Month: August 2023

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Island Blog – Cancer and Wotwot

Well, well, and what a time of it! I am having my time of it, whilst many others are doing the whole time of it having thing in their own homes, around, hopefully, their own people. My people left this morning (just the one son, so, okay, person) who brought me home from pavements and noise and a couple of hospital appointments in his Lotus, a classic, very small, like a dot on any highway, but fast and safe. Apparently. I was lying down, as, to my alarm, was he. Mostly I watched sky because conversation was tricky. There was a deal of shout and many ‘whats?’ But he got me home. The peace that came as we coasted into the ferry queue was almost an embarrassment.

So, home again to the wee dog, beautifully cared for, and indulged and played with and walked and wotwot by my lovely friend, and the joy rises like a warm fire on a winter’s night. The smile of it takes me upstairs to, finally, unpack my few bits of frock and underpinnings, to a shower, to the familiar. The sounds of gulls heckling a sea-eagle, the cornflowers rising like hope outside the window, the grass green and ebullient; the view across the sea-loch. Warmth beneath my feet, food in the fridge, clean sheets, a new beginning, for me. For my son too, I guess. For all my children too. Cancer is a cut in a life, a shock with ripples, like an ice cream, or a cocktail, and it is both, or can be.

Since I heard I had cancer, I have heard many stories. It seems to me that nobody talks about it in the street. It wonders me. Is illness, such as this, embarrassing, or shameful? Or, is it that we, (god bless the british) never want to inconvenience anyone, say anything that might make them feel awkward on a Monday pavement outside of Aldi? I completely get that some people don’t want anyone to know because they want to work it themselves and just telling anyone means they are obliged to keep the information coming. I respect that. But, and but again, I feel a challenge coming at me. Not to those aforesaid. No. But to those who want to say how they feel about losing a part of them they depended on for years, and, more, that part that didn’t necessarily give the heads up on ‘Something Wrong Here’. Such a shock. And that shock has outwaves, biwaves, tsunamiwaves. These can shock on for days, months, years. And the Cancer One knows this. No matter how she or he tidies it all away, how serious the (lost the word) thing is, it is an impact, infecto of dreams, a stealer of thoughts, sleep, decisions, movement through any day.

I await the results of my MRI scan, but spoke with my surgeon yesterday. He says, it looks good, just a lumpectomy. A few more checks, an ultrasound, then it is done.

I’ll go with that.

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Island Blog – Happy Days

Well, now I can say that I have had an MRI scan, instead of just hearing about others being pushed into a tube, ear plugs and defenders attached, and with much encouragement to remain completely still for half an hour, at the very least. I don’t ever recall being completely still for that long, in my whole life. The knowledge that, to move at all will require a re-scan, is enough to have my toes twitching. My face was pressed into a face-size hole (not my face size, however) and my breasts too, although they didn’t share the face space but, instead, were ‘placed’ in other holes, also not my size. It seems that other women are way better endowed than I. Hey ho. The MRI Controller, a delightful smiling nurse in dark scrubs and with a beautiful face and smile, said things like, Don’t Worry, Think Happy Thoughts and DON’T MOVE. She also said that, when the silver stuff begins to pump up my arm and into my chest, I will feel it like a frozen worm slinking up my veins. Oh, yum!

Pre the scan, I had to answer a load of questions. Do I have any metal piercings? Am I wearing any make-up which, nowadays, has metal in its mix, or can do? Do I have tattoos, allergies, diabetes? have I ever had eye surgery? Do I have any metal crowns? What, like the Queen? No, she chuckled. Teeth. Do you weight over over 20 stone? Oh, ah, no. Tick No to all of the beforeness. And off we go, no, me go, in the delightfully attractive hospital gown/marquee, with the opening at the front. I remained still, ignored my toe twitch and took myself up, up and away into the sky where I met fairies and cherubs and angels and a lot of space. Radio Something blasted tunes into my ears whilst the scanner chugged and beeped and roared and then did a rather attractive staccato thing. The sounds kept on changing, kept me entertained until the frozen worm began its journey. I didn’t even twitch but kept up with the fairies and cherubs, flying high above all of it, the scanner, the cancer, the reality of where I lay, my arms down by my sides, breathing in and breathing out, my body calm and still. There was no flipping way I was going to threaten the success of this scan so I didn’t, something to do with my stoic parents, or something, someone. You don’t fail, that’s it, thats the thing, that is that. So, mostly, we didn’t. (not sure it helped, that attitude in life. Failing, as we all know, is just another step towards success. I digress)

