As a child I wrote a lot of stories. I don’t know where they are now – I think they got lost in the mess of parental divorce and multiple house moves. I think I got lost too.
In therapy and on dog walks and with writing (hour by hour, week by week, walk by walk, page by page) I have been finding the pieces of myself and inviting them to come back together again. Digging out the old stories… not physically finding the originals written on paper, inscribed into primary school exercise books… but locating the ones in my memories, the ones etched into my body and senses; liberated, a little more, every time I plod the perimeter of a field or meadow, pause to pay attention to birdsong, breathe in the dewy moss. Stop – sit – close my eyes and welcome in the images of the past… and ask what they’re trying to tell me…
One story in particular sticks out in my memory, it probably went a little something like this:
Once upon a time...there was an old painting of a farmhouse and a barn owl. This painting was in a cottage, where a little girl lived. She would walk past the painting, which was hung in the hallway, and would stop to gaze at it every day. She began to notice that each year, as she grew older, the owl would also look older and would move to different positions in the painting. At first, the owl was in a cherry tree next to the farmhouse, then the next year it had moved to thegatepost, thenit sat on the stable door, then perched on the edge of the wheelbarrow. The girl grew bigger, and older, each year, moving through her childhood, and the owl moved with her. In her eleventh year, the girl became gravely ill. She insisted on struggling down the stairs each day to see the painting, her mother and grandmother either side of her, holding each arm. The owl moved from the roof of the farmhouse, to inside, peering out through an upstairs window, looking extremely old. Eventually, the girl was no longer able to leave her bedroom. Her family were very worried, and feared the worst. They sat by her bedside every day. After she turned twelve, the girl became fretful and strained to speak. Her mother could only just make out the words, "The owl, where is the owl?" With her last breath, she murmured, "The owl in the picture". In her grief, her mother forgot all about the painting and the owl, until they were moving house and packing up the belongings. She stood in the hallway in front of the painting, about to take it down, but paused and stared into it. The owl had vanished completely.
‘We trust the page as a source of authority’, Clare Murphy says. While I tried to tell the owl story, I realised, with regret, that I couldn’t remember it very well at all. I am sure, therefore, that I have omitted and elaborated, rather a lot. I don’t remember, really, if the girl died, but I imagine there was a death of some kind, in this one of my many ‘morbid’ stories. There usually was. Stories help us to know ourselves and where we have come from; historically, personally and spiritually. We can grow through stories – telling and listening and sharing – and it helps me to not stick rigidly to the script, as I once did.
I wonder if anyone would want to listen to me tell my stories from the farm, what I remember of them, and what has been embellished. I have been stubbornly, guardedly, dependent on pen and page for as long as I can remember – keeping it all to myself, for the most part (except for the odd teacher, oh and letters to childhood ‘pen pals’ – I nearly forgot). Secret or not, writing has been a lifeline for me. Then I discovered relational risk-taking. The existence of an academic term for this, somehow gives me permission to take those vulnerable, exposing risks in relationships. Some, relationships.
Thanks to my ever present and trusting therapist, in recent years I have gained the confidence to read my writing out loud, to another, live, human person! I have a voice, and now I share it. Healing and healing and healing… from experiences that rendered me voiceless, powerless. I feel I am learning to talk, all over again, and learning to really, truly, listen. Learning to speak the truth about loss, and love. Learning to listen to those who I feel have taken up too much space in my mind, and tentatively trying to speak truthfully, to them. Learning to share experiences of living in Wales, and in the borderlands between Wales and England, with those I feel judged by; bridging generational and cultural gaps. I have important stories to tell, and so do they.
Vocal steps are being taken, small vociferous risks, gaining in strength and volume, pacing steadily up a mountain with each exhale, with every story, with every stride. To one day SHOUT from the top. A primal scream. Echoing through the valleys and caves. Meanwhile, recognising the safe and gentle places, spaces, people… when they appear – offer sanctuary – and learning to meet them in kind.
In some cultures, the stories tend to remain largely unchanged by the master storytellers and their apprentices, for example, in the ancient art of Rakugo in Japan, although apparently this is changing. Native American culture is also known for its rich oral tradition. ‘Each time a story is told, it breathes life into the culture… Their symbiotic connection to the earth and intimate relationships with the animals they depended on is also depicted through storytelling… often forcibly relocated to land that was not their own. Their customs, language and religion were ways for them to remain connected to each other and their homeland’; https://allgoodtales.com/storytelling-traditions-across-the-world-native-american/
I imagine families and communities from long ago, huddled around a fire telling stories. This is coming back, so I’m told, and plays a crucial part in the attempts to protect our natural world and our relationships with it and within it. I’m familiar with the Celtic storytelling traditions, although only just consciously recognising their value. I am also very drawn to Icelandic storytelling, with its ‘hidden people’ (do I actually remember ‘talking to fairies’ under the willow tree as a young child?). I visited Iceland towards the end of the pandemic, and experienced a profound connectedness there, as well as a powerful release of grief.
It is the end of winter in the UK, and finally it’s not so dark or cold! Though I’m sure the Icelanders would have something to say about me moaning over a ‘long’ winter.
Picture Icelanders living in turf longhouses sitting around smoky fire pits sharing stories and reading aloud to one another. Ancient myths, heroic quests, tragedies, comedies and lessons in life were all depicted in their traditional stories to keep spirits high… The stories of antiquity are allegorical accounts that teach their audience to respect both the spirits of the land, and the natural environment in which they reside…
A picture of course, can say a thousand words. But I’m no artist, so I’m sticking with the writing, and working on the speaking, and changing the script. And what if I change the owl story again, or write different versions of it? Alternative endings? I can do that, if I want to, it’s my story. What if the girl lives? A new, miracle, treatment is discovered! Nevertheless, the girl would have gone through a metamorphic experience – survived a terrible illness – been ‘at the edge of the everyday world’ (https://arnolfini.org.uk/whatson/previewrinkokawauchi/) and come back, changed, a tacit transformation, like the start of spring (which always takes me by surprise).
Maybe she would want to leave the farmhouse, perhaps live in a tall townhouse on the edge of a cosmopolitan city. She wouldn’t see barn owls anymore… or perhaps would – she could visit Granny in the countryside, even go to an owl sanctuary together! And what of the owl in the picture… would it disappear anyway?
Dig deep, linger longer, tell stories, make alliances.
Sometimes small things seem like big things and big things disguise themselves as small things, and we become obsessed with badgers (maybe that’s just me!)
My aim this autumn was to write something that’s light and quirky, with no particular agenda (other than badgers), and see what happens… and ideally, not focus on death. Then I saw a dead badger at the side of the road. The irony is, I haven’t seen a real live badger since 2008. It was waddling/scurrying quickly up a road near Alexandra Park in Bath, UK. What’s a waddle scurry? A wurry? It did seem worried. It also seemed to be struggling with the weight of it’s own body (I felt like that trying to get out of bed early this morning).
