I'm still laughing about something that happened in Castleton yesterday. The town was full of teenagers doing Geography surveys. I was sitting by a stream and heard three boys laughing about throwing things at a duck, so I walked along and leant on the bridge to see what was happening.
They were only throwing twigs, and it wasn't hurt - but it was obviously scared (though holding its own and quacking bravely back at them).
From my vantage-point I said very calmly and nicely, "PLEASE don't do that!" The boy furthest away said "Who said that?" His friend looked at me and then moved so the first boy couldn't see me, as I said: "There's no need, is there?"
They stopped throwing things, and then we had a chat about school, coursework, etc - and after I'd walked away my supersonic ears tuned into the poor lad saying, "I thought it wor't'DUCK talking ter me!!!"
He had just accepted the incident - of course a duck would do that. He never questioned that it had spoken! And so politely, too, as my daughter pointed out...
I'm still laughing about it! :)
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
Away Day
I've been meaning to go on retreat but haven't had the means. Yesterday dawned bright and sunny so I made my first visit of the year to the local lido, which is set amongst high green hills. The air smelt as fresh as if it had never been breathed before. It was a delicious day, made all the better by the realisation that I'd forgotten my phone. I relaxed into a true retreat. In the Present.
I begin my day with a lot of breath-holding so that I can gaze at the pattern of shining ripples on the bottom of the pool. The shallow end is home to tiny children being encouraged to practise leaping into the unknown - yet always landing in the nurturing arms of their mothers.
After an hour of blissful (and Factor 30- protected) sun-bathed swimming, I make my way to the grass by the side of the pool and enjoy watching people splash and just Be. We are a small community of escapees from the Rat-race.
I leave and go on to Castleton, a favourite of mine. A ruined castle sits high on a hill above the entrances to caves, a sparkling river, numerous sheep and ducks, and a picturesque village with plenty of provision for the hungry tourist.
Sitting at a table on the pavement I watch as women lead tiny horses along, teachers lead slightly bigger children along, and walkers amble happily towards their lunch. I fall into a conversation with an elderly woman whom I'll call Mary; I don't ask her name, it would break the spell of her lilting Devon accent and the rhythm of her tales of life. The gist of what she says is, "Find out who you are, go and be that person, and be happy!" She sounds to have had a hard life but has skipped happily into widowhood and now travels the world - wherever takes her fancy. Lithuania, Russia, China, "And one of those Vampire Castles!" She regrets having taken forty years to realise she has a brain, but is now getting on with using it.
A lively crocodile of ten year olds makes its way past, a teacher rather ominously holding an enormous number of wooden swords. Are they going to re-enact some battle by the river? Or has he had to confiscate them? In calm and weary, well-rehearsed words he says, "Yer in't'middle o't'ROAD Mason - yer doing wrong." I am impressed at the delivery of such judgement. So is Mason, for he quietly finds his place on the pavement. The children and their noise disappear around the corner, and the day closes around them as though they had never been there.
The sun continues to bake the village. A woman emerges from a car in a long-sleeved, leopardskin mini dress. She must be roasting, despite her long bare legs, which draw the gaze of every man in sight. A group of Germans discuss first where the Men have gone, then where the Women have gone. Those who are presumably neither find a table and resignedly sip coffee as they wait.
After lunch I'm not sure what to do, so I sit on a wall and write. Write this, in fact, as well as jotting down snippets which will some day germinate and grow into poetry.
I think about Mary. Was she some kind of messenger? I'm thinking hard at the moment about the role of ambivalence in my life. I hope to meet someone else who might shed a little more light. Mary advocates the single life and lots of travel. I know for sure... I do know... that I don't want to work behind closed doors for the rest of my life. Is it possible to find some other way? A compromise perhaps, where I work part time for other people, and make the time to write during the rest of the week?
I decide to find some water - I love to sit and contemplate its noise, its movement, the light-play on the surface... A small stream runs by the car park; I stand and gaze at the unthinking beauty of the scene, and a tree leans across to hold my hand, its leaves brushing my fingers.
I think about how my father would have loved it here, and feel the familiar pang of regret that I simply don't know what my mother would have thought of it. My love of such places is surely the fusion of their lives and psyches? Perhaps not. I have no idea whether I brought a new 'me' to my experience of the world, or if I tread the traces of others. It troubles me, this easy connection with my father and not my mother. I feel the need to carry something of her forward into the world, even though I'm aware that the traits I ascribe to her may be pure projection.
I walk on, and come to a burial ground - a place of real peace and solitude. I read the gravestones, weep at one, and ponder our frailty as I often do. Why should I waste my life doing work I don't believe in? The answer - for me - has to be that I shouldn't.