Home now, home now, jiggetty jig (Pigling Bland, for those who never read Enid B) and in a very lowtothegroundnoisyfastwonderfulclassicsportscar. Lying down, I was, which was ok until I clocked that he, the driver, was also lying down. I watched the sky mostly, as the road swirled by, loops and curls and dips and rises and all the while hoping he wasn’t doing any of that sky watching stuff as huge lorries, massive SUVs and even the ordinary saloon, big with family and dog, passed us by from at least a 5 foot elevation. No matter. We zoomed like a focussed insect, overtaking (super fast) holding the road, taking corners as I would never take them, aka, no gear changes, and with an excellent driver, arrived back home in no cafuffle at all. He did ask me. Were you scared? And I could honestly answer No. I told him this. I am old. He says Elderly, arf. I want adventures, still, fun for sure. I may be scared about cancer and scans and lungs and breasts and oldness But, and that But is important, I do not want to turn back, fold, become less of that which my spirit still is. We have tunes on, me and my Lotus Elise driver son. He is cooking salmon, prepping a salad, I am writing this.

Happy Days.

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Island Blog – Transitions in an Ordinary Life

A lovely blue sky morning it is and the wee girls are being nudged and encouraged through breakfast and into the car for school. I notice their natural resistance to a Monday morning which comes like a crashbang after the easy weekend. No deadlines, no shoes required, no hurried breakfast, no questions. I get it. I also remember my own young mother days when nobody thought that going to school was a good idea, in fact, it stunk. One shoe on, the other lost, in the dog’s bed, in the bike shed, anywhere but on the other foot. Teeth to brush? You are kidding, mum, it’s about 3 days climb to relocate the bathroom, this is Tapselteerie, remember? It was undoubtedly raining so the very thought of cycling down that track of potholes and potential deviations was an anathema. We are young and lively and want to play, not sit in that bus riding the switchback under the judgemental glances of the driver. We don’t want to sit in class to learn about the life of snails or the names of body parts or the history of a world we cannot begin to imagine. In fact, best not to imagine anything much because Mr This and Miss That are ancient and boring and quite without a head full of dragons that fly with fire, or trees that tip the clouds, and who don’t have a clue as to where all the wild things are, whereas we absolutely do.

Suddenly, they are gone, the silence a gasp as the front door closes between us. I know they will move beyond the transition, their little minds open to the next thing, as always, even though they resist. I also get that, the resistance, but in adult minds, it takes mental strength to live in the moment when all past, and imagined future, moments swarm together in a buzz of chaos. It seems to me that this is the primary work for us, to let go and to keep moving, through each uncomfortable transition, allowing it, just allowing it. When I wake, my head is already in connect mode, connected to every possible aspect of my life, present, past and imagined future. It is logical, of course, to divide and separate, I know this, but the chaos can overwhelm. Will I, should I, did I, can I? I know the past is ‘another country’, just as I know the future is a mystery. I can plan wee bits of it, such as my choice of clothing, my attitude, my next forward step, but the vast expanse of any future is beyond my control.

Perhaps, even as children, we know this. Perhaps this is both exciting and terrifying. Perhaps. Although I don’t remember how I dealt with my inner chaos as a child, I do remember loving a fantasy world, living in one as much as possible until I had to find my missing shoe on a Monday morning, eat breakfast quick and head off to the school bus. Actually, I would have done anything to lose both damn shoes, so miserably hard and uncomfortable were they, so clumpy, so hideous. I wanted fairy wings and ballet pumps and a lift up to another planet where greens were optional, where trees tipped the clouds, and where nobody wore shoes at all. Now, this morning, as I write into the silence left behind, I remind myself that what lies ahead is beyond my control. I must needs float along with it, listen, keep alert, ask questions, accept and then decide my attitude, for today brings in transition, the leaving of here and the moving into the next here, which is only ‘there’ for a few more hours. Not another country, not another state, just a few steps, a few miles, a few adjustments to my thinking, that’s all it is. Not a nothing, but an ok something, an inevitable something with opportunities for laughter and conversation, observation and fun, all nestled in the folds of this new day, this Monday.

Whatever you face today, I wish you fun and laughter, no matter the circumstances. There is always, always, someone out there whose transition is troubling, scary, alarming, terrifying, someone who could do with a smile, a ‘hallo’, a kindly gesture, a reminder that they are not alone in the chaos of an ordinary life.

