learned

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Island Blog – Remember

I’m fingering through my ancient Thesaurus to find a different, a more appropriate for this ‘remember’, and also laughing,hand to mouth as I see more of this agist tome. Once-this-was-it, but such definitions have no place in the today of today. However this book is my friend, falling apart, yes but one which has seen me through every angsty write. The pages are coffee coloured, the seams twitching to release any page. It’s a right combobble to keep this book together. It learns me, and also divides me big time from the awfulness of what was once acceptable. Moving on.

My search is for the word, Remember. Interesting that, in this old book, the page takes me to, and in order, Sage, Fool, Sanity, Insanity,Madman, and then Memory. We were of our time, not that I concur with most of the sequence. What looks likes no was a judgement in those days, but has no place in the now. Back to my point. I am not sentimental about deaths, but I find myself remembering my dad today, his would-be birthday tomorrow. I’m listening to fingers on jazz pianos, hearing his, as we did all through childhood. We learned the 12 bar blues, we knew the up and down, the hesitation, the pull and thrust of pretty much everything jazz. Our dad dazzled everywhere he went, even through the war and for the troops who so needed our dad in the horrors of Burma, back then. I can see him, cigar in mouth, brandy or whisky beside, that smile, that invitation. Once he agreed to play, the room was his, and so were we.

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Island Blog – Maybe an Acceptance

I know that, when I am feeling tired, things arise that don’t bother doing so when I am not. I have learned this over many decades, not to fix on any choices, opinions, nor decisions when feeling tired, angry or hurt. It’s as if a mind, so clear and engaged with daily life falls into super-tired and then goes deeply weird. Sometimes, most times, the whatever that finds a way into the within of an already compromised state takes on the efficiency and the focus of a drone, with no empathy, no emotive colour nor depth, no ability to connect beyond its own directive. I was going to write that it feels like finding myself in a small space with a whole nest of angry wasps, but, although there is something of that, it isn’t quite the truth. It’s more as if the whole terrain changes, one I trusted, was sure of, my footing securely supported, all my thoughts lining up like good wee scouts, my inner team.

With all of that gone, the troublemakers come in like missiles, like drones, laden with regrets and recriminations. The trigger can be something someone says that swipes a person right back to childhood; could be a moment in time, long long past; could be a choice made in a different time that still troubles up in a bad dream. For me, it’s listening to an audio book today, feeling tired. Although the book is fun and engaging and brilliantly written and spoken, one of the characters has a husband with dementia. She knows it, we who listen know it, even the husband knows it, but he floats in an out of reality. Because the writer has obviously experienced this situation, even distantly, the theatre is accurate enough to take me back to so much of the real situation.

However, I have read acres of books on dementia. They do sadden me, but only at a distance. I was there and for many years. The grief for a strong and heretofore upright, impossible, infuriating, figure of importance and value as they lose their grip, their hold on reality, their control of self, begins way before death. Way, way before. We know it, all the family knows it, all friends know it, neighbours, shopkeepers, anyone and everyone. However, and here’s the bit that got me in this audio book, the man, the gentle, bright, strong and loving man who caught this awful disease, also knows it and chooses to talk to his wife about his feelings of fear, of sadness, of loss.

I never had that. That’s not a poor me thing, nor written with blame in my keyboard tapping, but I can feel, like a punch in my heart, how wonderful it could have been to cry together, to talk, to hold, to share. Perhaps, and I would say this to another who told me just this, it was just the way it was for you and him. There’s hurt in there, an unintended rejection, and maybe an acceptance.

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Island Blog – Thinkscape

I’ve done a few things today. In an elemental olding, I am guessing a few things amount to much. It thinks me. Some, no many, don’t get this far and there are times I wish I hadn’t. Not many, though, to be honest. I meet and greet young people, and I see my own young life, the way nobody can take this away thing. I love to see the tipsy don’t-care attitude. I remember it. Nobody should ever tamp out that flame.

What I have learned, through copious reading in a zillion genres, in talking to others, has taught me fire. I meet, and daily, awful stuff in my age group. I see, and did today, in a short, happy conversation with a woman who dressed so sassy, so wild, so beautiful, that I could not guess her years nor that she is facing a lot of something. We lit a fire between us, like we were young again and checking each other out. It was a few minutes, but I saw her and she saw me.