As I walk back through the village a strange synchronicity occurs. Yesterday I went with a friend to a place many miles from where we live, and met a woman known to both of us, a former teacher. We shared a coffee and many memories and I asked after her cousin, whom I'd also known. I hadn't seen either of them for about 5 years. "Oh, she's happily retired and globe-trotting!" came the reply.
So it is with some surprise that as I walk along to find a tea room, in this place also some miles from where I live, the cousin herself greets me with a joyful cry of recognition. It is quite a coincidence, and as such I search for meaning after she has gone.
I buy an ice cream instead of a cup of tea, wanting to sit in the warm sun. I find a bench and two sisters come to sit next to me. They tell me how they left Holland in the war and moved to Australia. The one who lives nearby still has a strong Aussie twang, the other (who lives a 14 hour flight away back in Australia) has a heavy Dutch accent. They, too, have just travelled all around Europe and highly recommend it. They, too, are man-free and happy. Like me, they are eating ice creams and enjoying the sun.
I ponder it all as I drive home. Have I just been given a glimpse of how happy I shall be in retirement, or is there some more urgent message for me here? I have met people who are relieved to be out of their former jobs and who are happy travelling and Being. Is that something I dare aim for at this stage in my life, or must I wait it out?
I recall the startling words of one of the Dutch sisters, as she suddenly leaned across and smiled at me with her piercing eyes on mine: "This place is calling you!"
And so it is - ah, but WHICH place? The geographical one, or the metaphysical?
I begin my day with a lot of breath-holding so that I can gaze at the pattern of shining ripples on the bottom of the pool. The shallow end is home to tiny children being encouraged to practise leaping into the unknown - yet always landing in the nurturing arms of their mothers.
After an hour of blissful (and Factor 30- protected) sun-bathed swimming, I make my way to the grass by the side of the pool and enjoy watching people splash and just Be. We are a small community of escapees from the Rat-race.
I leave and go on to Castleton, a favourite of mine. A ruined castle sits high on a hill above the entrances to caves, a sparkling river, numerous sheep and ducks, and a picturesque village with plenty of provision for the hungry tourist.
Sitting at a table on the pavement I watch as women lead tiny horses along, teachers lead slightly bigger children along, and walkers amble happily towards their lunch. I fall into a conversation with an elderly woman whom I'll call Mary; I don't ask her name, it would break the spell of her lilting Devon accent and the rhythm of her tales of life. The gist of what she says is, "Find out who you are, go and be that person, and be happy!" She sounds to have had a hard life but has skipped happily into widowhood and now travels the world - wherever takes her fancy. Lithuania, Russia, China, "And one of those Vampire Castles!" She regrets having taken forty years to realise she has a brain, but is now getting on with using it.
A lively crocodile of ten year olds makes its way past, a teacher rather ominously holding an enormous number of wooden swords. Are they going to re-enact some battle by the river? Or has he had to confiscate them? In calm and weary, well-rehearsed words he says, "Yer in't'middle o't'ROAD Mason - yer doing wrong." I am impressed at the delivery of such judgement. So is Mason, for he quietly finds his place on the pavement. The children and their noise disappear around the corner, and the day closes around them as though they had never been there.
The sun continues to bake the village. A woman emerges from a car in a long-sleeved, leopardskin mini dress. She must be roasting, despite her long bare legs, which draw the gaze of every man in sight. A group of Germans discuss first where the Men have gone, then where the Women have gone. Those who are presumably neither find a table and resignedly sip coffee as they wait.
After lunch I'm not sure what to do, so I sit on a wall and write. Write this, in fact, as well as jotting down snippets which will some day germinate and grow into poetry.
I think about Mary. Was she some kind of messenger? I'm thinking hard at the moment about the role of ambivalence in my life. I hope to meet someone else who might shed a little more light. Mary advocates the single life and lots of travel. I know for sure... I do know... that I don't want to work behind closed doors for the rest of my life. Is it possible to find some other way? A compromise perhaps, where I work part time for other people, and make the time to write during the rest of the week?
I decide to find some water - I love to sit and contemplate its noise, its movement, the light-play on the surface... A small stream runs by the car park; I stand and gaze at the unthinking beauty of the scene, and a tree leans across to hold my hand, its leaves brushing my fingers.
I think about how my father would have loved it here, and feel the familiar pang of regret that I simply don't know what my mother would have thought of it. My love of such places is surely the fusion of their lives and psyches? Perhaps not. I have no idea whether I brought a new 'me' to my experience of the world, or if I tread the traces of others. It troubles me, this easy connection with my father and not my mother. I feel the need to carry something of her forward into the world, even though I'm aware that the traits I ascribe to her may be pure projection.
I walk on, and come to a burial ground - a place of real peace and solitude. I read the gravestones, weep at one, and ponder our frailty as I often do. Why should I waste my life doing work I don't believe in? The answer - for me - has to be that I shouldn't.
