On the eve of a journey I get collywobbles. That is a word, I just checked, although it not being a word, as in a dictionary word, would never stop me writing it. Sometimes there is just no acceptable word or phrase to describe what I am feeling, or seeing and so I just make it up.
In my young days of being the Elocution Queen, propelling my voice, ‘Chin UP girl!’ with my neck pushed forward like a goose on the attack and all my tendons tight as telephone wires. I would have been upbraided by Miss Stuffy Drawers endlessly. She of the stuffy drawers is long dead, bless her old heart, so I feel quite reckless these days when choosing my words.
Onomatopoeic, they are, in the main, and sounding like themselves, the way they feel. I could waffle on about the colour of my feelings too, but I might lose you sensible readers who like to hear a regimental march in the laying down of prose, although nowadays anything goes.
Or does it?
I love language, any language, whether it be Spanish or street talk, even if I don’t understand one word, as long as it is spoken from the heart and not contrived. Sometimes even the Queen’s English can sound contrived, if it is pompously delivered and devoid of feeling. Words are music after all; they have a rhythm, phrasing. They need to convey both information and emotion, even if it is just giving someone directions to the station.
Which brings me neatly back to my collywobbles.
Tomorrow I fly. Not with the geese, as I have always wanted to do, but with British Airways back up to Scotland. I have, by mistake, booked an aisle seat so I won’t see any more than the back of someone’s head. It’s not that I am fearful of flying, nor of a train bus or car journey, so I can’t really explain my inner state at all. Perhaps it is just stepping away from what has become the norm for me. Perhaps there is a frisson of anxiety about going back to whatever I am going back to.
How can I get back into the old routine? Do I want to get back into the old routine? Do I even have one?
And so on.
I felt this way starting a new school, or the first day of a new job, and there is a beauty in there somewhere if I can just lay my hands on it. If I can rest in the process, if I can worry not, but trust that all is just as it should be and I am the only one who can do whatever I must do, then I will take each step mindfully and be inside the moment.
Holy men have learned themselves into such a state. Hermits live alone for years to find it, this inner peace. Material things will never be enough, however much I may think they are the solution. Enlightenment is a personal journey, a quiet reflective one, one lived step by step, inch by inch, and all my anxieties do is rush me ahead of myself, into an imagined non-reality.
I met someone once who told me he was enlightened. I fought back a snort. If someone has to tell me he is enlightened, he is most definitely not. No-one who has reached that state would ever feel the need to say a single word.
I obviously have miles to go.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
– Robert Frost