'm going to cut a VERY long story short. It includes my realisation that there were other ways to be Christian (it was years before I realised I had become not just a Christian, but an Evangelical - and that possibly it didn't fit my spiritual personality), my involvement in the Charismatic movement, and twenty years as a Vicar's wife during which I broadcast, wrote articles for the Parish magazine and helped many people come to a faith in Jesus.
Fast forward past the divorce (amicable) and the realisation that there were other ways to be spiritual, and the excitement at escaping the confines of The Church and being able to choose what worked for me. Others who have trodden this path will know that it takes a long time to shake the conditioning, to stop feeling guilty for daring to question, and to look at what exactly was going on at conversion.
I can't shake the belief that there's Something More to life, however I no longer have any conviction that it's the God Christians have made in their own image. My very brief toe-dip into Neuro-Linguistic Programming led me to the conclusion that my dramatic conversion was indeed profoundly healing, but that it was explicable in various ways, only one of which 'proved' there was a God. I had always said, right from my arrogant Sunday School days, that God was my Working Hypothesis - that I would change my beliefs if I ever found the evidence pointed in another direction. At the time I said it, I never thought that it would, but the spirit of enquiry was genuine.
And over the years I became less and less convinced that the Church had The Truth. It wasn't just a case of seeing many good, altruistic people who worked tirelessly for the good of others with not a shred of religious faith. It was many things. I think in the end I could no longer go along with telling people that prayer 'worked' when I had to go through so many mental gymnastics to believe that.
"God ALWAYS answers, but sometimes it's 'No'."
"There is some deeper purpose to this that we don't know about."
"You need more faith." (To be fair, I always spoke out against that one).
"Prayer is a mystery."
That last one is true. But nobody ever addressed the uncomfortable truths, such as people in other religions also praying in tongues, or the fact that other faiths also prayed and ascribed answered prayer to a different god.
I set time aside to wrestle with the concept of prayer. My problem was that it was held up as something we ought to do, handing all the results over to Someone who Knew Better than us. At best it seemed feeble to spend time on something which might not get results whilst teaching people that it did. At worst, I began to see people all around me happily refusing to take responsibility for their lives:
"Well I've prayed about losing weight, but nothing's happened."
"I'm very unhappy with X but I know God wants me to stay."
"I'm waiting for God to give me the go-ahead to apply for another job."
etc, etc, etc...
Suddenly, just as I had had a blindingly dramatic conversion, I had another experience of seeing with an outsider's eyes how ridiculously naive it all seemed. A Deconversion, if you will.
Which as you can imagine, presented me with a problem. What had happened to me at 14? Well, at the time of my conversion, I was deep into self-hate. And in NLP terms, I connected to the strongest anchor imaginable. The Creator told me He loved me. If that was good enough for Him, it was good enough for me. The waves of relief and joy as I accepted myself were real enough - and they were profoundly linked with Church (I 'prayed the Prayer' in a Choir stall).
Now, I began to wonder if I hadn't given a lot of the credit to God when at least some of it ought to go to me. I had perhaps tapped into my own inner resources, but believed myself to be so powerless that I had to ascribe those resources to some external person.
Hmmm. This currently works for me - it's still a hypothesis, though. And it is hugely important to me that I don't diss others' beliefs. I quite accept that other people can believe in Christianity with full integrity - it's just that I can't any more.
As for all my Christian experiences, they weren't a bad thing in many ways - except that I had given away a lot of my own power. Not only to God, but also to the Church itself, which influenced my actions, thoughts, feelings and even (as clergy) where and how I lived. I became aware, too, that there had been a lot of 'choosing what's difficult because it's what God wants' in my life. Development or self-punishment? The jury is now out...
I still don't see religious faith as a bad thing - I doubt I'd even be here without it, I was so screwed-up as a child. But I do feel that I've been robbed of faith in myself and that's unforgivable. Wow - even typing that word was a challenge. I've been so forgiving down the years. Who would have thought it might be damaging?