As I walk back through the village a strange synchronicity occurs. Yesterday I went with a friend to a place many miles from where we live, and met a woman known to both of us, a former teacher. We shared a coffee and many memories and I asked after her cousin, whom I'd also known. I hadn't seen either of them for about 5 years. "Oh, she's happily retired and globe-trotting!" came the reply.
So it is with some surprise that as I walk along to find a tea room, in this place also some miles from where I live, the cousin herself greets me with a joyful cry of recognition. It is quite a coincidence, and as such I search for meaning after she has gone.
I buy an ice cream instead of a cup of tea, wanting to sit in the warm sun. I find a bench and two sisters come to sit next to me. They tell me how they left Holland in the war and moved to Australia. The one who lives nearby still has a strong Aussie twang, the other (who lives a 14 hour flight away back in Australia) has a heavy Dutch accent. They, too, have just travelled all around Europe and highly recommend it. They, too, are man-free and happy. Like me, they are eating ice creams and enjoying the sun.
I ponder it all as I drive home. Have I just been given a glimpse of how happy I shall be in retirement, or is there some more urgent message for me here? I have met people who are relieved to be out of their former jobs and who are happy travelling and Being. Is that something I dare aim for at this stage in my life, or must I wait it out?
I recall the startling words of one of the Dutch sisters, as she suddenly leaned across and smiled at me with her piercing eyes on mine: "This place is calling you!"
And so it is - ah, but WHICH place? The geographical one, or the metaphysical?
Friday, 27 May 2011
Words...
WORDS
They're great, words are!
Babies roll them round their mouths
savouring them for months
before spitting them, fully-formed
into the air around them.
From then on, that's it -
Words, words, words...
On the telly
On the radio,
On a teacher's lips...
They never stop coming at us,
Bombarding us with knowledge.
I've got some favourites:
Scudding, Micklethwaite, deelyboppers, iconoclastic...
They're great, words are!
You can tell people who you really are inside,
explain your dreams, hopes, desires...
ask for what you want,
tell it like it is,
comfort, caress your lover's ears with quiet whispers...
They're a great responsibility, words are!
You can irritate the HELL out of people,
invade their headspace,
say things you didn't mean, and can't un-say,
use them as playing-pieces in the game of love.
They can hurt people, break people, bring bad news...
Words are EVERYWHERE; they mean
Nothing and Everything,
all at once.
Sharp rocks, tumbling from our mouths,
cutting others as they fall.
They're dangerous things, words are...
But on the whole, I think they're great.
You can hide behind them,
Talk about things so you don't have to face them,
Express emotions so you don't have to feel them -
Project your preferred version of yourself into the public eye.
Everybody does it, don't they?
Except me.
I don't.
I just say what's on my mind, but
I like to do it right.
So of course, I choose my words. Carefully.
I sometimes wonder...
...whether they choose me.
They're great, words are!
Babies roll them round their mouths
savouring them for months
before spitting them, fully-formed
into the air around them.
From then on, that's it -
Words, words, words...
On the telly
On the radio,
On a teacher's lips...
They never stop coming at us,
Bombarding us with knowledge.
I've got some favourites:
Scudding, Micklethwaite, deelyboppers, iconoclastic...
They're great, words are!
You can tell people who you really are inside,
explain your dreams, hopes, desires...
ask for what you want,
tell it like it is,
comfort, caress your lover's ears with quiet whispers...
They're a great responsibility, words are!
You can irritate the HELL out of people,
invade their headspace,
say things you didn't mean, and can't un-say,
use them as playing-pieces in the game of love.
They can hurt people, break people, bring bad news...
Words are EVERYWHERE; they mean
Nothing and Everything,
all at once.
Sharp rocks, tumbling from our mouths,
cutting others as they fall.
They're dangerous things, words are...
But on the whole, I think they're great.
You can hide behind them,
Talk about things so you don't have to face them,
Express emotions so you don't have to feel them -
Project your preferred version of yourself into the public eye.
Everybody does it, don't they?
Except me.
I don't.
I just say what's on my mind, but
I like to do it right.
So of course, I choose my words. Carefully.
I sometimes wonder...
...whether they choose me.
Gut feelings...
Right, no more apologies, I shall blog much more regularly again from now on! [REALLY? -Ed] I've been so busy - but that is no excuse for not prioritising the enjoyment of catching a few of my thoughts as they fly past, and popping them onto the screen.
My walk along the top of the Learning Cliff continues. I'm really enjoying Supply, and once more am in a school where they are very keen to keep using me, so that's good for my professional self esteem. If you recall, one of the reasons I left my Advisory role was that I felt I was lacking integrity; telling teachers what to do when I hadn't taught for nine years didn't feel right. But I knew I didn't really want to go back to teaching French in Secondary, so I asked my agency to place me in Primary schools.