‘Badgers appear rather plump, but this is not fat. Rather, it’s muscle mass, and the creature is formidable if need be.’ This year I’ve taken long overdue steps to try to increase my muscle mass (advised by my therapist nearly 10 years ago). ‘Combine this with a powerful jaw, and you have a creature that can stand its ground when necessary.’ However, ‘…would rather find safety than fight, but if they’re cornered, they know their assets and use them effectively; this makes Badger a powerful ally when you are developing new attributes and endeavouring to increase self-sufficiency.’ (1)
Is this why I’ve been noticing badgers everywhere since deciding to become self-employed?
‘We’ve all heard the phrase, “Stop badgering me!”'(2). Badgers are considered tenacious, diligent and hard-working. They don’t give up easily! My mother often told me as a child that I wasn’t a ‘quitter’. I was also shy, so my not quitting was generally attributed to activities which I could hide behind; a musical instrument, a costume, a written story (busted!). Therefore, leaving my National Health Service job after 15+ years and putting myself out there as a sole trader, felt entirely unnatural to me. My inner badger has thankfully stepped up – giving me the confidence to work for myself; ‘naturally thrifty and somewhat of a loner’, ‘Badger offers strong grounding’ and ‘is “business first” regarding approaching a project’. (1) What a perfect combination!
‘Badger comes across gruffly. The energy here is not angry, however, but rather one of high expectations.’ (1) Not only does the badger keep me motivated to work (when I don’t have a boss to answer to), it also reminds me to carve out time for my personal pursuits. Badger is a storyteller (and wants to get really good at it!). Badgers dig for roots and herbs; revealing treasure in the earth. Very much in the here-and-now and ‘a creature of patience and fortitude’; my inner badger keeps me trudging along, snuffling amongst the mushrooms (like Mr Mushy, below), burrowing for inspiration in woodlands and forests and beaches and countryside near the sea. Searching for gold, or fossils. Alongside my ageing, ambling hound – who is on a very different search (for tennis balls), but checks in with me periodically as if to say, ‘how’s it going for you? Have you found what you’re looking for?’
‘Because of their rare ability to create cross-species relationships, badgers are also symbols of friendship.’ (2)
I had a friend at secondary school who was also slightly obsessed with badgers. She often exclaimed, ‘That’s the badger!’ – meaning she’d found something she was looking for, or I had clarified something she’d said, or as an acknowledgement of a friend expressing something very genuine. Badger’s are adaptable to various terrains and environments, and known for eating rotting fruit, which causes them to become intoxicated; a badger-like friend is a great drinking buddy. They can also bring attention to imbalance; in nature, in relationships, in work or sense of security. An important lesson I’m learning – with the help of the persistent presence of the badger – is that if I dig (into work, into trauma, into grief) too much, too far, for too long – I lose my friends… and my family relationships suffer too. As do my inner relationships; the balance of my inner system.
This year I discovered that in Al-Anon (3), one of the popular mantras is, ‘Look, but don’t stare’. This, I understand, relates to ones own distressing past experiences. Or, I suppose, those that other people are telling you about from their own pasts. I have a very visual mind (and a very vivid imagination): When somebody tells me something they have experienced, if I don’t catch myself, I immediately imagine it. I would like to extend the Al-Anon mantra to; ‘witness, don’t imagine’. Sometimes empathy can go too far, and be misguided. The jazz badgers (below) remind me to be alongside people without disappearing into their traumas, or my imagined versions of them.
Adventuring around my own imagined stories though, those are the journeys the badger really wants to get its teeth into. It wants to jump on a bus with no particular destination. There is so much more to experience, so much more to say, so much more to write…
‘If you have been laying low for a while, Badger’s appearance tells you it’s ok to come out now. Take your place in the spotlight. Don’t be shy – just go for it.’ (1)
My Dad once wanted to conquer the waves. He was very strong, possibly the strongest person I’ve ever known. Perhaps this was his burden to carry… until he couldn’t any longer. He fought cancer for over 10 years. He’s not coming back to life this time. I’m sure that’s hard for us all (his family and friends) to accept, in many ways, even though we wouldn’t wish his pain to continue any longer. I hope he was finally ready to go, and I wonder if he was waiting for us to be ready to let him go, although how could we really be ready for that?
At this point when I was jotting down these thoughts last week, a bird shat on my phone, from the tree I was standing under. And I swore at the bird… but then I thought, yeah, maybe you’re right and I am just talking shit! Anyhow. My Dad loved birds and I know that watching them on the bird feeders was one of his comforts during his long illness. My daughter made a hummingbird sun-catcher on St. Patrick’s Day, with her birthday craft set from her ‘Papi’. We’ll hang it in the window when we get home, for the sun to shine through and send colours around the room, reminding us of all the happy times we’ve shared together (with family), in Hull (Massachusetts), Hingham, Vermont, Colorado, Italy, Province-Town… and the multiple Thanksgiving-Christmasses with family and friends in the UK. And before that, my brother and I had many memorable and cherished times with our Dad in the Herefordshire countryside, at our childhood farm.
So, he was a farmer before he was a businessman, sailor, cowboy, cactus enthusiast, cigar collector, wine connoisseur… (what am I forgetting?). The memory of him being a farmer is kind of hazy and mystical – I just about remember him in his wellies, taking me out to the barn, on a snowy Christmas morning, to see a new born calf. (My Mum was the farmer really though!). I heard that as a child, he wanted to be a vet, often finding injured animals to nurse back to health. He was a lot of things, wore a lot of different hats. What I loved most though, was when he was just being Dad – hanging out, sharing a meal, watching movies together. The only thing I’m grateful for about his long illness, is that we got to hang out and watch a lot of movies!
Over the last few, more difficult years, my wonderful sister-in-law has been a huge support to me, and I know to my brother too. Thank you. And thank you (to my Stepmother) for being by his side, for so many years, so many long nights. I am so grateful too, for my father’s generosity, and his open, non-pressurising encouragement, of whatever I wanted to do. Both of which have opened many doors for me, literally and figuratively.
But what I was getting at before, was, that I need to let him go now. I’ve missed him all my life, as he’s often been away… or there has been an ocean in the way. And although I want him to feel powerful and free again – on the open ocean, or galloping on a horse over the Rocky Mountains – I also like to imagine that he’s crossing the water to come and see us, one last time, to enjoy the British spring with us, before passing through to go off on some new, wild adventure.
So I’ve chosen this short poem to finish, by Billy Collins (3);
Walking Across the Atlantic
I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach before stepping onto the first wave.
Soon I am walking across the Atlantic thinking about Spain, checking for whales, waterspouts.
I feel the water holding up my shifting weight. Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.
But for now I try to imagine what this must look like to the fish below, the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.
T.S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding,” Four Quartets (Gardners Books; Main edition, April 30, 2001) Originally published 1943.
Collins, B. (2002) ‘Walking Across the Atlantic’, from The Apple That Astonished Paris(1988), in Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems, Random House Trade Paperback, New York.