In the waiting, the olding, there are a lot of Thinks. Time rolls slow, or it can. Those of us previously agile and in some way compromised and let me say this out loud, and as a challenge to them, youneed to stretch more, to reach more, to find more, to do more. It is so easy to sit and to give up, ‘bring me this, get me that’. If the ‘more’ is not an option, that’s good enough. It has to be enough for me in a day when I am doing little else. And the reason for this doolittle, not-much bollix? Ah, now there’s a thinkscape . A tinder burn of a long life, a fire burn of memories, of dances on sand, under moonlight, with a band who never knew when to stop; when the morning arose long before me and brought a ferry in to lift me over a bumpy tidal flow, when i honestly thought this would go on forever. I like the Thinkscape. Takes me above land, under sky, halted for a few moments in memories.

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Island Blog – Remote Control and Smartarse

I set off, car packed, morning bright with a few clouds that didn’t seem to know quite where to go, a sort of fluffy ‘what’s next?’ thing going on between cumulus and cirrus. I left them to their dilemma and headed for the ferry, nothing but sheep on the road, and radio two my upbeat companion. I had thought of everything, chosen what to take most carefully, organised this and sorted that and I was feeling cocky, or henny, in my case. The usual anxiety around travel was noticeably absent, and I was. surprised at that, wondering if it would arise and catastrophise me. Nothing. Just excitement and anticipation of an open road adventure. Early I was, of course, and took my place with the other Earlies in Lane One. The sea was a blue pancake with a couple of sailors already canvassed up to catch the little breeze. Waiting is no problem for me. I have learned how to wait like a pro and over decades of husband, children, guests, oldies, dodgy vehicles and stubborn animals. Noticing a friend pull up in the car behind, I got out to chat, share news, have a laugh. See you on the boat, I chirruped, bright as a wren, as the ticketmaster appeared to point his pinger thing at our QR codes, whatever the hell that means. Loading now, and I strap up, push the start button. Nothing. Again. Nothing. On my screen it says I must hold up the start button to release the steering wheel. This has happened before, and, come to think of it, quite a lot, lately. I obey and I pray, as Miss Pixty makes no sound, like she dead. I tell the behind me cars to pass me by, feeling very spiritually damp, and continue pushing buttons and praying as I watch all the cars load onto the boat, even the standbys. I am doomed. I also look ridiculous, well, we do, me and Miss P, alone in this vast empty space, and the ferry pulls out on time. My heart is in my boots. I have a meet with my son first, then a journey to other family and from what I could remember, this space on any boat was the only one today.

I and me need a word. One of us is panicking, the other smartarse, smartarsing. All shall be well, she says, calm as you like, to heart thumping me now flicking through the mini manual for a solution. My brain is on over-rush. Who do I call to sort my car? The AA on the island is actually far enough away to be extra terrestrial, many hours between us, and that’s only if the good man is free to come. The screen tells me my remote control needs a new battery. I have a remote control? Calming, and with the gentle guidance of the extremely handsome ticketmaster, I read that, if I hold the remote control (the key, for goodness sake) against the steering column whilst pushing the start button up, a message will go to Mini HQ and they will ignite my engine. Good flipping lord. Where is Mini HQ btw? I obey, the engine starts and I swear Miss P chuckles, a sort of throaty giggle. I’ll talk to you later, I say. About what, says the ticketmaster who looks about 19 and of the caring sort. Ah, not you, my car. O…K… he grins, adding, I’ll change your ticket for the next boat, due about an hour. I relax and pull forward to the top of Lane One, a huge smile on my face.

And, I congratulate myself. I did not panic. I found help, found a way, called my kids, felt no rise of anxiety, nothing more than oh bugger and that one is always sortable, all swash and buckle, like being threatened with a plastic sword. All, is, I concede to the smartarse, well. It thinks me.

I know I have been working a lot on perspective of late, just thinking about thoughts, the emotions they arise, the knee-jerks of old. I wanted change, hence the work. At each and any rise of anxiety, I notice it, and we have a chat. Thing is, if given clearance to develop, a little nothing much can grow into a monster, blocking out the light, the way forward invisible. It also brings indigestion, wobbly legs, a reminder of personal past failures and a sense of being quite pathetic and a mega wimp. It also brings in the ‘shoulds’. I should be able to do this, sort this, get over this, work this out, get through this, overcome this, change this, all followed by a slump of the shoulders and the turn into defeat and punishment. Well to hell with that damn nonsense! I know who I am, and so does the delightful ticketmaster, #bonkers. I have lived through many real and many imagined disasters and, on reflection, was good in a crisis, despite the fact that all my organs changed places for a few moments, unbalancing me somewhat. Missing one ferry, meeting kindness and support, my travel plans altered for an hour or two – absolutely not a disaster. Perspective is everything at such times. What ifs get blown away, adventure beckons. And, if I am honest, I feel proud of myself. I can do this, whatever the ‘this’ is, not only with my innate strength, both mental and physical (that’s the work), but more, with humour and curiosity.