Almost a full academic year on... I still have food in the fridge, I haven't defaulted on the mortgage, and I've even been on holiday to see my daughter in Paris. On paper I've taken a drop in salary of at least £15,000 but I honestly haven't really felt it.
Now I'm being head-hunted for a year's post in a parallel Advisory Service. It would mean being paid the former salary again, and I'd be paid through the holidays (despite the hype, Supply does NOT pay enough to see you through the holidays, but I enjoy the challenge of budgetting).
I'm trying very hard to think it through what is known as 'sensibly' (ie 'thinking about the money') but I find that my intuition is screaming so loudly that it's almost a no-brainer. What on earth would be the point of plucking up my courage to leave a job, only to walk back into its identical twin? How can I ignore the sinking feeling I get just at the thought of being 'back in harness'?
I owe it to myself to be responsible and to check out my reactions fully. For example, it's possible I need to go back and face those feelings. It's possible it would be 'sensible' to have a year of guaranteed salary.
But I'm not one to ignore my gut feelings. I've raised my daughters to listen to their intuition. I can live no other way. It really doesn't even feel like a choice. I have been so HAPPY this last year, loving being in the classroom, and (so I was told by a parent of a child with Aspergers) "changing lives". Former colleagues have been amazed at 'How great you look!" (I'm not sure what they were expecting!) Some of them are envious - but they all had far more choice than I did, as I was the only single person on the team. They all had financial back-up and yet have chosen to remain in a place which, they tell me, is even more stressed and unsafe these days.
I'm not even sure that teaching is where I shall ultimately remain. But I'm sure that I need to carve a life where I can take time out if I need, to retreat and write, or to be there for family and friends.
Nevertheless I am very conscious of the old joke which ends "I sent a helicopter!"
To be honest, my mind is made up. Or rather, my gut is. This is where I find out just how much courage my convictions hold...
My walk along the top of the Learning Cliff continues. I'm really enjoying Supply, and once more am in a school where they are very keen to keep using me, so that's good for my professional self esteem. If you recall, one of the reasons I left my Advisory role was that I felt I was lacking integrity; telling teachers what to do when I hadn't taught for nine years didn't feel right. But I knew I didn't really want to go back to teaching French in Secondary, so I asked my agency to place me in Primary schools.
Almost a full academic year on... I still have food in the fridge, I haven't defaulted on the mortgage, and I've even been on holiday to see my daughter in Paris. On paper I've taken a drop in salary of at least £15,000 but I honestly haven't really felt it.
Now I'm being head-hunted for a year's post in a parallel Advisory Service. It would mean being paid the former salary again, and I'd be paid through the holidays (despite the hype, Supply does NOT pay enough to see you through the holidays, but I enjoy the challenge of budgetting).
I'm trying very hard to think it through what is known as 'sensibly' (ie 'thinking about the money') but I find that my intuition is screaming so loudly that it's almost a no-brainer. What on earth would be the point of plucking up my courage to leave a job, only to walk back into its identical twin? How can I ignore the sinking feeling I get just at the thought of being 'back in harness'?
I owe it to myself to be responsible and to check out my reactions fully. For example, it's possible I need to go back and face those feelings. It's possible it would be 'sensible' to have a year of guaranteed salary.
But I'm not one to ignore my gut feelings. I've raised my daughters to listen to their intuition. I can live no other way. It really doesn't even feel like a choice. I have been so HAPPY this last year, loving being in the classroom, and (so I was told by a parent of a child with Aspergers) "changing lives". Former colleagues have been amazed at 'How great you look!" (I'm not sure what they were expecting!) Some of them are envious - but they all had far more choice than I did, as I was the only single person on the team. They all had financial back-up and yet have chosen to remain in a place which, they tell me, is even more stressed and unsafe these days.
I'm not even sure that teaching is where I shall ultimately remain. But I'm sure that I need to carve a life where I can take time out if I need, to retreat and write, or to be there for family and friends.
Nevertheless I am very conscious of the old joke which ends "I sent a helicopter!"
To be honest, my mind is made up. Or rather, my gut is. This is where I find out just how much courage my convictions hold...
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Remembrance of things past...
I've returned to this blog (my other one still exists in impoverished form) because I'm more concerned with general, rambling thoughts than with being 50 (which continues to be great!).
Lately I've been thinking a lot about religion. As in, Christianity. I was converted as a teenager into Evangelicalism (the story is all there earlier on this blog if you care to look). And from a very troubled place I came to a point of relative calm, though the legs were paddling away under the surface as I approximated to Adult Life.
A friend of mine who was an Anglican Priest for many years has just come out as 'having no faith left' and it has made me think again about my attitude to what I have left behind. It's particularly hard as an ex-Evangelical because you are taught all the Bible verses about the dangers of falling away, and even today I can remember my abject fear of doing so, and my determination never to desert Jesus.