This could have been called ‘Following the Shards of Light’. I deliberated over this for a long time. Shard implies sharp, a fragment, brittle, broken, dangerous (maybe), a weapon. Remnants of demolition – or war – or a bar fight. It is also a building in London of course. Not really the angle I was going for, but in the background nonetheless. How fortunate to have violence or war in the background rather than on the doorstep. Yet it affects us deeply, whether we want it to or not.
And what does shaft mean anyway? An NYPD detective from 1989? (Bear with me). It depends in what context, I realise.
The shaft of a feather, for example; ‘The long, slender central part of the feather that holds the vanes. It’s like the mast that holds the sails.’ (1)
Or, ‘a long, narrow, typically vertical hole that gives access to a mine, accommodates a lift in a building, or provides ventilation.’ (2) This reminds me of my brother doing a very convincing imitation of “What’s that Skip, the kids have fallen down the old mine shaft?” (3)
Quite a jumpy and haltering start to this season’s post. Fleetingly this came to mind – shaft, as in, male genitals. Again, not the direction I was intending to take. Finally, I resisted the distractions and focused in on this; a ‘beam’ or ‘ray’ of light, which is more what I was getting at. So in this case, shaft has to accompany sunshine for its meaning to work in the context of what I am writing about – attempting to anyway.
Now the procrastination is out the way…
In early January, I enjoyed walking in the sunshine, with my dog of course. It didn’t take long for the options of sun on the ground to diminish and become sparse – much to my disappointment after our predominantly grey and rainy December in the UK. Stripy shards of light appeared between the trees and I was compelled to walk along as many of them as I could, to stay in the sun (and out of the shadow) for as long as possible, even if it meant clambering through a holly bush. Ouch! Nomar was oblivious to my quest, effortlessly weaving around the trees and bushes, in and out of light and shadow; his tail taking on a rapid figure of eight motion, as if it might propel him into the sky.
This Christmas just passed, relationships with relations felt fractured beyond my imagining. Shards of family. Or have we all simply stopped trying so hard to patch up the cracks? A façade of togetherness on both sides of my divorced childhood ‘family’, has existed for longer, further back, than I was able to acknowledge until mid-adulthood. Yet the attempts at unity persisted. Two separate togethernesses (I know, it’s not even a word!). Year after year after year.
Now that these attempts feel sluggishly irresolute, due to protracted terminal illness, infidelity, mental illness, neurodiversity and other barriers to effective communication – the threads wearing thinner and thinner and more frayed – I wonder what purpose and value they had before, and why they felt so important. I am in new territory, new tracks to be trodden – attempting to find my own way. I am an adult, have been for a while now, with my own small family unit; desperate for this to feel enough. And for me to feel ‘good enough’ (e.g. Winnicott; 4) for it.
I wrote about making new tracks many years ago when I first started ‘Psychodography’. An analogy to consciously working on new neural pathways in the brain… new habits, new conversations with Self and others, uncovering and acknowledging. I was referring to clients I worked with as a trainee Counsellor; people who were deep into major transitions in their lives – finally getting support for addiction, and by default, for the traumas which had led to the addictions and the further traumas caused by them. This struck me as immensely brave and worthy of the utmost respect. Digging into and exposing their hidden traumas and losses without the soothing, masking substance(s) or compulsion which had kept them going, and harmed them and their relationships of course, for most of their lives thus far.
‘We can hardly bear to look. The shadow may carry the best of the life we have not lived. Go into the basement, the attic, the refuse bin. Find gold there. Find an animal who has not been fed or watered. It is you!! This neglected, exiled animal, hungry for attention, is a part of your self.’
(Marion Woodman; 5)
There have been big endings and losses for me this month – the old painter I mentioned last time – and others. New beginnings and transitions too… and the usual things remaining the same; piles of laundry, running late for the school run, not knowing what to make for dinner. The combinations of usual and unusual, predictable and surprising; bringing both comfort and trepidation; mundanity and solace; nostalgia and giddy excitement.
These esoteric contrasts reflect in the magical qualities of winter, which are always there if you look for them. The long nights speckled with flurries of soft snow. Shimmering… in the moonlight. Frost and moss. A pair of pigeons snuggling into the ivy clad tree, while pale clouds race overhead. Eerie bright light framed by a moody grey sky, the very tips of the budding trees almost glowing luminescently.
The mystery feather which appears in the most unlikely place.
A single golden leaf yet to depart from its familiar branch.
Procrastination, as mentioned earlier, can be considered a reaction to grief and trauma. There’s so much on the internet about this, I managed to go down several worm holes and crawl out having not been able to make decision about which one to include here. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to find what I need there. What I need is in the woods, the meadows, the streets, the friendly hellos with fellow dog walkers, sensations in my body, images in the mind’s eye, the childrens’ laughs, the people I meet through my work whom I would otherwise never meet, the space between us in the therapy room, the candle before bed.
Here is a hotchpotch collection of autumnal musings and playing around with ideas, images and words, no doubt quite clumsily. This is inspired by a nearly 90 year old artist I know, who has dementia. Over the past year, he has transformed in painting style; from striving for perfection most of his life, to whimsically experimenting with the abstract and semi-surreal. ‘Why not?’ He says. ‘I’m enjoying myself!’
Meanwhile, my father settles into a hospice far away. The beginning of the end. He was once a young man with obsessions, and a thirst for head-spinning, wild adventures. New versions of himself emerging and retreating, almost with the tides. He can’t run from himself anymore, he has to stay in one place now, and I’m not there. I wasn’t going to write about him this time, but I can’t help it. I wish I could pop in to see him, give him a hug, have a cup of tea.
To love means to embrace and at the same time to withstand many endings, and many many beginnings – all in the same relationship.
Women Who Run With the Wolves (1)
My autumn began back at Callington Road Nature Reserve, with the Michaelmas daisies, ferns and firethorn bushes. My dog leads the way – winding footpaths, snags on brambles, a hum of traffic with not a car in sight; on account of the dense musky-sweet foliage packed into this small, secret patch of wilderness. It is here that last year my daughter said, “I feel like Tarzan! To be honest I always feel like Tarzan. Tree world is my home”. This year she is already starting to act like a teenager; surly and stubborn. Next, she’ll stop climbing trees, start surfing the web, dodging disembodied predators. In my day, they had faces and bodies, would get you drunk or drugged in bars and pubs. At least there was something physical, somewhat known; albeit beguiling, and then out of control in an instant, but still with the slim possibility of escape. Like a flame in the night, a blazing furnace, and then if you’re lucky – bare feet on snow, running, like a wolf. But how does one escape from the ether? How do I prepare her for what trickery there is to come?
Back to the comfort of familiar local parks. Ponderings and wonderment under the autumn tree – each leaf fluttering in emancipation from the branch and afforded one wild dance, as it spirals and loops its way down to its neighbours, who are resting on the yellow, orange, gold and peach circular rug around the base of the tree – a select few giving my head and shoulders a gentle pat as they pass over my still body sitting on my favourite bench.