Well it is. I'm currently working hard to get in touch with my anger. I know it's in there somewhere but there is a veneer of saccharine lovey-doveyness stopping me accessing it. I have a horrid suspicion, you see, that anger needs to be visible. It needs to be heard. And then it can be released. I don't know where mine is, or what it's eating away at, but I know I need to get to it and allow it to have its place in my emotional world. Lots of people lose touch with their anger, but in my case the Church buried it for me. I don't NOW see a contradiction between love and anger coexisting, but I was taught for years that they couldn't.
To get back to my original theme, I see life as a journey. Nothing original there - religions down the millennia have all used that metaphor. Spirituality is how we make that journey. I'm eclectic now - I take what works for me. I doubt I'll ever go back to Christianity in its pure form, although never say never. I do believe in the Numinous, in some kind of order to the Universe, and I'm fascinated by all the Quantum Physics stuff which seems to me to say that we're made of nothing but energy. That opens up all kinds of metaphysical possibilities...
UPDATE! November 2010 - Made it through... can feel anger now but don't feel it (hope that makes sense). And realised that the chapel idea came from Louisa Mae Alcott, when Amy is sent away to avoid catching scarlet fever,and makes a chapel in which to pray for Beth,
Saturday 7 February 2009
A few grey hairs...
Jennifer Aniston, in my opinion one of the most beautiful women on the planet, turns forty this month. She said in an interview that she recently 'shed a few tears' when she found a long grey hair. (She does have long hair, so it makes sense).
In the context of the rest of the interview, it seems that she's actually quite 'together' about getting older, and was half poking fun at herself for her reaction. But I have friends who are paranoid about the whole ageing process. I find it really sad. My Dad's wise saying about growing old was that it was 'better than the alternative' - although when I passed this gem onto my boss as he dreaded turning 50, his response was, "Thanks a bloody lot!"
My family have never really believed in growing old. Sure, we age - but I remember very early on in life, my mother telling me that "you'll never be any older than 18 in your head." She was right.
So far, so good. I'm 48 (often taken for younger) and regularly burst out laughing in front of the mirror at the absurdity of being nearly 50. Perhaps, as my age-phobic friend predicts, I shall suddenly panic as I hit the big Five-Oh, but I don't think so. Forty was great! So far, each year has been better than the last, and though there is presumably some tipping point, where the aches and pains outweight the advantages of no longer giving a shit, I'm enjoying the ride. I'm planning to be a beautiful old lady with lots of happy wrinkles - it would be wonderful to find a guy to help me make them, but if that doesn't happen, I'm quite prepared to take responsibility for my own happiness and optimise my love of life.
I have more grey hairs now - in fact, they are a beautiful, shiny silver, which makes me put off all thoughts of colouring. Last time I went to the hairdresser's she asked me what shade I used, which made me feel a little odd. I don't know whether I shall want to dye my hair. I love the colour it is, but I know some damn sexy silver-haired women... I shall have to see how I feel when the greys outnumber the rest.
Age. The great divider. Youth allegedly equals sexy, competent, desirable, independent, fulfilled... and the rest.
What a load of rubbish!! I am more confident as I approach fifty than I have been for the whole of my life. I still have lots of anxieties, but I have learnt not to let them rule my life. I have enough experience to know that I can get through - well, almost anything. I've survived divorce, illness, the death of a parent, the near-death of a sibling, the chronic illness of one of my children, seeing another dearly-loved child move abroad, losing almost all my friends after my marriage broke down, finding God and losing him again, enforced celibacy and paying the mortgage! If you'd asked me at twenty-five how I thought I would cope with any of those things, I would have confidently replied that I wouldn't cope at all.
So don't tell ME that ageing is a bad thing! The longer I live, the more there is to love about life. I intend to drink it to the last drop.
I'm already wearing purple...
In the context of the rest of the interview, it seems that she's actually quite 'together' about getting older, and was half poking fun at herself for her reaction. But I have friends who are paranoid about the whole ageing process. I find it really sad. My Dad's wise saying about growing old was that it was 'better than the alternative' - although when I passed this gem onto my boss as he dreaded turning 50, his response was, "Thanks a bloody lot!"