And yet - I have. It astounds me still, after twenty years as a clergy wife and having brought countless people to faith through reasoned discussion and prayer, that I find myself in this place. But a pilgrimage can't just be abandoned when you find a comfortable roadside cafe. I always promised myself that I would never give up using my brain (which after all was presumably God-given) to question my faith, and that if I found it lacking in integrity, I would do whatever it took to remain in a place of integrity as far as was possible.
What I never expected was to feel angry. I have spent a good many years suppressing anger in my life; as a child I was prone to terrible rages which terrified me and left me hiding from the power of those emotions. Christianity enabled me to 'rise above' that - although to be fair it was my interpretation and not the Church or Bible which taught me to hide from such a large part of myself. The Bible clearly says we ARE to be angry when appropriate. I had just hidden too well from myself, and it took a few different counsellors to help me see that it was safe to be in a room with myself however I was feeling. Dampening down anger meant that I dampened down every other emotion, and I've been on a long, slow learning curve back to 'normality' (whatever that is!)
Now, I DO feel angry at how the brand of Christianity I bought into robbed me of the realisation that I possessed huge inner strength. By attributing all my successes to 'God', I externalised everything.
GOD was strong, I was weak. All loving thoughts came from God, I wasn't a loving person without him. I didn't realise how many inner resources I had until I was in my forties. Until then, I truly believed that I was nothing without God, and that everything I needed had to come from/through him. So I was able to shift all the responsibility for major decisions onto him too. "God doesn't want me to have sex..." "I have to stay in this job /relationship/place because God hasn't told me to move on..." etc.
I realise that a lot of this reflects on me, not the Church per se. However, nobody at any time encouraged this naive young (and later, older) person to move on in her view of herself, to take more responsibility, to dare to make decisions. And in fact I know many people in unhappy situations who are there 'because it's what God wants'. It couldn't possibly be the case that God might want them to take risks and be uncomfortable, to face their inner demons and admit their faults. Oh no, it's God's will that no boats are rocked.
There are those who have taken precisely the opposite approach. God has told them to go out and do daring and wonderful things. Can you imagine a Billy Graham who admitted to loving having power over people and being a public figure? Or even a St Paul who had a midlife crisis?
It is all much to ponder, and I continue to do so.
Lately I've been thinking a lot about religion. As in, Christianity. I was converted as a teenager into Evangelicalism (the story is all there earlier on this blog if you care to look). And from a very troubled place I came to a point of relative calm, though the legs were paddling away under the surface as I approximated to Adult Life.
A friend of mine who was an Anglican Priest for many years has just come out as 'having no faith left' and it has made me think again about my attitude to what I have left behind. It's particularly hard as an ex-Evangelical because you are taught all the Bible verses about the dangers of falling away, and even today I can remember my abject fear of doing so, and my determination never to desert Jesus.
And yet - I have. It astounds me still, after twenty years as a clergy wife and having brought countless people to faith through reasoned discussion and prayer, that I find myself in this place. But a pilgrimage can't just be abandoned when you find a comfortable roadside cafe. I always promised myself that I would never give up using my brain (which after all was presumably God-given) to question my faith, and that if I found it lacking in integrity, I would do whatever it took to remain in a place of integrity as far as was possible.
What I never expected was to feel angry. I have spent a good many years suppressing anger in my life; as a child I was prone to terrible rages which terrified me and left me hiding from the power of those emotions. Christianity enabled me to 'rise above' that - although to be fair it was my interpretation and not the Church or Bible which taught me to hide from such a large part of myself. The Bible clearly says we ARE to be angry when appropriate. I had just hidden too well from myself, and it took a few different counsellors to help me see that it was safe to be in a room with myself however I was feeling. Dampening down anger meant that I dampened down every other emotion, and I've been on a long, slow learning curve back to 'normality' (whatever that is!)
Now, I DO feel angry at how the brand of Christianity I bought into robbed me of the realisation that I possessed huge inner strength. By attributing all my successes to 'God', I externalised everything.
GOD was strong, I was weak. All loving thoughts came from God, I wasn't a loving person without him. I didn't realise how many inner resources I had until I was in my forties. Until then, I truly believed that I was nothing without God, and that everything I needed had to come from/through him. So I was able to shift all the responsibility for major decisions onto him too. "God doesn't want me to have sex..." "I have to stay in this job /relationship/place because God hasn't told me to move on..." etc.
I realise that a lot of this reflects on me, not the Church per se. However, nobody at any time encouraged this naive young (and later, older) person to move on in her view of herself, to take more responsibility, to dare to make decisions. And in fact I know many people in unhappy situations who are there 'because it's what God wants'. It couldn't possibly be the case that God might want them to take risks and be uncomfortable, to face their inner demons and admit their faults. Oh no, it's God's will that no boats are rocked.