A few brief encounters over the past few months, got me thinking about how we hide our wildness, and whether some of us express it via our dogs. Noticing ironical dog-owner pairings and their paradoxical behaviours: The silent, shy goth with a dissonant Dachshund. The aloof, angular teen with a snuffling, roly-poly Pug. The wide-eyed, wiry, timid recluse with a half-blind, bellicose, bulbous Bassett-hound. And me, reserved and polite while my dog plays the fool with a puppy in the park, despite his arthritis. I took my dog to a few sessions with my previous therapist and he tried to sit on her lap. I was both amused and embarrassed. I wonder now though, what he was communicating that I couldn’t. I’d love to hear if people have other examples of this. There’s plenty of research about similarities between dogs and their owners and both expressing similar emotions, but I can’t find anything yet about the opposite.
I welcome autumn this year, with it’s fresh energy to spur on the little bit of acumen I need for new ventures and transitions. And this week, the shining full moon seems to spark something to life in my psyche. Though as I anticipate the last leaves falling and the enthusiasm waning, and make preparations for the long, cold, dark nights ahead; the year thus far reverberates around the recesses of my mind. The meaning of love, and what happens to tarnish love. Love and rage, love and shame, love and refrain. Love and loss, love and blocks.
Love has many faces. And if you love, you have to be strong enough to look upon all of them.
‘When we do our work together and parts that clients have been afraid of most of their life–parts that feel like actual monsters or demons–suddenly can’t do anything to them’
(IFS Institute; 1)
Last summer I took this photo (above) whilst drinking a cocktail in a bar. I went on to drink several more before dinner. I then drank wine during dinner. Then after dinner, I had a few pints of beer in a pub, in between swaying in front of a classic jukebox, before engaging in several intense emotion-fueled conversations with strangers, which at the time felt life-changing and are now barely memorable. In the early hours of the morning, I puked all over my brand new trousers and was carried to bed. I don’t do this very often (buy new trousers or puke on them), anymore.
This summer I’ve been experimenting with IFS (Internal Family Systems). I am learning more about my ‘parts’ with the help of my plants. Three plants in particular have caught my attention:
Monstera Adansonii – Swiss Cheese Plant; ‘Monstera leaf holes are a by product of originating in the rainforest, where vegetation above blocks sunlight. So the holes are to allow sunlight to get to the bottom leaves as well as the top.’ (A Beautiful Mess; 2)
Tradescantia Zebrina – Silver Inch Plant; ‘Wandering dude plants can handle a very wide range of temps, making it perfect for those chillier windowsills that your other plants may not appreciate’ (Garden Betty; 3)
Ceropegia Woodii – String of Hearts; ‘…the Rapunzel of houseplants…your string of hearts will remain as charming as any fairy tale protagonist,’ (Gardeners Path; 4)
In the middle of spring I left an emotionally taxing job as a grief counsellor – ‘it’s taking it’s toll on your heart’, I was told by my partner. I started buying small house plants. Easier to care for plants than people’s hearts. They can’t say what they need though… (can we?). For most of my adolescent and adult life, I have attempted to look after plants by means of trial and error and guesswork. Giving them the bare minimum of care and hoping they don’t die – then compensating by over-watering for a while. This time I’m attempting to properly research what each individual plant needs, as well as to generally be attentive to them and tune into my instincts; with the little bit of extra time and head space I now have in my week. I still have my NHS job and two young children, so luckily the plants I chose are not very fussy and are tolerant of some neglect (a bit like me!).
Setting aside some time to find out the bespoke personalities of my plants, has proved to be rewarding and intriguing; as I attempt to care for them, deliberately and tenderly. As usual, my garden plants have become somewhat wild and unruly, growing and changing so fast in the summer months and taking over the small garden (a bit like my children!) I’ve given up trying to tame them. Meanwhile, I’m developing a more deliberate, delicate and tender approach to attending to the ‘parts’ of my own personality. “Through IFS we can learn to trust ourselves, and trust our own inner guidance.” – Richard Schwartz, founder of IFS. I hope this is true. Nevertheless, I don’t think I would be trying this without my established relationship with my wonderful therapist, and we’re starting to incorporate these methods into our sessions together, which is exciting. Perhaps it could work to have a supervisor who speaks a similar ‘parts’ language, or another trusted person, to talk it through with; for clients and/or therapists alike.
I’ve often noticed I go through phases of getting bored and compulsively buying new things. I know I’m not alone in this, but my partner’s frugal upbringing in a large family rings through in his disapproval. I try to keep this part of me in check. Furthermore, I have a lot less money now, than my parents had when I was growing up. So when I saw that the local charity shop was having a plant sale – I was there in a flash! I used to have just a few houseplants and mostly focused on growing fruits and vegetables outdoors; this was pre-children of course, and slugs and snails have sabotaged my efforts more times than I care to remember. This year I have turned my attentions indoors – a bit of a U-turn from where this blog started, out walking with my dog, and a surprise to be focusing more inside; I spent most of the pandemic wishing I was anywhere but home. It is a new experience for me to be so attentive to plants purely for the enjoyment of them, not for any other purpose. It’s not so new to be exploring my inner world, although I haven’t approached it in quite this way before.
The three plants described above are the only plants I have in hanging pots, on display, as it were. One is in the front room window; my ‘mini monster’. I used to have a much bigger monster – a huge cheese plant which nearly took over my small flat. This was at a time in my life when I felt the most scared; adjusting to living alone having just turned 18, and sometimes making dubious choices about who I invited into my home. The ‘mini monster’ seems less imposing than my old big one, although it is expanding at quite a rate. I find myself worrying that it might get too big. What is too big? Will it respond well to being pruned, I wonder. It is thriving in that spot and I’m reticent to move it – I imagine that it watches over the street for us. I bought the plant during the depths of January when I was embarking on more trauma work; ‘take your monsters with you’ I was advised in supervision. I took this to mean, embrace your own past traumas and inner demons, harnessing them into compassionate courage. Let the light shine through to the darker places. No easy task… regular cultivation required. I have strange feelings in relation to this plant – the sense of fiercely guarding a raging, righteous fury and simultaneously containing, tempering… an exuberant spirit which knows no bounds. Both – either – would be too much if released. That is the fear. What is less clear is whether this entity is the pot or the plant. I suppose the guard is the pot, trying to contain the plant’s daunting encroachment into the world.
As I write this, I feel uncomfortable, unnerved. A great effort and a strain. Heavy fog seeps down through my forehead and settles stubbornly behind my eyes. I don’t even need to drink anymore to get this hungover feeling: According to the IFS model, this could be a ‘protective part’, a type of dissociation which makes my feelings inaccessible when it is deemed necessary. Ok, so I see how the foggy feeling might come in handy at times, but a hangover usually succeeds a freeing gregariousness which is rarely achievable for me whilst sober – unless singing to 90s tunes, alone, in my car.