My family have never really believed in growing old. Sure, we age - but I remember very early on in life, my mother telling me that "you'll never be any older than 18 in your head." She was right.
So far, so good. I'm 48 (often taken for younger) and regularly burst out laughing in front of the mirror at the absurdity of being nearly 50. Perhaps, as my age-phobic friend predicts, I shall suddenly panic as I hit the big Five-Oh, but I don't think so. Forty was great! So far, each year has been better than the last, and though there is presumably some tipping point, where the aches and pains outweight the advantages of no longer giving a shit, I'm enjoying the ride. I'm planning to be a beautiful old lady with lots of happy wrinkles - it would be wonderful to find a guy to help me make them, but if that doesn't happen, I'm quite prepared to take responsibility for my own happiness and optimise my love of life.
I have more grey hairs now - in fact, they are a beautiful, shiny silver, which makes me put off all thoughts of colouring. Last time I went to the hairdresser's she asked me what shade I used, which made me feel a little odd. I don't know whether I shall want to dye my hair. I love the colour it is, but I know some damn sexy silver-haired women... I shall have to see how I feel when the greys outnumber the rest.
Age. The great divider. Youth allegedly equals sexy, competent, desirable, independent, fulfilled... and the rest.
What a load of rubbish!! I am more confident as I approach fifty than I have been for the whole of my life. I still have lots of anxieties, but I have learnt not to let them rule my life. I have enough experience to know that I can get through - well, almost anything. I've survived divorce, illness, the death of a parent, the near-death of a sibling, the chronic illness of one of my children, seeing another dearly-loved child move abroad, losing almost all my friends after my marriage broke down, finding God and losing him again, enforced celibacy and paying the mortgage! If you'd asked me at twenty-five how I thought I would cope with any of those things, I would have confidently replied that I wouldn't cope at all.
So don't tell ME that ageing is a bad thing! The longer I live, the more there is to love about life. I intend to drink it to the last drop.
I'm already wearing purple...
Wednesday 4 February 2009
Life is not about waiting for the storms to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain.
I just came across that phrase and I like it.
My life has been quite stormy for a long time now. There are indications that the sky is clearing, although looking ahead a few months there will be some major adjustments to make as my younger daughter leaves home, and instead of driving her to A&E for the umpteenth time, I'll be taking her to the airport and waving her off to pastures new and far away.
I'm someone who cries when I need - so there will be a few rainy days, I'm sure! But I shall dance as she builds her new life, dance with joy that it's been possible for her to spread those beautiful wings which have languished far too long in the sleeves of a hospital gown. How could I possibly do anything other than rejoice at her new-found freedom to get out there and live her life?
When the plane is a speck in the sky, and her presence is confined to the phone or computer screen, I shall go out and learn some new dance steps to show her when we next get together. Perhaps I'll learn another language, or Reiki, or go on some gourmet cookery course...
I'm with the person who wrote, "When life gives you lemons, make limoncello." (Although missing someone might leave a nasty taste in your mouth, it could never lead to bitterness). My other daughter already lives abroad, and though I miss her every day, there are also a thousand reminders that we are (as she put it) connected by 'bonds that oceans cannot break'.
I am so proud of my daughters - watching Shirley Valentine the other night, I was struck by how they are both daring to get out there and taste life before they get old and jaded. It makes me so happy that I have raised young women with guts and confidence. I know they sometimes worry about leaving me on my own, but...
...my turn next?! :^)
My life has been quite stormy for a long time now. There are indications that the sky is clearing, although looking ahead a few months there will be some major adjustments to make as my younger daughter leaves home, and instead of driving her to A&E for the umpteenth time, I'll be taking her to the airport and waving her off to pastures new and far away.
