dream

Talking today with my whale-watching son, we discussed, as we cleared out his garage and carted dross to the local tip, music and originality. He told me that there is nothing really original, as there is a finite number of notes on the keyboard and, therefore, a finite number of possible chords. I felt my heart flutter at the very thought, me being a fully paid up member of the theory of Originality. I say to him, if there really is no chance to be original, why do any of us get out of bed of a morning?

But that wasn’t quite what he meant. He was talking complete sense and truth. What happens beyond the understanding of that truth is a very different thing. Park that for now.

Another subject we discussed over a delicious dinner at Cafe Fish (don’t ever miss out on that opportunity) was that of relationships, my very favourite subject. I talk to myself about them all the time, but it is so uplifting to find a co-discusser who is also interested and who is also a man. Might be a first! He is 30 years younger than I but has an eye on this tricksy subject and a way of looking at it that I, sealed up in my own history and experience, might have missed. We spoke of those that last and those that don’t and of why, although nobody outside of any relationship can ever, should ever, decide they know why or how one fails and another doesn’t. It is pretty damn easy to play judge and, when we do, and we all do at some time, we might consider our own, and how clever we are at them. Or not.

Now un-park that earlier thing.

What comes into play with a musician, a song-writer, a business owner, an artist, a wife, a husband, and I could go on forever with the list, is Originality. The only thing we can ever bring to her table is our own originality, and, in doing so, we can change everything. For example……..there is a clever, gifted, silversmith, young, newly graduated and about to hit the world. No experience of anything to do with street wisdom beyond the decision not to go out alone at 4 am in a lycra bodysuit and 6 inch heels through a dodgy part of town. He, or she has this talent, this achievement, but has little or no idea how to walk it out in a way that will guarantee success and profit, long term. It is all down to the self in this, the Originality and, most importantly, whether we honour that and use it, or not. We all have it. We don’t all use it.

Hmmmmmm.

If we listen only to the facts, that tell us there is a finite number of chords, of keys, of chord progressions, of dance moves, of colours mixed, of lives lived, then we might just keel over right now. But we don’t do that. We go on, believing, albeit very privately, that we just might have that something that changes everything. But now we have another problem. We watch television and movies and we set ourselves lower than we should as a result. Every story is glamourised and idealised to the point of impossibleness. How can we ever match up? We don’t look like this star or that, with their perfect body parts, tans, choices, homes and luck.

To stick with something, in the inglorious (second meaning in the dictionnary) hours, when nobody is clapping or even watching, and to keep going…… now that is Originality. To work consistently, through the cold and the wet, to resist the naysayers who question our sanity and who come, like greeks bearing gifts, of trojan horses, of quick fixes, of a quicker route to the treasure chest, to make ourselves go on, following our own heart belief…..this is Originality.

To give up in the face of the inner voice that keeps asking……Who are you to think you can rise up to meet your dream? leads only one way. Every single time.

Don’t listen, don’t watch, don’t falter. Originality has chords and notes and moves and moments that build into something that, one day, people will revere. Our job may be menial. Our home may be simple. Our life, ordinary. But, wait a minute, this is all of us. Those who appear to have it all are just like us. We all have in our hands, whatever our situation, that chance to change everything. We just have to rack up and dust off and step up.We need to say Here I am, and not There I was.

Not one of us is perfectly formed, according to the world.

And yet, every one of us is exactly that.

Today I am dancing.

Yesterday my almost new microwave stopped waving back and I was momentarily arrested in my dance moves. Things should work, I said to myself, however cheap they might be, and this little machine was cheap. But, if something is created, and packaged and marketed, it should make no difference at all how much or how little it costs me. You get what you pay for was a comment from someone and I thought about that a bit, and then found my retort.

Piffle.

If I, in good faith, agree to a contract, which is what I do when I purchase a thing from another person or company or whatever…. inside that contract, written or not written is a promise. If I find a bargain, for want of a better word and buy it, am I risking disaster because it IS a bargain? I don’t think so.

Anyway, I contacted the seller who was extremely apologetic and who has already organised a replacement. So, they didn’t expect it to fail, this little, cheap microwave, now did they? And nor did I.

Moving on from things, to people………

In every area of my life, I make contracts with other people. It may be that I agreed to sell raffle tickets for the local agricultural show, or that I said I would pop in this week. I might have a pheasant called Robin who expects me to throw him grain of a morning, or a cousin who needs to hear my voice as she faces illness and fear. I can’t be everywhere at once, but I can be somewhere and I can organise myself quite easily to complete my contracts if I take my eyes off myself and point them out into the world.

I have said, in the past, I don’t have time. Now I wouldn’t allow those words out of my mouth, because it is nonsense. We all have the same 24 hours in a day. What I am really saying there is that I am too self-absorbed to take stock and reorganise myself.

When I was young, I danced every Saturday at a local dance school. Ballet, Modern, Character, Ballroom. I gained certificates, although heaven knows where they are now. It doesn’t matter. I know they once existed and that, apart from the bits I didn’t like, I loved to dance. As I moved through my life, my footwork got a bit rusty, but what I realised is that I can still dance in other ways. I can dance through a Saturday changeover, or when baking a cake, or when talking to a seller about a faulty microwave. Instead of dragging myself along, I can rise on my mental toes and hear the drumbeat of my heart as I move through the ordinary. Once I begin, my own voice lightens up, my laugh begins to rise and sparkle, and my eyes see only good things. And, as we all know, Good is always brighter and stronger than Bad.

Once I have practised this a bit, feeling, possibly, a tad foolish at first, I will find it more and more natural, until one day I find myself dancing on the edge of ordinariness with a wild music playing in my heart. Still feeding Robin the pheasant, still baking cakes, still making a call, or selling raffle tickets, but there is a difference and it is nothing to do with circumstances, and everything to do with the dance in me.

Years ago I had a dream that I would walk by a Waterstone’s window and see my book presented there. I hadn’t written a single word, nor chosen a story. Today that dream is in my hands. Today is the launch of the paperback of Island Wife, my story which will now be sold in big shops and small shops, ferries and visitor centres, both here and abroad, and you know the best thing about all of it?

That through reading my story, someone else may catch a glimpse of themself, and be inspired to put on their own dancing shoes.