Plant number two: My ‘wandering zebra’, as I’m calling it, started off in the kitchen/diner area – the central hub of the house. Zebras remind me of my daughter for some reason – maybe because she is strong, bold and fast. I moved the plant to the upstairs bathroom window and soon after, into a corner of my bedroom because the leaves were wilting. I wish I hadn’t moved it in the first place, it seemed fine where it was, but the ‘String of Hearts’ has now taken it’s original place. Studying the zebra stripes stimulates a sense of opposing forces – a paradox, or perhaps two ends of a spectrum. Is it fear and desire? Needing to withdraw and desperate to be close to another. Are these polarities or two parts? The plant seems dormant in the corner of my bedroom, languid perhaps. I just looked up the word;
‘a few languid dancers swayed about on the dance floor without much enthusiasm’
Merriam-Webster
I feel guilty. This pops into my head; “Nobody puts Baby in a corner”. Ha! A part of me who enjoys cheesy 80s films perhaps. I smile. I’m tempted to take the plant for a walk, or a dance, sort of parade it around the house. I lied earlier, I can sometimes be gregarious in front of others; I dance around the kitchen in front of my children, occasionally when my husband is there too, without caring too much what I look like. The moment I feel like I’m showing off though… I shut myself down. And if I let slip even the hint of a flirt with a friend or stranger… forget about it – fun over! This is feeling increasingly like two parts; one who wants to break free, be confident to express myself/itself and connect with others. Another who fears this part becoming promiscuous, dangerous, taking it too far and making a fool of myself, or herself – I’m learning new IFS vocabulary. There’s still a fear of vulnerability to exploitation or humiliation (understandable given my teenage traumas; please see ‘Stepping Out’), and so this part of me lays on the criticism and shaming tactics to revert back to being shy and reserved – safe.
Then a third element comes in; I worry that I come across as aloof, even rude. I worry that I’m a loner, that people don’t like me and think I’m awkward or weird. The criticism descends either way, and I worry about the weirdness either way too – whether I’m being expressive or not. I can’t win! An exhausting balancing act. It’s not safe to be alone anyway of course, we’re social beings, safety in numbers. I often feel most at ease in a crowded place where the atmosphere is light and fun, like an outdoor music event; this is especially enjoyable if people are fooling around, being silly – in a harmless way – and I feel it’s ok, appropriate, to do the same. I like being around others, and as Adriene (from Yoga with Adriene) says, “keep it weird”, so I have permission.
In some cultures, the zebra’s stripes are a symbol of harmony and balance such as in Native American shamanism (5). What’s more, the stripes are totally unique to each individual zebra, like fingerprints for humans. Maybe I’ll try another position for the plant – near the bedroom window perhaps. That way it’ll get more light and the striking silvery/green and purple leaves will be seen when I walk into my bedroom or lie on my bed. My association with the plant feels familiar and at the same time quite cryptic. I don’t know if this makes any sense.
There is another quality associated with this plant – if I focus less on how it looks and more on how it behaves; the wandering part… this reminds me of my ability to easily root and thrive in different environments. I moved house every year for nearly ten years in my late teens and twenties. During summer breaks from University, I sofa surfed or stayed in cheap pubs, basically living out of my car. My friends were always impressed by my skill and speed at making a room cosy and homely. At the moment though, it feels like I’m nesting – but with no intention of having any more children, just more plants. During my thirties I’ve become so deeply rooted where I live, that I fear becoming ripped apart if I were to move. Even so, that tingly, itchy feet feeling crops up from time to time, and a yearning for something bigger than my Bristol bubble. Passion is perhaps a more accurate description than promiscuity. The zebra waits to wander the grasslands again.
Finally, String of Hearts – I can’t seem to work out what it needs! The leaves feel paper thin, pale and wan looking. At times I feel concerned that it’s dying. It’s supposed to not be fussy; tolerant of neglect, but I sense that it needs attention – needs to be seen, admired for it’s adorable leaves. Moved into the hub of the house and it seems to have had a personality transplant. It’s loving life! Numerous tiny new bright green leaves are sprouting through. Cute, miniature flowers are forming. It is flourishing. Looking increasingly like a small green Rapunzel. I find the plant enchanting and want to spend time with it. Part of my reason for leaving one of my part-time jobs was to spend more time with my young son before he starts school. This has led to what feels like an extra loving and affectionate response from him – lots of cuddles and frequently saying things like, ‘Mum, you’re so lovely and adorable’. I feel my heart swelling in these moments. Interestingly, I was with my son when I bought this plant.
What I am tentatively learning to do, I think, is experience those heart swell moments for myself… for the young, vulnerable or adorable parts of myself. When I was three, apparently I went through a phase of ‘insisting’ on solely wearing pink frilly dresses. I found this hard to believe when I first heard about it, so unlike me and dissimilar to anything I remember about myself. I couldn’t connect with it. But yes, at some point, I wanted to be a Princess! Part of me cringes at this. I recall a popular girl at school who I thought of as ‘girly’. I was mean about her to my friends; I said her laugh sounded like a guinea-pig. This was unusual for me – other girls often commended me for not being “bitchy”, that I didn’t “slag people off”. So this girl must have really triggered something in me. I couldn’t understand why everyone liked her so much! I would ponder this on the school bus home, listening to ‘Alice In Chains’ on my Walkman. Lately though, I’ve been rediscovering the colour pink and I’ve noticed myself adding hearts to text messages (as people often do these days). I didn’t even add kisses to any messages until this was pointed out to me at University, when my housemates called me ‘the Ice Queen’.
My son has been suggesting that we put slices of cucumbers on our eyes and relax together – he has seen this on ‘Gabby’s Dollhouse’ – so the other day, we did it! He relaxed with the cucumbers for all of 30 seconds and then wanted to move onto the next thing. I was reluctant to end the pampering session. To be fair, it’s hotter than ever, even though the summer is over. The cucumber was so cool and refreshing. These heat waves before and after the summer. Disconcerting. On the other hand, it’s given me a bit more time to get this finished – an Indian summer post – and at least it’s taken my mind off the devastation occurring in the wider world due to extreme weather. It seems a luxury to have procrastination as an option – there has been a lot of it with this post, especially the zebra plant bit.
This IFS experimentation is puzzling and at times feels emotionally precarious. Yet it seems to have aroused a new-fangled self-discipline, as well as self-love. Is this courage? I’m on a bit of a health kick in general. I often focus so much on trying to care for my mind that I sporadically forget to care for my body – and it’s a whole package right? I’m discovering that the IFS approach is a lot to do with tuning into the body, as well as to those internal conversations – the chatter – which we so often try to distract ourselves from. 8 days into 30 days yoga (with Adriene, the ‘home’ series) and also 8 days into a sober September, and a long way to go. Wish me luck! I’ve never done the dry January thing (apart from when I was pregnant and I don’t think that counts), it always seems a terrible choice of month to stop drinking and get healthy; is it a coincidence that January tends to have the highest suicide rate in the West? Why add more pressure to an already challenging time of year? (When I wrote this I’d completely forgotten about Sober October!)
It’s not like I’m a heavy drinker these days, not often. However, the frequency crept up again during the pandemic and a psychological dependence began to regain its grip. It was always my drug of choice, along with sex, (from an alarmingly young age) – both of which have been enjoyable and harming, in varying degrees, at various times of my life. My father is nearing the end of his ten year battle with cancer, and it is only now that he has stopped drinking alcohol, because his body literally can’t stomach it anymore. I’d like to try it sooner than that. Does getting shit-faced make Mama happy? I think not. Time for a different approach.