There are those who have taken precisely the opposite approach. God has told them to go out and do daring and wonderful things. Can you imagine a Billy Graham who admitted to loving having power over people and being a public figure? Or even a St Paul who had a midlife crisis?
It is all much to ponder, and I continue to do so.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Glorious day!
I just wanted to record how good it feels to wake up to a glorious, sunny, frosty morning.
The sky is an absolutely brilliant blue; the sun is already casting crisp shadows and there is a definite feeling of Spring on its way. After a long, hard winter this is wonderfully welcome!
I've had a tough few weeks emotionally; the nest has felt very empty indeed. As someone who spent her entire life from the age of three planning to have two little girls (and had them!) I still have to work on making the shift into Life After Motherhood. It's not as though I didn't prepare, nor is it that recent but - I suppose nursing someone through a horrible illness for seven years brings you extremely close.
I have lots of other things to do in life. I write, swim, walk, enjoy the countryside and have a full-time job. Yet still I am aware of an emptiness in my heart, feeling bereft on a bad day and merely nostalgic on a good one. This is classic midlife stuff and I know I shall get through to the other side.
I feel a little irritated with myself to be honest. I am thrilled that my daughters have built their new lives. I am excited by what they are doing. And it's quite possible that I am feeling the stirrings of needing to get out there myself. Is there any excuse for someone who speaks several languages to sit at home in England wishing she wasn't lonely at times?
Money - of course. But... there are jobs abroad. There are cheap holidays. And there are two beautiful capital cities to visit in the company of my daughters, the locals.
Now that I'm off crutches and no longer hobbling around, it's time to get off my backside and stop feeling sorry for myself!
Watch this space...
The sky is an absolutely brilliant blue; the sun is already casting crisp shadows and there is a definite feeling of Spring on its way. After a long, hard winter this is wonderfully welcome!
I've had a tough few weeks emotionally; the nest has felt very empty indeed. As someone who spent her entire life from the age of three planning to have two little girls (and had them!) I still have to work on making the shift into Life After Motherhood. It's not as though I didn't prepare, nor is it that recent but - I suppose nursing someone through a horrible illness for seven years brings you extremely close.
I have lots of other things to do in life. I write, swim, walk, enjoy the countryside and have a full-time job. Yet still I am aware of an emptiness in my heart, feeling bereft on a bad day and merely nostalgic on a good one. This is classic midlife stuff and I know I shall get through to the other side.
I feel a little irritated with myself to be honest. I am thrilled that my daughters have built their new lives. I am excited by what they are doing. And it's quite possible that I am feeling the stirrings of needing to get out there myself. Is there any excuse for someone who speaks several languages to sit at home in England wishing she wasn't lonely at times?
Money - of course. But... there are jobs abroad. There are cheap holidays. And there are two beautiful capital cities to visit in the company of my daughters, the locals.
Now that I'm off crutches and no longer hobbling around, it's time to get off my backside and stop feeling sorry for myself!
Watch this space...
Saturday, 5 March 2011
March on...
So here we are in March, thank goodness - February, I'm afraid, lived up to its reputation for being a grey, dreary, cold month this year. March began with a warm, sunny day - although it's cold at the moment, the birds are singing their hearts out in preparation for Spring.
I've been in the same school for over four months now. I've put a lot of work in and learnt a lot too, and am waiting to hear when the teacher who is off begins her phased return.
After that, I'm not sure what I'll be doing. I'm planning to be around for the transition which may mean missing out on other jobs, but I'm hoping for some day-to-day work which will help tide me over. I still don't feel that I'm 'there' yet in terms of What I'm Going To Do When I Grow Up, but to be honest I'm not sure I shall ever Arrive. I am happier on this journey, though, than I was for the previous nine years in my old job. I keep meeting people I knew then who tell me I look 'years younger'. Certainly the pride in having been courageous enough to leap out of bondage to the Local Authority has made me happier,; I expect that's what they see.
So - what next? I'm not sure. But as I've always said to my daughters, SOMETHING will be next. You never arrive at a point in your life without being able to look back at the path you trod to get there. I have absolute trust in that process, even though I'm hazy about the details. A year from now, I shall undoubtedly have been living my ilfe for another year, so it just remains to see what I'll have been doing!
Happy March to you all!
I've been in the same school for over four months now. I've put a lot of work in and learnt a lot too, and am waiting to hear when the teacher who is off begins her phased return.
After that, I'm not sure what I'll be doing. I'm planning to be around for the transition which may mean missing out on other jobs, but I'm hoping for some day-to-day work which will help tide me over. I still don't feel that I'm 'there' yet in terms of What I'm Going To Do When I Grow Up, but to be honest I'm not sure I shall ever Arrive. I am happier on this journey, though, than I was for the previous nine years in my old job. I keep meeting people I knew then who tell me I look 'years younger'. Certainly the pride in having been courageous enough to leap out of bondage to the Local Authority has made me happier,; I expect that's what they see.