The journey was a doddle. Roads were clear, sun shone merrily, having banished the dithering of both cirrus and cumulus, and I arrived safely. Yes I had to do the remote-to-steering colum thing, a few times, and yes, my heart did flutter each time, but we got here, to a family welcome. Then, my little granddaughter googled something, told me I needed a new battery, found one and all is well.

Smartarse is right, again.

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Island Blog – Authentically Mongrel

Talking last evening with a delightful friend, she challenged me about someone I labelled. Then, later, I challenged her back. Both of us, at each challenge, paused for thought. So much that dribbles out of our mouths comes from learned opinions, until, that is, we are challenged on a single word, a resolution, a definition, a dereliction. This child is…….this man/woman is…….my father was, my mother is. He can’t fit in because he is……….She is just a……… and so on. We were taught these labels by those who influenced us at an early age, and, without thought, we continue the line.

So, let us think. Let us notice. So very many of us, gazillions, I reckon, have felt out of the uniform kilter, like our underpants are showing and everyone is laughing, or judging, or turning away in disapproval. Crowd thinking, or Coward thinking. If you are like me, all you want is inclusivity, gentle acceptance, the chance to learn whom another really is, what makes them tick, because I know they have a story that isn’t mine and through their story, I can learn to be the best person I can be. Surely I am not alone in this? The current, and understandable (sort of) culture of fear around invasion on all levels, the one that throws we Ordinaries, into a big old D I Lemma, is here, whether we fight it or engage with it. We cannot stop it, and nor should we, because there is learning here, there are stories, life experiences, if shared, that can juxtaposition our ingrained thinking. We can lift above what was considered THE RIGHT WAY. I won’t fiddle in a yelling crowd. Nobody is listening to the new music in such a place, but I do believe that if just a few among the gazillions refuse to label and, thus, to marginalise, to exclude, there is hope for this blood-stained world of ours.

I spent my sentient childhood knowing I was different. Not a fitter-in. I knew not the language to speak myself out, and thereafter to stand strong, too swamped in middle class beliefs, in how girls should (SHOULD) behave, whom is acceptable as a boyo, what is okay to wear, etc. My folks I judge not. They were of their time and, with four pretty girls, they were probably fraught as hell, and for years. So I was ‘just’ a rebel’ and without cause. And, that is true. I just reacted to any confinement with an energy I could not understand, nor process. So, I was labelled. There was a relaxo parental breath around that. Difficult, is one word I remember. In other words, I wasn’t their fault.

And, yet, my mouth can still label. Although I don’t like it at all, swipe at my lips and twitch my head in fury as I hear what I just said, I cannot deny it flowed out into the evening. And how do I feel? Initially smug. Oh god, God, gods, that is so not who I am now! Hmmmm, respond the god, God, gods, and I don’t blame them.

There is a lot of something around resolution. In music, I know it well, when even a naughty musician adds an extra bar, or fricks about with an elongated ending, and, (I’m avoiding the But), it is all about finding the warm security of the finite, of the landing, and of putting an end to this thing. In my young days, nobody wanted to stand out from the safety of the crowd, and, everybody wanted to stand out from the safety of the crowd. We were longing to be mongrels. We didn’t want the middle class confines, even as that life gave us security and privilege. In my day, to conjoin (OMG) with those who were not from our ‘level’ was anathema. Not to us, but we were wild, and, I am happy to say, even in our years, we still are, but now we have learned to speak, to stand, to rejink what we say, we will not judge, we will not, we will not and, more, because of the way we have learned our lives, spat out old beliefs, and found our own voices, we will stand and fight for inclusion and acceptance.

Authentically Mongrel. Did I just label myself?

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Island Blog – Sinklight, Ice and Curiosity

When I was a child, I broke a massive rule. Not one of us was allowed anywhere near a food source and that included the larder filled with delicious leftovers and the big Prestcold fridge, fatly green and bulging into the room like she needed all of the attention. At the top, there was a freezer mouth, with enough room for ice cream, home made lollies and not much else. One day, whilst not being watched, nor followed, which was rare, I opened said mouth and noticed a spill of orange juice from the lolly rack. I could not resist. My hot tongue came out in anticipation of a sweet lick.