I didn’t actually mind the bulk of the summer being wet and windy… more time indoors with my plants. Although I did enjoy local, small-scale traipsing around in wellies with kids and dog, paddling through streams, and blackberry picking together.
‘May the breeze blow new strength into your being, and may you believe in the courage of yourself…‘
I used to be a huge Pearl Jam fan. This started around age 12, I think, and their music carried me through the rockiest years of my life. This song (above) came on while I was driving the other day. I later looked up the lyrics; a habit that has stayed with me since early adolescence. I came across this, written by the bassist Jeff Ament,
It’s a little bit reflecting on where I came from…I grew up in really rural area in Northern Montana, and [“Nothing As It Seems” is] looking back at [that]. I think until two or three years ago, I looked back at my childhood as being a fairly utopian situation where I had the freedom to ride my bike around town when I was five years old, and my parents didn’t have to worry… there have been some things that have kind of allowed some darker things to come to the surface of my childhood, seeing things that I had kind of selectively forgotten for my own mental health or whatever.
My own rural childhood on a small farm, in subsequent memory; felt like a vast expanse of time and space. It occurred to me recently that I was there for just over 10 years. I’ve been living in my current house for just over 10 years too and I have lived in Bristol for 17 years and I have lived in cities for nearly 30 years… if you can count Hereford as a city; it is technically, but one of the smallest cities in the UK. Yet I still consider myself a country girl at heart. Time of course, feels different for a child, and the formative years are unquestionably defining. I don’t remember much of them though… who does? I don’t know what my earliest memory is. I have always had such a vivid imagination, such that whatever I’ve been told about myself, my child self – an elaborate image has been created in my head to go with the story. One of those stories was not even true, so I have a false memory. This ‘memory’ is of dropping my dummy (pacifier) on the ground and the chickens rushing in, surrounding me, pecking frantically at my dummy. This didn’t happen! This was what I was told happened because, I assume, my parents thought it was time for me to not have a dummy anymore (I imagine myself as one of those toddlers always with a dummy in my mouth – like Maggie Simpson). I’ve heard that these days, some young children are encouraged to post their dummy through a letterbox when they get to a certain age; three or four or whatever.
I guess all parents have different ideas about how to support their children through life’s transitions. Some parents, for example, think that ancient statues are pornography and that school Principles should be fired for teaching such iconic artwork to Sixth Graders. Or is that just ‘fake news’?
I digress. The ‘utopian’ part of my childhood, I suppose, was to do with having a lot of freedom to roam around the farm; spend time with animals, make dens in the woods, hack through undergrowth like it was a jungle, walk the perimeter of a field at sunset while the lambs performed their early evening races. Let my mind wander with my feet. This is what I try to recreate, when I get the chance. My dog keeps me company while I get lost in… or come back to? …my thoughts and sensations. Quite a different environment to the farm on the fringes of a small hamlet. I often wander along the river, and worry as I notice the subsidence beneath the new tower blocks, which are under construction on the river bank. Then I am pleasantly surprised at the street art, which has had an upgrade compared to five or so years ago – top of the list is the cheeky ‘Burglar Bill’ (one of my son’s favourite stories). I eventually wind my way back through Arnos Vale cemetery of course… sometimes with sadness, other times with curiosity, less and less with rage and once in a while, with playfulness.
Since my winter post, ‘Thank You & Goodbye’, I have felt resistant to continuing with (what has become) this seasonal blog. It is now pretty much the end of spring and I’m struggling to finish it off, although it’s been whirring away in the recesses of my mind for months, years. Breaking free and taking shape, in glimpses, in my conscious thoughts, whenever I roam with Nomar. I guess I haven’t done enough roaming this spring. Can I blame the weather? I find myself questioning what I meant by ‘thank you and goodbye’. Was I playing with the idea of stopping, I wonder. Stopping writing altogether? No, surely not. I need it, I really do. It brings me back together again. But writing for others to read… I’m not sure what my purpose is in that respect. I think I have known at times. Right now I don’t. I’m giving it a go anyway, because I like to stick to a plan – a post for every season.
Spring seemed fairly tentative this year, given the unusually cold weather. I entered this year wishing Christmas time would last a little longer; I haven’t felt that since I was a child, way before my parents’ acrimonious divorce. Then there was a lot of waiting… for spring. I struggle with the in-between times, or so I tell myself. The waiting, the limbo, is compounded moreover by the pervasive knowledge of my father’s cancer; detained yet again by yet another new treatment. And the absence. And the distance. What next? What to do with this extra ‘precious’ time, from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. I don’t like the in-between times; I like the middle of the season, or so I thought. Even the relied upon constants of the seasons feel precarious this year. More so each year that passes. And the constants I came to rely on in meeting up with my father and family at certain times each year, have all but gone. We met three or four times a year, almost as reliable as the seasons, until the pandemic… and the aftermath of parched, brittle, cracking relationships.
My mind meanders back to spring last year. I took a brief trip away with Nomar, my dog. I had spent a whole weekend away with him towards the end of 2016, when I needed a break – space – time to myself; and it became so much more. The weekend was a truly transformative experience (please see ‘The Experiment’ if you want to know more). This time I was leaving more responsibilities than before: My second child; less than a year old when the pandemic started – seems to struggle when I’m not around, or so I perceive it. I think I struggle more than before with not being at home too, somewhat institutionalised by lockdowns. Nevertheless, I plucked up some courage and booked a B&B near the Quantocks; planning to find the waterfall in St Audries Bay, near Kilve. Nothing spectacular, not too far from home. It felt wise, or comforting, to temper my ambitions on this trip – only slightly resigned, and a little regretful that I had not ventured to see a breathtaking waterfall when I was in Iceland the summer before.
“Quantock country will not appeal to those who admire only the magnificent and grandiose,”
(Berta Lawrence)
Fine by me! Still somewhat in a Covid fog, much less confident, more afraid of everything and easily overwhelmed. In fact, as soon as I arrived at the B&B I nearly went straight home. I was met by multiple dogs guarding the place; the alpha was old, half blind and snarling. Not a person in sight. I had told my son (age two at the time) that he couldn’t come with me because it was a dog hotel – it turned out I wasn’t lying. I’m not usually put off by dogs, but this was too much even for me. Nomar stayed firmly within the safety of the car boot. Luckily a ruddy faced older woman appeared to welcome us in, assuring us not to mind the gnarly canine bearing it’s teeth. We edged past him, backs against the wall, and were shown to our room. An enthusiastic spaniel called Kevin also helped to put us at ease. The lady said she could tell I was a country girl and invited me to come back the following year to help with the lambing. I really thought I would return, but of course I haven’t.