So - what next? I'm not sure. But as I've always said to my daughters, SOMETHING will be next. You never arrive at a point in your life without being able to look back at the path you trod to get there. I have absolute trust in that process, even though I'm hazy about the details. A year from now, I shall undoubtedly have been living my ilfe for another year, so it just remains to see what I'll have been doing!
Happy March to you all!
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Afraid of the dark?
For many years I was afraid of the dark.
Part of my fear was fuelled by the fact that my darkened room was very blurred and indistinct. It took me a long time to realise that this was because I took off my glasses as I turned off the lamp.
This is a helpful metaphor to me as I try to remain true to my pledge to face my fears and live life with the fewest regrets possible. I was a phobic child and teenage for me was a struggle to fight through to some kind of normality. At fifty, I've largely won those early battles, but a little stress can tip me into cocking my head like a gundog at strangely magnified sounds, waiting for the Undefined Awfulness to strike.
These days, with a little help from CBT, I can quickly step back from those fears. Some days I have to do it a few times, but most of the time I'm fine. I have my glasses on as I look at my life.
My greatest fears are no longer for my personal safety. Nor even for those brave souls in Egypt. I fear for what we - in the UK - have allowed society to become. It was ever thus, people decrying, declaiming, wringing their hands... but I see many cases of families falling apart, people putting physical desires before everything else, greed and plain, old-fashioned nastiness. And I don't like it.
It seems to me that countries where there is a named evil to fight are almost (ALMOST) more fortunate than we are. With our so-called democracy, we have no place to turn and plead for a new regime. For isn't it already a privilege to live in a free country? We do not march in anger at the (non)treatment of our elderly, disabled, despairing. For aren't they already lucky to live in such a wonderful country?
How long are we going to continue pretending that Britain is the kind of place you'd want to live at any cost? ANY cost? When bankers are still receiving bonuses, whilst the rest of us are being encouraged to go out and volunteer to ensure that some lucky citizens receive their basic rights?
THIS is true darkness.
We all need glasses to bring clarity to the situation and no, Mr Cameron, not the rose-tinted ones, if you please.
Part of my fear was fuelled by the fact that my darkened room was very blurred and indistinct. It took me a long time to realise that this was because I took off my glasses as I turned off the lamp.
This is a helpful metaphor to me as I try to remain true to my pledge to face my fears and live life with the fewest regrets possible. I was a phobic child and teenage for me was a struggle to fight through to some kind of normality. At fifty, I've largely won those early battles, but a little stress can tip me into cocking my head like a gundog at strangely magnified sounds, waiting for the Undefined Awfulness to strike.
These days, with a little help from CBT, I can quickly step back from those fears. Some days I have to do it a few times, but most of the time I'm fine. I have my glasses on as I look at my life.
My greatest fears are no longer for my personal safety. Nor even for those brave souls in Egypt. I fear for what we - in the UK - have allowed society to become. It was ever thus, people decrying, declaiming, wringing their hands... but I see many cases of families falling apart, people putting physical desires before everything else, greed and plain, old-fashioned nastiness. And I don't like it.
It seems to me that countries where there is a named evil to fight are almost (ALMOST) more fortunate than we are. With our so-called democracy, we have no place to turn and plead for a new regime. For isn't it already a privilege to live in a free country? We do not march in anger at the (non)treatment of our elderly, disabled, despairing. For aren't they already lucky to live in such a wonderful country?
How long are we going to continue pretending that Britain is the kind of place you'd want to live at any cost? ANY cost? When bankers are still receiving bonuses, whilst the rest of us are being encouraged to go out and volunteer to ensure that some lucky citizens receive their basic rights?
THIS is true darkness.
We all need glasses to bring clarity to the situation and no, Mr Cameron, not the rose-tinted ones, if you please.
Saturday, 12 February 2011
The Big Society
I genuinely no longer know whether David Cameron has really spoken, or whether reports are spoofs, these days.
I don't understand how nobody has yet stood up in public and asked how we can create a Big Society when the Tories are fully aware that THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS SOCIETY. Sowing and reaping come to mind.
I don't know if I've fully understood the implications of his plan, but it looks to me as though charities are going to be allowed to fill all the gaps which Government aren't prepared to pay for. Is that it? If so, it's a wonderful vision... for the bankers.
When will those in 'power' understand that there is anger - REAL anger (and this from someone who buried her anger so deeply under a Christian veneer that it's taken me thirty years to get back in touch with it) - about the fact that whilst hundreds of thousands of people are unable to afford basic staples, we have yet to see those who brought about this situation brought to book. Bonuses worth hundreds of thousands of pounds are still being paid as a reward for greed and mismanagement.