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Island Blog – And……Rest

Ok, so I am tired of all this resting, now. Extremely tired of it. Since June 27th, when I first had cause and orders, to rest, I have read around 15 books, a record, even for me with my fast eyes and my ability to take in a huge amount of info at a speedy glance. Of course, I retain none of it for long, hence the mesolithic Scots ending up in a cafe with the litigation lawyers, somewhere in D.C. It doesn’t seem to matter in the end of the end, not that I can recall the endings of those stories but I do remember the ‘wowser’ as the twist twisted itself into a bunch of snakes on the penultimate page. I felt as if I was falling off the end of the story into some empty crevasse, quite devoid of wordage or footholds. I just found another book, another tale, another winding path to wander down, resting, resting resting, resting so much that my mid section is no longer a section, more a spread of blubber and fold, gravitation led. My tee-shirt needs to be a small marquee and I will be having words with those medics who said I was too skinny for surgery, or words to that effect. It had better go, along with whatever else gets removed, or there might be a conversation ahead.

Spending hours, sometimes days doing this resting thing has not been unpleasant. I love to read and read and read but I do wonder if I am, unconsciously, immersing myself in any story but my own. I don’t think so, but there’s a ‘maybe’ skittering about inside my mind. How much and how often do we respond to a big impact in our lives by hiding in the wings? A lot, I guess. I have spent many hours in the wings, literally, whilst the action was played out on stage, watching it, a peek through the curtains, breath held, no moving, silent, waiting for my cue. Whether lead or chorus, the wings are safe, short term, but in that tension, lines can be lost, sweats can shine a face (and ‘make-up’ has a fit) and corsets can pop. I remember that. Anyway, I digress.

So, in theory, I am fatly prepared for whatever surgery lies ahead. I am thankful for the resting and for all the stories that merge and muddle, flit and fold inside my soul. They enhance me. I have wrestled with lynx, been burned at the stake, or almost, fought legal battles in L.A courtrooms, ridden a wild horse bareback, fought a waterfall, and won, and danced with fairies in a magical forest where dragonflies sang soprano and all the goblins were banned for life. I have been welcomed, cooked for, wonderfully, cared for, wonderfully. Celebrated, in fact. My scan is on Tuesday, I return to my beloved island on Wednesday and then I will pick up my ordinary domestic tasks in order to redraw my body map. I will also relocate my clothes drawers, having left home with a couple of thisses and thats, all of which bored of I am. In fact, they are so washed as to be considerably thinner than when any of us set sail for my future.

Which is a lot more than I can say for me.

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Island Blog – We Got This

And, then, today. Children, including Little Boots, to school for nine (the older girls), and a new nursery for LB. A new nursery, strange people, other kids, unknown space and all, but she was in like she already knew the lot. How must it be for someone so wee? Looking up noses, level pegging with knees and hip bones. I don’t remember it, thankfully.

The day, as it does for young mums and dads, pulls away like a bolting horse. There is breakfast to wash up, a dicey floor food scrap mosaic for Henry to guzzle up, two cats to feed, washing to wash, dinner to consider and prep, plans to make for later, the swim lessons some miles away, the snacks to make for the journey to appease tired girls, hangry girls. We found the swim pool, swimmed, came home again, home again, jiggetty jig. There is allotted time for ‘devices’, an allotted time that is always way too short for the players, then a wee snack, a peek at the Night Garden and off up the stairs to bedlington. In theory, there’s a night of sleep ahead, but this is never guaranteed, for there be dragons in the dark, as I remember well. Life rolls on, bolts on, lurches from dance class through swim, play dates, parties and athletics, all a drive away, all with a timeline. The time these parents spend in parking slots waiting, and waiting is just a bit part in the huge production of young parenthood. I watch it, and I remember, but vaguely. At Tapselteerie we had no television reception, no devices, no computers, no mobile phones and, do you know what? I am so very glad because I would never have had the patience for what is the norm today. Never.

Cooler now, and I think of home, of my friend up there living in a home with underfloor heating off, a range off, looking after my wee Poppy dog who looks quite the thing on rocks by the shore, all fluffy and not bothered with the coolth of these days. It is as if I left in one season and will return in the next, which is true, I will. The missing of that change in my own place, my home place, my bone place, my roots, always comes like a stranger to me. It did in those times I went to Africa one month and returned 2 later to snow boots and waterproofs when I only carried a light jumper, sneakers and a piddly jacket to cover my upper echelons. Waiting for the bus at Glasgow airport, I stood out like a fairy in Buchanan Street. It laughed me somewhat, through the grinning shivers.

