illness

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Island Blog – And, I am thankful

I hear the flapsnatch of white bed linen on the washing line and the sough of this welcome warm wind through the green fingers of the ancient scots pines. They flank my island home, soldiers, a battalion of protectors. I tilt my eyes up to the blue, the glorious blue, as the meep of Goldcrests I cannot see, feed in the woods. I laugh as one sheet escapes my hands to coat a small willow tree, turning her into a bride, or a choir girl and my laughter skitters away, up and away into the swirl of words and songs, stories and longings. I see the sunlight touch cloud edges, wilding them into spun gold, just for a moment, and I was there to catch that moment.

I see the Rose Bay Willowherb sway like a chorus of dancers, almost to a beat. I see sunshine glow through maple leaves, lift the silvered backs of leaves turbulenced in the breeze, as if they are showing their knickers. Rose bushes swagger, the sea-loch bobs softly, catching diamonds. Honey bees fly past, travelling many hundreds of miles there and back from a source of nectar, watch one on the lowly ragwort, the so-called weed, the only plant the beautiful Cinnebar moth will lay her eggs upon, the one plant so cruelly discarded and burned by those who don’t know what they are doing. I watch families walk by, talking, laughing, looking in wonder at the landscape of which I am a strong part. We chat sometimes, I ask them How is your Holiday, and they smile and look around as if they have arrived in a place made of dreams of songs, of stories and longings, with gentle natural peace as an all surround sound. I hear the odd car, but it is only someone else who lives here going about their day.

I have seen few bees this strange summer, but I have seen them. I have gone to visit the space the hives used to sit in holding thousands of stingers who never want to sting, busy with the production of honey, the only food on the planet that will never go bad, no matter how many years, even generations, it is left untouched; the food which, if applied to a wound, will generate faster healing than any medication, which will ease any illness from a sore throat to depression, just a big spoonful a day. In the empty space, up in the soughing pine woods, there is a sadness, yes, a sense of what it meant for the beekeeper to let them go, to move them on, what it meant to him. But those wonderful creatures live on, I know that, with new bee lovers who love them, care for them, listen to them. And that smiles me. I still wish i had seen more bees this summer. Without honey bees we are in big trouble, as you may already know.

The clouds are curving now, conjoining into a rather fetching grey. Over there, loaded, planning a sneeze, methinks, or maybe not. This motherly wind is warm as soup and she just might ping them away. Either way, I am watching it, smelling each change, loving that I am alive and wild and part of this extraordinary gift.

And I am thankful, for all of it.

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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 124 – Chiaroscuro

2013-04-09 12.03.19

 

It’s not a sausage.  It’s a delicious word, nonetheless, and it is the meeting point between light and dark.  Of course, there is always a meeting point between light and dark, day and night joined together until the sun burns out, the light and dark, or shade, in a painting.  Used in the world of opera, it describes two voices, one soprano, one deep, might be contralto, might be tenor or bass, joined to create a thrilling balance for our ears to hear.

So, this lovely ‘meeting of opposites’ has a pretty name and if you say it with an Italian accent, plus the hand gestures, you can quite lift your day.  Chiaro, means ‘clear and bright’, and Oscuro, dark and obscure.  Five musical syllables, and the ‘Ch’ is pronounced as ‘K’.

This meeting of contrasts is everywhere in our world, and, without one, we fail to see or appreciate the other.  When it rains a flood for weeks on end, and the water moves indoors, it must be a very dark time.  Outside, in the village hall, on the sodden streets, in a corner shop, there will be smiles of light, offers of sympathy, support and hope.  I don’t have to see it for myself to know I speak the truth.  Whenever life feels dark, somebody or something casts light in our path and, with that light, we find we can go on a bit further.  At another time, darkness brings a welcome relief.  It’s the balance than matters.  We want both in equal portions to find a happy rhythm.  But let’s just consider the chiaroscuro of life, the meeting point, and an entity in itself.

As we look we find ourselves, for we are both light and dark.  All of us.  Our relationships, too, for they are also a meeting of light and dark.

Well, you can forget the dark, someone might say.  Who wants dark in a relationship?

Have you ever met somebody quite unbelievably light?  For this person, everything is ‘wonderful’  I have met such people and I didn’t believe they were real at all, for it is against our human nature to be all light and no dark.  Of course, the dark bits can be hidden for years, but they will show themselves in behaviour choices, skin condition, ailments and disease.  We are fashioned in balance, and our journey through this life is one of learning and more learning.  We develop a creative agility in order to survive and this means we must recognise the dark and the light and make them both welcome at our table.  I know I have wished for all light and no dark, but, even as I wish it, I know I am a fool, for how could I ever really feel another’s pain and grief, if I had never felt my own?

I have heard folk banging on about the shoulds and shouldn’ts of benefits, taxes, governmental rulings, as if everything ‘should’ be dished up on an endless supply of pretty plates.  I know that some are struggling, many are struggling, with real problems in their lives, with limitations and deprivations I can only ever imagine, but hand-outs seem to be expected across far too wide a swathe of humanity.  If we sit at home, watching complete nonsense on the tv and building on whatever is currently causing angst, and never step into the light of day, of course all we are going to see is darkness. If we feed Black Dog, Black Dog will grow big and strong.

I remember my old granny telling me that when I felt sorry for myself for longer than ten minutes, I needed to cheer someone else up, with a phone call, a visit, a text message, and never mentioning one word about my own self-pity.  My mum always says she is ‘absolutely fine’ when anyone asks her how she is.  And, do you know what……..  both those women have it nailed, because in both cases, their refusal to wallow, their very act of lifting the collective moment, initiates a dramatic change deep inside.  I can leave a house, having arrived with both my legs heavy as old porage, my chin scraping the ground and all my aches and pains playing a noisy percussion throughout my body, as light as air and thinking no longer about Me, me, me.  Something extraordinary has happened quite silently inside me, something that tells me I am the chiaroscuro of the afternoon, for, in me, the light met the dark and became a thing of balance and beauty.

Next time you look at a wonderful painting, or listen to a piece of music, or a song, remember that, although there is both high and low, dark and light, lift and fall, tears and joy, that this is what, this is who we are too – a glorious blend of opposites.

And then step out and share it.

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Island Blog 87 Dancing on the Edge

dancer

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.