I AM angry. And I feel powerless. I voted LibDem because that is where my heart lies, not as some weedy cop-out from having to think about politics. And so now I am homeless, disenfranchised through the whole cynical process of the Tories munching up Clegg and spitting him out.
And don't even get me started on footballers' salaries...
I don't understand how nobody has yet stood up in public and asked how we can create a Big Society when the Tories are fully aware that THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS SOCIETY. Sowing and reaping come to mind.
I don't know if I've fully understood the implications of his plan, but it looks to me as though charities are going to be allowed to fill all the gaps which Government aren't prepared to pay for. Is that it? If so, it's a wonderful vision... for the bankers.
When will those in 'power' understand that there is anger - REAL anger (and this from someone who buried her anger so deeply under a Christian veneer that it's taken me thirty years to get back in touch with it) - about the fact that whilst hundreds of thousands of people are unable to afford basic staples, we have yet to see those who brought about this situation brought to book. Bonuses worth hundreds of thousands of pounds are still being paid as a reward for greed and mismanagement.
I AM angry. And I feel powerless. I voted LibDem because that is where my heart lies, not as some weedy cop-out from having to think about politics. And so now I am homeless, disenfranchised through the whole cynical process of the Tories munching up Clegg and spitting him out.
And don't even get me started on footballers' salaries...
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Another poem or two...
This one is VERY tongue-in-cheek, based on the last few years of dating. Don't worry, I haven't really given up hope!
I'm the one before the One -
The spark before the flame.
The woman men go out with,
And then forget her name.
They often rebound onto me,
Sometimes several times a night -
Then ricochet out of the bedroom
Into the arms of Mrs Right.
And here's one I wrote earlier... if you saw Paul Whitehouse doing his, "Aren't holes BRILLIANT!" sketches, you'll know how to read it...
WORDS
They're great, words are!
Babies roll them round their mouths
savouring them for months
before spitting them, fully-formed
into the air around them.
From then on, that's it -
Words, words, words...
On the telly
On the radio,
On a teacher's lips...
They never stop coming at us,
Bombarding us with knowledge.
I've got some favourites:
Scudding, Micklethwaite, deelyboppers, iconoclastic...
They're great, words are!
You can tell people who you really are inside,
explain your dreams, hopes, desires...
ask for what you want,
tell it like it is,
comfort, caress your lover's ears with quiet whispers...
They're a great responsibility, words are!
You can irritate the HELL out of people,
invade their headspace,
say things you didn't mean, and can't un-say,
use them as playing-pieces in the game of love.
They can hurt people, break people, bring bad news...
Words are EVERYWHERE; they mean
Nothing and Everything,
all at once.
Sharp rocks, tumbling from our mouths,
cutting others as they fall.
They're dangerous things, words are...
But on the whole, I think they're great.
You can hide behind them,
Talk about things so you don't have to face them,
Express emotions so you don't have to feel them -
Project your preferred version of yourself into the public eye.
Everybody does it, don't they?
Except me.
I don't.
I just say what's on my mind, but
I like to do it right.
So of course, I choose my words. Carefully.
I sometimes wonder...
...whether they choose me.
I'm the one before the One -
The spark before the flame.
The woman men go out with,
And then forget her name.
They often rebound onto me,
Sometimes several times a night -
Then ricochet out of the bedroom
Into the arms of Mrs Right.
And here's one I wrote earlier... if you saw Paul Whitehouse doing his, "Aren't holes BRILLIANT!" sketches, you'll know how to read it...
WORDS
They're great, words are!
Babies roll them round their mouths
savouring them for months
before spitting them, fully-formed
into the air around them.
From then on, that's it -
Words, words, words...
On the telly
On the radio,
On a teacher's lips...
They never stop coming at us,
Bombarding us with knowledge.
I've got some favourites:
Scudding, Micklethwaite, deelyboppers, iconoclastic...
They're great, words are!
You can tell people who you really are inside,
explain your dreams, hopes, desires...
ask for what you want,
tell it like it is,
comfort, caress your lover's ears with quiet whispers...
They're a great responsibility, words are!
You can irritate the HELL out of people,
invade their headspace,
say things you didn't mean, and can't un-say,
use them as playing-pieces in the game of love.
They can hurt people, break people, bring bad news...
Words are EVERYWHERE; they mean
Nothing and Everything,
all at once.
Sharp rocks, tumbling from our mouths,
cutting others as they fall.
They're dangerous things, words are...
But on the whole, I think they're great.
You can hide behind them,
Talk about things so you don't have to face them,
Express emotions so you don't have to feel them -
Project your preferred version of yourself into the public eye.
Everybody does it, don't they?
Except me.
I don't.
I just say what's on my mind, but
I like to do it right.
So of course, I choose my words. Carefully.
I sometimes wonder...
...whether they choose me.
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