I'm someone who cries when I need - so there will be a few rainy days, I'm sure! But I shall dance as she builds her new life, dance with joy that it's been possible for her to spread those beautiful wings which have languished far too long in the sleeves of a hospital gown. How could I possibly do anything other than rejoice at her new-found freedom to get out there and live her life?
When the plane is a speck in the sky, and her presence is confined to the phone or computer screen, I shall go out and learn some new dance steps to show her when we next get together. Perhaps I'll learn another language, or Reiki, or go on some gourmet cookery course...
I'm with the person who wrote, "When life gives you lemons, make limoncello." (Although missing someone might leave a nasty taste in your mouth, it could never lead to bitterness). My other daughter already lives abroad, and though I miss her every day, there are also a thousand reminders that we are (as she put it) connected by 'bonds that oceans cannot break'.
I am so proud of my daughters - watching Shirley Valentine the other night, I was struck by how they are both daring to get out there and taste life before they get old and jaded. It makes me so happy that I have raised young women with guts and confidence. I know they sometimes worry about leaving me on my own, but...
...my turn next?! :^)
A high-heeled life...
I had a very Northern moment this morning as I watched the news. They showed images of a snowy London street with a few brave souls on their way to work, one of whom was a woman in spindly, three-inch heels.
"The daft cow!" I spluttered into my Oatibix. "No wonder people haven't been able to get into work if that's how they're dressed!"
And feeling very superior, I pulled on my walking boots and set off for work. In the car. (The boots were for later).
As I drove along I was still marvelling at the stupidity of setting off into several inches of snow in high heels. Okay, SJP does it on New Year's Eve in the Sex and the City film - but she's also in her pyjamas and a fur coat, never gets mugged, and can eat out every night without getting fat or going bankrupt, so she doesn't count. "Who in their right mind..?" I was thinking.
Then it came to me. This is a woman who lives in London and works in the city. They haven't had snow like this for almost twenty years. She probably doesn't have any flat shoes.
Immediately I felt dreadful for judging her, when she was actually doing her best. What alternative did she have? Perhaps they were her most sensible shoes.
I began thinking about shoes-as-metaphor. My walking boots have only been used about three times (I have nobody to walk with). Most of the time I wear flat shoes, which are practical and comfortable. When I went out last weekend, I had very little choice - either the heels I can walk in, or the higher heels I'm saving for when I have a nice arm to hang onto...
My flat, practical shoes reflect how I've lived my life over the last few years. I've been quite limited in my life choices, having someone fairly dependent on me. I haven't been able to fly off on exotic holidays, or even have exotic relationships. My life has been solid, samey and slightly Sad. It took a lot of persuasion for me even to buy heels. My daughter runs a shoe department, so was bound to win in the end, ignoring my pathetic pleas that I didn't need to waste money on shoes I would never wear because nobody ever asked me out. She rightly told me that was ridiculous, and I ended up with two lovely pairs - one almost unworn - of lovely, shiny shoes. One black, because I usually insist on everything I buy going with everything else, to save money, and one in a lurid, Hooker's Red (wouldn't that be a great name for a Dulux paint?) which I bought because - well, they're gorgeous. I've never let myself fall for a pair of shoes before, but maybe Carrie Bradshaw's getting to me just a little.
I've still never worn them, though, Just as I've never booked that holiday in South America, or the Norwegian cruise, or the cottage in the Cotswolds. I haven't been able to do Impulse Living for a long time, and I've lost the habit. I have to say, my life feels less... colourful this way. I've decided it's time to reconnect with my old dreams - and dream some new ones. I need to live a high-heeled life now and again.
I wonder about the woman I saw picking her way through a snowy London this morning. Does she ever yearn for a bit more boredom in her life? Fewer high-powered meetings, a day food-shopping, a night at the pub? Does she feel she has to keep up appearances or lose her job in the current climate?
Will she learn from this week? Will she perhaps buy a cheap pair of flat shoes and use them to walk safely to work tomorrow, keeping them in her wardrobe as a reminder of the Great Snow; the week people stopped scurrying around and built snowmen in the parks?