As I do this waiting thing, I laugh and chuckle with a scatterdore of children. I watch the parents duck and dive, consider, negotiate, and sensitively, oh so sensitively, work with the new generation, to grow them into strong, unbiased, feisty individuals. I, perhaps, did the same, we did, because it took mum and dad to do this, at least, for us and for ours. It sure looks like we did ok, as I observe the five results out there doing this living thing, in the now of now. I wonder if he noticed this, the dead dad of 3 years tomorrow. He didn’t talk much about it, about how our children ‘turned out’, but I believe he was impressed with the way they grew far beyond us, way outside our understanding, our ‘norm’. He smiled a lot around our young, got grumpy with the noise of young-ness, felt, I am guessing, de trop with a lot of their lives, as I can myself. Too many girls, he would growl. 8 of them and just one boy, nine girls now and only 2 boys. A fractal world in his mind.

So, tomorrow, old sea dog, we will remember the day you died. It was lunchtime, ish. The boys laid bets on the time. It was gallows humour, and anyone who has witnessed the dying of a parent will understand that humour.

And then we move on. We got this.

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Island Blog – I’m In Charge

I light myself a candle. Today was a waiting day, one that wakes me with an inner fog. Thoughts rise but fall again before I can set them in order, unlike other days when I am the one in charge. Even in a voluminous nightie, I am in charge. Even before my teeth are brushed and my dragon breath is extinguished, I am in charge. You stand here. I’ll need to think more on you. As for you, thanks but no thanks, not today. And you…..well I have no idea where you came from, perhaps a deep bog, a sinking, stinking one. Begone! However, this morning’s thoughts just swirled like whispers around me, uncatchable, turning to air whenever I reached out for a grab. The ones I haven’t mentioned? Throttled at source. I could tell, just by their colour and smell that they would serve me no purpose.

Waiting is tough. Waiting for a bus in the rain is tough. Waiting for a baby to emerge through the intense agony is tough. But this waiting, this cancer waiting, is definitely up there with the best/worst waiting thingies. I’m not surprised my thoughts have trouble thinking me straight. I am all wonky lines and inner wobbles. Even my walk down the stairs is old-lady cautious, as if my feet might miss a step regardless of all this foot attention I’m giving them. I even count the steps for goodness sake, as if, in forgetting one, I might not arrive in the same house I left on the landing. I’m not hungry, not anything much, until, that is, I hear the chatter of little girls. It is then that I recall myself, remember who I am. I may be waiting but I can do something with it, fill it, distract myself from it, begin to see through the fog of it.

I check my phone every 30 minutes. 15, actually. Just in case the consultant or nurse has called with an Oops we made a mistake you don’t have cancer after all. I read until my eyeballs threaten to abandon ship and my head can no longer sort out the protagonists of any one of the stories, merging them together until the mesolithic Scots tumble with the Harare prisoners on death row. Not a movie I’d recommend. But that doesn’t matter, the tumble of characters, because to read is to escape and I can think of less healthy ways to do that.

We, those of us not attending our first day back at school in smart green sweatshirts and black breeks, go out to visit a farm shop a short distance away. There’s a wonderful cheese counter and we ogle the selection from Stinky Blue to Not Stinky Goat and everything in between. We sit for a panini lunch whilst Little Boots, the smallest girl not yet at school, enjoys a multi-coloured lolly, on my knee, plus multicoloured drips and multicoloured chatter. I laugh. I now look like an abstract painting. This and other little distractions distract so cleverly. It thinks me, now that my head is fog-less.

I light myself, that’s what I do, that’s what I can do, all I can do whilst I am waiting. It’s me taking charge even though I am not in charge of anything outside of me. But I am in charge of that bit, and that ‘bit’ is me, the Bit Part in a huge production called Breast Cancer. I read that actors in such huge productions spend most of their time inside a trailer, waiting to be called. Waiting and waiting and who would know it once the finished film is on screen for our pleasure? It looks complete, everyone busy all the time, as if that is how it was put together. But it wasn’t like that at all. Nor is this. I will, I know, look back one day and forget the pain of waiting, the length, breadth and depth of it. It will just be mentioned in a sentence. I had to wait. That’s all. But now look at me, all bright and cancer free and filled with my usual overload of beans! And not waiting any more, not for nobody nor nothing.

I watch the candle flicker, the flame waver and wend in the airflow I create just tapping out words. I see the glow of it inside the glass jar, the shine of the melted wax, and it smiles me. This candle may snuff out, but so will the waiting, and the treatment and the anxiety and the fear and the pain. I may be a bit wonky chops when all is said and done, but I will still be in charge, of myself anyway, and that task is not for the faint-hearted, I can tell you.