You may well guess what happened next. My hot tongue met arctic ice and melded. I was stuck. I could not move. I couldn’t even cry out because cry outs depend on a free tongue and mine was absolutely not that. I don’t remember what happened next, although I do know that my suspicious mother would have been quick after me, no matter where in the house I had forayed alone. I am sure she was kind with warm water. I am also sure she was harsh with remonstrations. My tongue, my poor tongue, was half ripped apart by then, the sheer terror of being trapped my driver.

I do remember, inside that terror of being caught in flagrante, that I did pause to look deep into the void mouth of that fat-bellied Prestcold fridge. I saw, just for a few moments, an arctic landscape. In spite of my mother’s studious attention to levelling everything so she could dust/control it, I saw lift. There was no light in there beyond the backlight from the neon (oh dear) kitchen light, and the gusts of my panic breath, that altered the ice mountains ahead of me. I wondered what it would be like not to be stuck by the tongue, but, instead, free to roam those mountains. And they were mountains. A big grown up woman looking in might tut about needing to defrost, but me, on my tippytoes and absolutely stuck by the tongue saw different.

I like seeing different. Today has been a day of sinklight. Rain from dawn to dusk. Endless, confining, tongue twisting, stuck. We have many of these days, and many more to come. But, through that sinklight we can stand on tippytoe and move into the landscape. It isn’t what we think. It never is. With my vulnerable back to the room and my tongue stuck, therefore the whole of me stuck, I could choose. Panic or look in. I chose the latter, even knowing the butt whacks would come soon enough. I think that was the very first time I made such a choice and the power of it has never left me. Once a curious child learns to look beyond the situation it is like a whole new world opening up. There is this thing, this one thing and yet it is not just one thing at all. The difference is held within the hands of curiosity.

Obviously I am not still stuck to the ice. Obviously it hurt a lot and obviously I was gently melted off, possibly pre butt whacks, I don’t remember that bit. In the days of Now, I see many things that may look dire at first, that may ‘stuck’ me for a bit. But I have learned how to look again in curiosity and it serves me very well indeed. As I care for an ailing, failing husband, a whole lot of what I do might make you recoil in horror. It did for me, at first, but not now. Now I see beyond the obvious drama of it, deeper into the landscape, following with my eyes the contours of new land, ice land, desert land, rolling land or sea, skies that go on for ever. This is hope. This is faith. I am not stuck. Nor are you. It is all in the curious looking.

This is the only way to live.

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Island Blog – Repeat Daily

The way I see things when I am tired, stressed or fed up is never how they really are. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. In certain moods or when pressure feels heavy as a truck on my head, I slip into a weird world, one full of victims with me being the biggest. I am at the mercy of whatever comes my way; my seeing becomes slanted, ditto my hearing and my poor underused brain turns into an untethered disco ball. Instead of being inside this body, I am all over the place, running here and there like a headless hen.

And then the next day comes, the next songbird dawn, the new light, and what happened yesterday seems small and insignificant, solvable in a few simple steps. Why I couldn’t see it that way yesterday beyonds me. Yes, I was tired of repeating things, gently; yes I was upset about the rain getting into my post box; yes I was lonely and wondering when life would begin and yes I was pitching for a fight. I guess the nice lady from the Council, just doing her job, is fortunate I didn’t get to speak to her. I have no idea what she called about, beyond a vague and fluffy explanation (and even that word is too long to describe what I did learn). Are we still shielding? Are we allowed to see anyone and would that be from Now or from July 31st, and are we still getting the food deliveries? I know the answer to the last question having just learned it from a friend, but the rest, himself nodding and saying No and Yes and then No again could mean he has signed us up for a pilot mission to Mars. I guess I will find out eventually, if a space suit arrives by carrier.

My point is that, in my strong and right mind, I can see all the mild irritations and the intense enfuryments as just things colliding with my just thoughts and just feelings. I can step back, breathe, observe and quantify, deconstruct and take appropriate action. When in a compromised state of being, it looks and feels as if I am under attack from a mysterious, invisible band of mercenaries, with me in their sights. Of course, it would be impossible, being an ordinary extraordinary human woman, to sustain such a peaceful equilibrium at all times and in all sets of circumstance. life isn’t like that for any of us. Tsunamis will rise and threaten to destroy; rain will seep into post boxes, mushing paper and packaging, days will feel trudgemonkey and food will go off in the humid heat, just before I go to re-heat it for dinner. Life is not plain sailing and we all know that. But, if I can set up an inner programme of self-encouragement, write down uplifting affirmations to stick on walls, seek conversation with friends and read good guide books – if I eat well, exercise, laugh a lot, show kindness, share love and think more often of others that of myself, I will have prepared myself for anything that might come my way on any given day.

Which is what I am doing this day. One day at a time.

Repeat daily.