Once our overnight stuff was settled in the room, Nomar and I braved the treacherous walk through the hallway, past Cerberus* and out of the farmhouse door, so we could set out to complete our (my) mission. I thought I was determined to find the waterfall, however I drove along the same road, back and forth, several times – feeling uncertain about where to leave the car. I finally parked in a large lay-by in front of an obvious public footpath entrance to the woods. Regardless, I had the feeling I was doing the wrong thing. Looking back now, I really don’t know what I was so worried about. The walk down to the beach involved passing through a holiday park, where I felt inordinately shifty as I snuck between static caravans and scurried down the steep steps to the bay. I felt like a criminal! I came to realise that I could have paid a small amount of money to leave my car in the holiday park car park, to access the beach with complete legitimacy. But I couldn’t think straight, with the fog of excessive inner conflict, even of being away from my home/family in the first place. Was this predominantly due to the bewildering effects of lockdown management? I kept thinking; am I breaking the rules? Then later, I reflected on the added impact of being in a new job for a year and still struggling to settle, plus the thrill, diffidence, turmoil, promise… associated with starting a new process with a new therapist.
Once on the beach I felt safer. I could breathe. Nomar slalomed the water’s edge, moving away and coming back to me, repeatedly. The damp pitter patter, so predictable, reliable, familiar and comforting. I gazed out at the grey sea. A hint of cloud highlighted the unexpected variety of colours, shapes and textures – a mixture of flat pebbles, sand, shingle and rock… intriguing curved cave crevices, lines of old posts, wave-cut terraces. I counted the posts, the shapes – three, four. Oranges, greys; layers upon layers of difference in the cliff, even a small patch of black sand beneath a tiny waterfall – a miniature Iceland.
When I was actually in Iceland, and in the highly anxious build up to Covid travelling, I thought I needed to see a huge waterfall… to imagine the trials of the pandemic washing away, rushing away, with great force. At St Audries, I saw a tall, thin, wonderful waterfall – kind of magical. Gentle. I stood in the misty spray, smiling. I walked out to the furthest point I could into the sea, out along one of the static waves of rock. Someone was calling me, three or four times, as I stood there trying to soak it all in. Are you kidding me? I thought. Is there no peace for me? In hindsight though, why didn’t I just turn my phone off, even for an hour or two.
In recent months I have come across the term “thin places”, which refers to a place of a particular type of energy, that has a thin veil between this world and the eternal world; between life and death; between earth and heaven (depending on one’s beliefs):
They are stopping places where men and women are given pause to wonder about what lies beyond the mundane rituals, the grief, trials and boredom of our day-to-day life. They probe to the core of the human heart and open the pathway that leads to satisfying the familiar hungers and yearnings common to all people on earth, the hunger to be connected, to be a part of something greater, to be loved, to find peace.
This was something of my experience of Iceland. And when I look at a world map at the part which shows the UK and North America, with the Atlantic Ocean in-between, and Iceland slightly north… I see a sort of triangle. My father and I met in the in-between place, north a bit, after such a long time apart.
The Quantocks did not feel like a “thin place”, which was fine. I wondered if the Quantocks might be boring and whether this was what I was craving,
“The beauty lies in the simplicity – and the variety only in changes wrought by the cycle of the seasons…” (Berta Lawrence)
A year in with my therapist and I found myself feeling bored of my own voice, going over the same old past stuff. A feeling of ‘what’s the point?’ Shouldn’t I be over all this by now? This makes me laugh at myself because I recently delivered a seminar about ‘ambiguous loss’ and ‘prolonged/disenfranchised grief’. When a feeling of boredom comes into therapy, as a client or a therapist, the thinking is that this is telling us something important, that it’s something to be curious about,
Boredom covers for all of these feelings. Because who wants to be angry at work, self-conscious at a party, or lonely at home? … I’ll provide a space to let out the anger, the frustration, the sadness, the hopelessness, the whatever, and see that it’s not going to push me away. That it’s not going to destroy them
My parents often got bored and changed things – house moves, holidays, pets. There were several holidays which stood out; some disastrous, others just strange and unnerving. During one holiday in Italy, when I was about 6, my mother stayed in the hotel room for the entire week. My father would take my brother and I down to the pool every day and two friendly young men (?late teens, early twenties) lifted us onto their shoulders in the pool, so we could wrestle each other in the air, each attempting to push the other into the shining water below. This may have happened on just one day, but I still remember their names. On another day my Dad decided to take us for a run. The heat of the day was stifling and I had a stitch. We came across a man doubled over at the side of the road – he was having a heart attack. I don’t remember but I assume my father summoned help. We were staying in an old villa. At the end of the corridor outside our room was a large cracked mirror. I was scared of it. I couldn’t look at it and would run past as fast as I could, heart racing. I think this holiday represents my first sense that something in my family was broken.
As I reached the halfway point on my second walk in the Quantocks, around Hawkridge reservoir, one of my walking boots broke – the sole came right off. I managed to carry on anyway and complete the walk, somehow. I met some friendly, peaceful horses in a field on the way back; they seemed to say, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, shame about the boot. Good luck!’. The evening before, Nomar and I went to a pub called ‘The Friendly Spirit’ where I had pie and chips and a pint of beer. I shared the pub with a large group of heavily tattooed and muscled men, watching rugby on a big screen. They kept apologising for being loud. They seemed puzzled by my presence. Upon leaving, whilst crossing a pleasing bridge over a brook, I overheard a teenage conversation and felt compelled to capture snippets of it; “You know the truth, what’s the point in denying it or accepting it! …why don’t you hashtag – I’ll punch you in the face” (girl carrying 3 large bags of crisps and 2 large slabs of chocolate).
Devoid of suitable footwear, I decided to drive up to Will’s Neck before heading back to Bristol – very low on fuel, it was a risky decision. Worth it though to walk along the ancient drovers’ road:
There’s something antediluvian about walking on this unmade track. If you’ve seen Lord of The Rings movies and you want to feel what it might be like to be in such a world – try taking a turn along this prehistoric trail. Ancient gnarled beeches are a feature of the wide rutted road and somehow it’s easy to imagine Somerset’s answer to a bunch of Hobbits marching along here.
My Mum and Dad were big fans of the Lord of The Rings books and I remember listening to the audiotapes on long car journeys. Gollum’s voice still haunts me, in a fond way. I didn’t hang around long on the Quantock Ridge however. Not seeking an other-worldly experience this time, contrary to the qualities of my childhood rural roaming. Rather I sought to settle myself and I’m not sure that I achieved it. Apparently on a clear day, the 360 views up there offer a glimpse of the new Severn Bridge and beyond it, the Brecon Beacons; I imagine my present fading into my past with the hazy horizon. In fact I did not see any panoramic views. I hurried to re-fuel the car and rush back home.
‘…A blanket like the ozone
It’s nothing as it seems All that he needs is home And all that he sees Is nothing he can believe
Saving up a sunny day, something maybe two tone Anything of his own, a chip off the corner stone Who’s kidding? Rainy day, a one way ticket headstone Occupations overthrown, whisper through a megaphone…’
*In Greek mythology, Cerberus, often referred to as the hound of Hades, is a multi-headed dog that guards the gates of the Underworld to prevent the dead from leaving. (Wikipedia)
Do you ever wish you could have an ending like a comedian dropping the mic and disappearing off stage? I do. ‘Thank you and goodbye’. Boom! Gone.
