October 2025 – Page 2 – Judy Fairbairns

When I write, I want light. On this evening, with a fricken hooligan incoming and the rain coming in a lash, pushing up ground, pulling down rocks, sliding land, felling trees, lifting tides way beyond their pay grade, I’m here, back from the cafe, having traunched through puddles deep, passing places sink holes and still the rise comes in. It’s a turmoil for sure, but not one of so very many I have known and yelled abuse at for decades. Doesn’t mean I don’t thrill at the danger. I absolutely do. I still had to light a candle as a writing companion. I won’t go to work tomorrow because the road is right now being swiped into the Atlantic (only short term) but my sassy mini is short, her ‘underneaths’ a tad compromised when the flood floods a whole bridge, the surge and push of a strong river longing for the sea and the sea, by the way is the Mother Atlantic. You don’t mess with a gazillions miles of superpower. I wouldn’t.

I think about the half and the whole of anything. My fire is lit, my nose is cold, the time has changed. I conjugates me, all of us. We were one. Then two. Then three, four, five, more, then lost, then one again.

I light a candle. I speak. I am here

I went to work today on my day off and here’s why. I skinny through, that’s what I do. In these days of living alone, there is just so much of it anyone can do without demise. As a child I thought that meant ‘curtsey’ and I probably did, living in the times of bad girl, good girl, behave girl, don’t speak out of turn girl, look away girl, say nothing, got it, nothing. Those times. Now I see it more as demist (to clear condensation, cloudal blindness, anything that stops me seeing the next thing or anything pretty much thus preventing clarity). Ok, I made the last up, but there are a few thinks there, little birds fluttering, lifting, looking squinty at me.

I don’t curtsey anymore. Wish I’d learned it years ago. That obedient (not) befrocked girl is ready for anything. I can see ahead. To be honest, it’s the olding times for me and I am fine with that, the feist in me strong, the play, the humour, the yes to life and to all her moments, all her offerings. Yes, yes.

I watch the play out with the generation below me. I read the rants, the shouting at the stars, I hear the local chat. I hear the disappointment, the childhood neglect and worse, I smell the burning, the decay, see the curtseying. I see the tough fight for independence, for recognition, for allowance, for acceptance, for love. I don’t know if it’s just me, or if all us oldies feel this. I just want every single human being to be who they are, without fear of judgement. An old dreamer, maybe, but I can remember feeling this strong when I was 16, when I was powerless, and still curtseying.