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Island Blog – A Rightful Name

When I ask someone how they feel about whatever is going on their lives, almost without exception, I get answers of logic. ‘It will be alright in the end,’ they say, or ‘this will heal, eventually,’ or even ‘I have nothing to complain about. I have enough food, a home, friends and work.’ Invariably, but kindly, I will round on them. I asked you how you feel, feel, FEEL about what has happened or is happening to you. Can you tell me that?

It is the toughest question, I know. Many of us ignore our feelings, so jumbled and ‘illogical’ are they, so messy and loud, so scary to name. If I say I feel afraid, I will, inevitably, be ‘fixed’. If I say I feel angry, the room goes quiet, as a room does just after lightening and just before the thunder crash. In my young days, feelings were allowed, providing they were ones of joy and delight, and even those must not be allowed to erupt. You can spin around, arms wide, in sheer delight, but don’t dislodge that vase of roses, or step on the dog or knock the musical score off the piano musical score thingy. And, this mustn’t last more than is bearable for the ears of all others in this confined space.

Feelings of pain, sadness or grief, such as the abandonment of a trusted friend in P3, is something you will get over and laugh about one day. She wasn’t such a great friend anyway now was she? Yes she damn well was, and now I go to school feeling sore and vulnerable, ashamed and brimming with self doubt. Who is there to hear my agony? Well, perhaps someone will ‘hear’ it, but who will sit with me whilst I burn and drown in this unbelievable flood of feelings? It is no surprise to me that, as ‘mature’ adults, most of us suppress what can only cause inner damage eventually, those deep feelings of rejection, abandonment, neglect, cruelty. We all know what I’m talking about, but too many of us keep burying the undead. They will rise again and again, twisted now, neglected for too many years, layered over with logic and life. The undead are not dead, not unless we dig and dig until they can finally rise into the light of our Now. Who is brave enough, I wonder, to admit (why ‘admit?) to feelings of pain and fear, shame and doubt, anger and resentment? Because we just know we will be ‘fixed’.

Feelings are the one thing we cannot, never could and never will, control. They come, unbidden, sometimes as tiny whispers, sometimes as a tidal wave, bowling us off our feet and into the gutter, upside down, knickers showing, wounded, bloody, feeling like a fool as the rest of the world checks their watch and hurries on. How we deal with our feelings, however, is completely within our control. It is not the fault of the world that it rushes on by as I lie here broken and tumbled. It’s not my fault either. It’s nobody’s fault. If I have the courage and the guidance (very critical to healing) to dig deep down for the undead feelings from childhood, from before the Now of me; to dig and to unbury, to lift into the light and to name, I am on the road to freedom. If my current pain relates to neglect, rejection, abandonment or cruelty in my past, I will overreact to the world in which I live right now, but, if my deepest longing is to be seen, acknowledged and celebrated for myself, to be valued just as I am, then I have to dig, have to unearth the undead. I can do endless goodly works in my Now, but I am kidding myself if I think this is going to eradicate my strong need to be seen, acknowledged and valued. I will meet rejection, lack of respect, careless or neglectful behaviour but it is not because I am ‘nothing’. It is, simply, complexly, the result of buried feelings as old as I am, pushed down, labelled foolish and ignored.

So, when I ask you “how do you feel about what just happened?’ might you pause a little before answering, and might you have the courage and trust to give your feeling its rightful name?

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Island Blog – An Overwhelm in Perspective

When an overwhelm crashes in like a tsunami, I notice a shutdown in me. I didn’t expect it, to be honest. I believed I would ride the wave of it with my upbeat and positive attitude to life in general, but I had not considered that a threat to my own little life would feel so, well, overwhelming. The walls closed in, that’s what happened, gradually, once the reality of a cancer threat grew horns and fangs and claws. I still thought I was stronger than any monster, but that is not the truth. I battle with thoughts I don’t want to develop. I win, minute by minute, and it is exhausting. Knocked down, get up again, knock down again, get up. I need all my compromised reserves of energy to simply answer questions or to decide on the simplest of choices. This doesn’t feel like me at all, but I am not me, not the me I was just weeks ago. Did I fall off a cliff, or into a new world full of aliens and dangers unknown? Too quick, too quick for me to gather up my sense of humour, my ability to find my way out of any maze, my self belief, confidence, identity. They look down on me, or over at me, across the divide of space, of water, of air. I call to them, but they are also afraid, unsure of our connection. I am still me, I whisper, but their heads shake, No, you are not. We don’t recognise you down there, over there, a tapselteerie of bones and muddled thoughts.