And will she ever wonder why she didn't join them, just for a day?
"The daft cow!" I spluttered into my Oatibix. "No wonder people haven't been able to get into work if that's how they're dressed!"
And feeling very superior, I pulled on my walking boots and set off for work. In the car. (The boots were for later).
As I drove along I was still marvelling at the stupidity of setting off into several inches of snow in high heels. Okay, SJP does it on New Year's Eve in the Sex and the City film - but she's also in her pyjamas and a fur coat, never gets mugged, and can eat out every night without getting fat or going bankrupt, so she doesn't count. "Who in their right mind..?" I was thinking.
Then it came to me. This is a woman who lives in London and works in the city. They haven't had snow like this for almost twenty years. She probably doesn't have any flat shoes.
Immediately I felt dreadful for judging her, when she was actually doing her best. What alternative did she have? Perhaps they were her most sensible shoes.
I began thinking about shoes-as-metaphor. My walking boots have only been used about three times (I have nobody to walk with). Most of the time I wear flat shoes, which are practical and comfortable. When I went out last weekend, I had very little choice - either the heels I can walk in, or the higher heels I'm saving for when I have a nice arm to hang onto...
My flat, practical shoes reflect how I've lived my life over the last few years. I've been quite limited in my life choices, having someone fairly dependent on me. I haven't been able to fly off on exotic holidays, or even have exotic relationships. My life has been solid, samey and slightly Sad. It took a lot of persuasion for me even to buy heels. My daughter runs a shoe department, so was bound to win in the end, ignoring my pathetic pleas that I didn't need to waste money on shoes I would never wear because nobody ever asked me out. She rightly told me that was ridiculous, and I ended up with two lovely pairs - one almost unworn - of lovely, shiny shoes. One black, because I usually insist on everything I buy going with everything else, to save money, and one in a lurid, Hooker's Red (wouldn't that be a great name for a Dulux paint?) which I bought because - well, they're gorgeous. I've never let myself fall for a pair of shoes before, but maybe Carrie Bradshaw's getting to me just a little.
I've still never worn them, though, Just as I've never booked that holiday in South America, or the Norwegian cruise, or the cottage in the Cotswolds. I haven't been able to do Impulse Living for a long time, and I've lost the habit. I have to say, my life feels less... colourful this way. I've decided it's time to reconnect with my old dreams - and dream some new ones. I need to live a high-heeled life now and again.
I wonder about the woman I saw picking her way through a snowy London this morning. Does she ever yearn for a bit more boredom in her life? Fewer high-powered meetings, a day food-shopping, a night at the pub? Does she feel she has to keep up appearances or lose her job in the current climate?
Will she learn from this week? Will she perhaps buy a cheap pair of flat shoes and use them to walk safely to work tomorrow, keeping them in her wardrobe as a reminder of the Great Snow; the week people stopped scurrying around and built snowmen in the parks?
And will she ever wonder why she didn't join them, just for a day?
Tuesday 3 February 2009
Sonnet (written at a poetry evening)
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s night?
Thou art more frigid, and more obdurate.
After that weekend on the Isle of Wight,
Ten minutes with you would be too long a date.
You looked so hot - I thought you such a find!
But sadly learned my every hope was dashed
When every time I kissed you, you declined,
And told me that you feared for your moustache.
My memories of summer will not fade;
I’ve put the pictures on my Facebook page.
Too late, my love, your reputation’s made -
A war on your good name I now shall wage.
So long as people surf the Internet,
Thus long will last your shame, and your regret.
Thou art more frigid, and more obdurate.
After that weekend on the Isle of Wight,
Ten minutes with you would be too long a date.
You looked so hot - I thought you such a find!
But sadly learned my every hope was dashed
When every time I kissed you, you declined,
And told me that you feared for your moustache.
My memories of summer will not fade;
I’ve put the pictures on my Facebook page.
Too late, my love, your reputation’s made -
A war on your good name I now shall wage.
So long as people surf the Internet,
Thus long will last your shame, and your regret.
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