In and among my children, my family, I feel strangely disconnected. I feel watched. Of course I am watched. I would be watching any one of them in my position. What to say, how to encourage, how to keep momentum going, how to bring forth distractions, how to kill time in the Wait Zone. It is tough for them, too. Am I hungry? I don’t know. Do you fancy going sailing, out for coffee, into the woods for a walk, or, perhaps to a game of Ludo? I don’t know. Is it Monday, Tuesday, Ash Wednesday or Christmas Eve? I don’t know. All I know is that I have to keep my phone charged, on LOUD, and with me at all times in case of a call from the consultant or the breast cancer nurse. I fight, really fight, against the constant rise of disaster thoughts, day by day, hour by hour. I write something down, then score it out. Foolish thoughts, pointless thoughts. What do you see in your future? someone asks me. I almost hoot with laughter, or I would if I could locate my funny bone. I don’t know. Imagine! they urge, meaning well. I poke about in what I know to be a very vivid imagination. It’s hiding, hibernating, on hold, something like that. The effort involved in such a thought process is way too much. I just want to float.

On a cloud. I dreamed, not so long ago, that I was walking in a wilderness, through unknown territory. I often find myself there in dreams. Tumbleweeds tumble by me, dust and sand fly around my ears and face, rocks thrust up wherever I look, but I am not afraid. Somehow I know I must keep walking, keep aware, not for dangers but for opportunities. I walk and walk until, ahead of me, I notice an area of smokey white fluff on the ground. Nearer I come, and nearer, until I recognise a landed cloud. Bizarre, yes, but not in this land. I walk around it, touch its chill, my fingers floating right through until they disappear completely. Barefoot (always) I nudge it with my toes. It lifts ever so slightly at the edge. More solid than my fingers think. Gingerly, I step onto it, moving into the middle. It holds me, easily. Then, a few moments later, and once we have got to accept each other, the cloud begins to lift. Slowly, gently, steadily, no rocking nor threat to unbalance me. Higher and higher we float, until the tumbleweeds look like dust balls, the rocks like pin pricks in a wide open desert. There is no sand in my face, no land to trip me up, no big rocks to halt my traverse. In short, there is a new perspective.

Then I awaken and think. There is what I can see. There is much more I cannot see. And then, there is that place in between where I get to choose how I see what I see, and what I see are my self belief, my confidence and my identity on that cliff edge, right in my flight path. It is easy to grab them as we float by, and I do. Then we all go down to breakfast.

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Island Blog – Take Another Look

Let us take a look at Olding, from another aspect. Olding can be dire, upsetting, astonishing, in fact, but if we look at it through laughing eyes, it can also be hilarious, not just to those who are nowhere near missing the edge of any pavement, but to we who know how it feels to be anxious about exactly that. Stepping out of a body in some level of decline is to free a mind. It allows a sense of humour to engage with a strong spirit and a still beating heart. Look back, my friend, at what you achieved in your life, how hard you worked to get it right, to BE right for those you loved and whom you still love, here now, or gone too soon. Remember that time you lifted other flagging souls into your arms and carried them over stony ground, through fire, over oceans of shit. You did all of that, we all did all of that, and yet the memories of the times we have faltered or failed, said nothing or said too much, halted instead of running towards justice, fairness and inclusivity always leap to the front of the queue. We judged, yes we did, unfairly. We decided what came next and now we might regret that. We were unkind, dismissive, rude, even. So what? Do those ‘faulty’ memories define us now? I say a bit fat NO to that, even though I can be guilty of such regrets. It thinks me.

Why is it that we daft humans can always find and build on, the times we got it wrong? Do we stand as our own judge? I think we do, but we can also judge others wrongly. We can look at how the world is changing, decide we don’t like it, it isn’t familiar, and diss it all, but I can remember my own ancestors doing exactly that when I was young. I laughed at them, behind their backs of course. Old fuddy duddies the lot of them. Young people move too fast, mumble their words, wear extraordinary, or skimpy clothing, and not enough of it to cover an egg, let alone a whole set of buttocks and they speak a language definitely not grounded in the Oxford English Dictionary. We have come full circle, it seems. However, in my observations of self, I can see that, if this Oldies attitude is allowed to surface and thence to take over, like pond weed in an untended body of water, it clouds vision and grows stagnant. Lord save me from stagnant! How will I do this, how will I bring in the light, clear my own weeds, unblock the blockages that prevent a free flow of fresh clean water, bubbling with oxygen and all of life? To embrace the unexpected, to show interest in it and enthusiasm for it, even if I, the Oldie, must only sit on a bench as observer, is to engage with the unfamiliar and to embrace it.

The Oldies I remember first, and with deep affection, are just bones now but the light they brought to my skimpily clad, fast moving, mumbling life, fraught with agonies and doubts and angst, stays with me to this day. They might have been on that bench as life flowed past their rheumy eyes, but the sparkle was there, the stories just waiting to be told, the mischief alive as a pixie in their hearts and minds. Despite their loneliness, sickness or restrictions, these people could still delight, as was their intention. Not for them the moans and groans, not for them the lack and loss they all must know so well, not for them the criticism of a younger world, young and determined to get things right once and for all, in new ways, ways that really will save humankind from the fiery pit.

My granny, who had endless health issues that she never allowed to control her mood, and I sat on a bench once. My legs dangled miles from the ground as I watched my jelly shoes swing back and forth. I was bored and grouchy. What can you see? she asked me. I looked up into her wrinkled and beautiful face, saw the pearls at her neck, the softness of her jumper, the smile on her lips. I turned back to the view of passers by, with shopping trolleys or dogs or husbands at hand. Nothing! I grumped, and swung the jellies some more. Right, she said, now cover your eyes and look again. I covered my eyes. What can you see now? she asked. Oh, Granny, I can see fairies and dragons and there’s Alice in Wonderland, and Pooh and Piglet! I heard her chuckle. Good, she said, me too. Let’s follow them, shall we?

And so we did.

by

Island Blog – Olding, Big Pants and So What

Blimey, life in the city is crazy! I watch the people go by, push by, wander by heading for a collision either with a lamppost or me, busy as they are in multiple worlds, connected to a mobile phone. But everyone seems to know about both lampposts and the folk like me who dither and dance along wide pavements, all rushing us along like those moving floors in airports. Colours brighten the morning, some barely covering bodies, others caping older skeletons, tent-like. And, still an amazement to me, no two people look alike. We have two eyes, two ears, one face with a mouth and a nose and yet, and yet, we are all different. I notice when life has bowed, bent, twisted and sometimes collapsed a face, a body. I notice the focus of traverse and in the shortest possible time. And then, there’s a woman, a man, moving slow as a snail, every footstep considered and, possibly, doubted, the young dividing by like a rush of water around a big old stone. I notice bags and dogs and sticks among the careless swing of young bodies, showing midriffs taut and flat, feet holding the ground as if they believe they always will.

Perhaps I see these images more as I consider what is happening to me, the slow (I am reliably informed) growth of an invader within, an invader with intentions. Not a welcome guest, but one that is here, just the same. My sister and I wander past and through endless shops, all promoting the Beautiful, the Perfect. Faces of models, as my daughter in law was once, teeth white as snow, body perfect, full of a life taken for granted, one without end. After all, old people are not us, they seem to say. We are miles from the collapse of skin, the way a bottom slinks down legs, the way breasts, if you have them, plummet into a waistband, the way feet become unsure on steps or pavements. I was she once. Not the model, no, but nonetheless certain I would never grow old. It just wouldn’t happen. What did actually happen to me was something I gave no thought to. Olding comes suddenly and it came to me after my husband chose to leave this world. Not immediately, not when I experienced the euphoria of my own space, the way I could play music louder than a whisper, when I could crash plates, clatter cutlery, talk on the phone in my own sitting room. But that euphoria didn’t last. Its aftermath was the realisation of Olding. Now, I don’t mind growing old at all, but I wanted to do it without aches or insecurities or self doubts, without pavement angst, without cancer, tiredness, confusion and the faffing. Oh god the faffing. Do I have my specs, where are they, they were here just a minute ago? Do I know my PIN number, the code to unlock my phone (who locked the damn thing anyway?). Did I lock the car? Where IS the car? Did I pay the chimney sweep, the gardener, the window cleaner? I did? Twice? Seriously?

And so on. To be honest, the self-doubt that comes with ‘Olding’ is pants. Big Pants. And it isn’t just me. Others of my age, particularly those widowed after a generation of marital years, compromise, security and dependence to whatever degree, tell me the same story. It is as if we have no idea who the hell we are at this wobbly point in our lives, we who were so certain, so confident, bringing up children or not, working, holding down chaos, fighting fires minute by minute. We could cater for sudden add-ons, taxi every which where, and were still able to dress up for an occasion. Now we just hope no occasion will arise, ever again. We want, or think we want, empty days, a blank calendar, but we don’t really. We probably say NO to everything because we haven’t been outside of the house for weeks, or maybe we just can’t remember how to Small Talk anymore. We think we have nothing to say of interest because our time is in the past. We apologise for ourselves, for our Olding years. We watch young things dance by, remember (vaguely) our own young thing dance, and we turn away.

I think that is a big shame. So what to do? Who can say, who can tell? I take my inspiration from other silver foxes I notice walking by the window, determined to move, regardless of pavement angst, their emptiness in life, their Big Pants questions, all of them coated, booted and sharp looking as if they know just where they are going and are excited about getting there. So, when I breathe deep and set forth of an early morning to visit the swans on the pond, I decide to look the same way as them. I smile, I walk, I greet, I cross roads about 3 times as wide as any road back home with my heart in my mouth, but I feel better about everything once I return. Perhaps this is how to live in the Olding years. Just one thing at a time. Then another.Blimey, life in the city is crazy! I watch the people go by, push by, wander by heading for a collision either with a lamppost or me, busy as they are in multiple worlds, connected to a mobile phone. But everyone seems to know about both lampposts and the folk like me who dither and dance along wide pavements, all rushing us along like those moving floors in airports. Colours brighten the morning, some barely covering bodies, others caping older skeletons, tent-like. And, still an amazement to me, no two people look alike. We have two eyes, two ears, one face with a mouth and a nose and yet, and yet, we are all different. I notice when life has bowed, bent, twisted and sometimes collapsed a face, a body. I notice the focus of traverse and in the shortest possible time. And then, there’s a woman, a man, moving slow as a snail, every footstep considered and, possibly, doubted, the young dividing by like a rush of water around a big old stone. I notice bags and dogs and sticks among the careless swing of young bodies, showing midriffs taut and flat, feet holding the ground as if they believe they always will.

Perhaps I see these images more as I consider what is happening to me, the slow (I am reliably informed) growth of an invader within, an invader with intentions. Not a welcome guest, but one that is here, just the same. My sister and I wander past and through endless shops, all promoting the Beautiful, the Perfect. Faces of models, as my daughter in law was once, teeth white as snow, body perfect, full of a life taken for granted, one without end. After all, old people are not us, they seem to say. We are miles from the collapse of skin, the way a bottom slinks down legs, the way breasts, if you have them, plummet into a waistband, the way feet become unsure on steps or pavements. I was she once. Not the model, no, but nonetheless certain I would never grow old. It just wouldn’t happen. What did actually happen to me was something I gave no thought to. Olding comes suddenly and it came to me after my husband chose to leave this world. Not immediately, not when I experienced the euphoria of my own space, the way I could play music louder than a whisper, when I could crash plates, clatter cutlery, talk on the phone in my own sitting room. But that euphoria didn’t last. Its aftermath was the realisation of Olding. Now, I don’t mind growing old at all, but I wanted to do it without aches or insecurities or self doubts, without pavement angst, without cancer, tiredness, confusion and the faffing. Oh god the faffing. Do I have my specs, where are they, they were here just a minute ago? Do I know my PIN number, the code to unlock my phone (who locked the damn thing anyway?). Did I lock the car? Where IS the car? Did I pay the chimney sweep, the gardener, the window cleaner? I did? Twice? Seriously?

And so on. To be honest, the self-doubt that comes with ‘Olding’ is pants. Big Pants. And it isn’t just me. Others of my age, particularly those widowed after a generation of marital years, compromise, security and dependence to whatever degree, tell me the same story. It is as if we have no idea who the hell we are at this wobbly point in our lives, we who were so certain, so confident, bringing up children or not, working, holding down chaos, fighting fires minute by minute. We could cater for sudden add-ons, taxi every which where, and were still able to dress up for an occasion. Now we just hope no occasion will arise, ever again. We want, or think we want, empty days, a blank calendar, but we don’t really. We probably say NO to everything because we haven’t been outside of the house for weeks, or maybe we just can’t remember how to Small Talk anymore. We think we have nothing to say of interest because our time is in the past. We apologise for ourselves, for our Olding years. We watch young things dance by, remember (vaguely) our own young thing dance, and we turn away.

I think that is a big shame. So what to do? Who can say, who can tell? I take my inspiration from other silver foxes I notice walking by the window, determined to move, regardless of pavement angst, their emptiness in life, their Big Pants questions, all of them coated, booted and sharp looking as if they know just where they are going and are excited about getting there. So, when I breathe deep and set forth of an early morning to visit the swans on the pond, I decide to look the same way as them. I smile, I walk, I greet, I cross roads about 3 times as wide as any road back home with my heart in my mouth, but I feel better about everything once I return. Perhaps this is how to live in the Olding years. Just one thing at a time. Then another.