Prolonged goodbyes have become something of a fixation for me… since I discovered it’s ok to mark endings. The goodbye bit is not even the hardest bit, it’s the thank you. I get so full up with love and gratitude and awe (and a whole load of other more slippery emotions), for the people in my life who have helped or inspired me in some way, that I fear I might burst right in front of them – explode and cover them in my vulnerability. Soak them, like a popped water balloon. I often write something clumsy and awkward in a card, to avoid thanking them to their face – less sticky.
In that vain, I am writing a thank you letter to the year that is ending:
Dear 2022,
Thank you for no lockdowns and a semblance of normality. A new normal. I am grateful for all of the people I have met and connected with; some briefly, others not so briefly. Thank you for the continuing relationships in my life – as this year draws in and I hurriedly write multiple Christmas cards, I register that I know a lot of people. This surprises me still, though I hope to be less overwhelmed by this in the coming years, that I may learn to embrace it. That said, I am taking steps to simplify my life a little – I am thankful for finally resolving some difficult decisions this year.
I am grateful to 2022 for giving my father another year – I wonder if 2023 will bring with it the final goodbye, although I’ve wondered that every year since 2017. I hope to reconcile within myself that I will never feel prepared for the death of a loved one, and for that to be ok. Thanks to my therapy this year, I do feel more settled in myself than I did this time last year; more confident, considerably less anxious, clearer-headed, more open to love… and loss. That’s the best preparation I can possibly hope for.
This was going to be a post about ambivalence. But I changed my mind. As I write this instead, an understanding deepens and takes shape, that it is about much more than saying goodbye to one year. In January, a whole decade of my life will be ending. I hope the next decade is less eventful; on a personal, national and global level. I know, this is a big hope. A big wish.
I have lost count of the number of people I have said goodbye to this year – working in the NHS and charity sector has meant many wonderful colleagues leaving; as we all grapple with the post-lockdown mental health crisis. I have had the urge, repeatedly, to drop everything and walk off stage. Jump ship. Into what?
I didn’t jump and the ship didn’t sink. Then it dawned on me… we’re not even on a ship and we’re not lost at sea. We are climbing a mountain and might nearly be at the top, although it’s hard to say for sure. I pause, close my eyes and breathe the mountain air deeply into my lungs. When I open my eyes again, I am surrounded by swifts darting and diving, flying so close to the heather but never touching the ground. We pass narrow streams as they wind and whirl their way down the mountain. I sense I will reach the summit at dusk, in summer.
From the top I will look down and instantly be home; observing the city lights glimmer on, one by one. I will hear ambulance sirens close by, a toad rustling in my semi-wild garden, the faint fast whistle of a bat whizzing past my ear. I will feel the peace and contentment in my gut as my children sleep soundly in their beds. I can see their bedroom windows. I notice my dog sniff the air around us, I watch him wait for a signal that it’s time for him, too, to go to bed. A light comes on and I see the figure of my partner moving around the kitchen. I turn to stare at the city lights once more, and the last faint glow of sunset on the horizon. I look up and wait… for my eyes to adjust to the gently glinting stars against the darkening sky. Some things, I hope, will not change next year, or the one after that.
Right now though, it is winter. I am grateful for the few bright frosty days we had before the Christmas rain came. For just enough snow to take the children sledging. And for friends, for reminding me there can be magic at Christmas time. Thank you. Goodbye.
It turns out, I also write when I swim. It’s the movement. A slight challenge to not get the notebook wet though.
I am in Massachusetts visiting my father who has terminal cancer. This is also a holiday. My mind has felt scattered across multiple places and disparate times these past few years, the most terrifying of which is the future. ‘Blindboy’ talks about ‘purposeless distress’ in his podcast (1). His followers had requested advice on how to cope with the news these days. So he produced, ‘A mental health plan for when the News is overwhelming’. To put it very briefly and simply (and not doing it justice), he suggests reducing time checking the news and social media. Instead, focusing on compassion; for self and others – to minimise overwhelm wherever possible, to stay functional, to maintain an informed and caring relationship with the wider world[1]
I wish I had the time to listen to all of his podcast episodes, there are so many. Aside from comparing Star Trek and mackerel appreciation, another highlight for me has been the very moving episode, ‘Intrapersonally Speaking’ – he mentions using excessive language about oneself due to how adults have unfairly described you as a child, when they should have been helping.
The episode about the news, and essentially about self-care, also really struck a chord with me; what’s the point in succumbing to despair, to what extent can I choose to not focus on it, in order to be productive and effective at work, look after myself and my children, maintain connections with family and friends? Especially on holiday, surely – my chance to recharge, to some extent, and to spend precious time with my father, to some extent. I decided to set myself a challenge in preparation for this post: To focus on one place and one time; where I am right now, at this time. Also, to use all of my own words and try not to retreat into others’ words, as I often do. So far I’ve only used a few of somebody else’s words. Not bad.
Swim…Write… some kind of hawk hovers right above my head – I cup my hands around my face as I look up at it – the first cloudy day since we got here, yet my eyes still crease against the glare… in contrast to the quenching water on my skin.
Swim…Write…Swim… I really want to see a hummingbird, apparently they were close to the house yesterday (my Dad has a nectar feeder out for them) – they are one of my favourite birds; so small, fast, resilient, iridescently beautiful. And they migrate over a staggering distance for such a little bird; over the whole of the Rocky Mountains, between South America and Canada. I saw loads in Colorado, zipping around and hovering with their implausibly rapid, dream-like, humming wings – that feels like a lifetime ago, but it’s been less than 10 years. For some reason I start thinking about the wrens at home – very different to hummingbirds, yet sharing similar characteristics; bold and wee. Vigorous. They seem more real, somehow.
Swim… Write…Swim… Write... a stork silently glides overhead… or is it a heron? I’m not sure which are more likely in North America. I’ll check later. The red cardinals come so daringly close… as do the gigantic butterflies; almost the size of some of the birds. Many of the birds and butterflies in the US seem so huge and ostentatious as compared to their British counterparts. The American robin, for example, takes the red breast to another level.
Swim… Write… Swim… Write… I seem to be writing more and more these days about – and during – the times I’m away from my dog and with my Dad. About how I grapple with separation as I brace myself for the impending, permanent separation; my father’s death. My relationship with him has felt on the brink of permanent separation too many times already; when he went off sailing the world for nearly a year, and after that… left us for good. Plus, several near fatal accidents and health scares. We have been physically separated from each other for much of my life – him working away, then living away. It seems Psychodography started, in part, as a means of coping with that separation from one of the most influential people in my life. Influential, predominantly in the sense that I choose not to live how he has, and simultaneously concede how similar we are.
Swim… Write… Swim… ONE PLACE. ONE VOICE. ENOUGH. My mind ponders over ‘Free Solo’ (2), a documentary about a death-defying climber. We watched it last night. I fixate on the moment he recollected his mother saying to him, ‘good enough is not enough’. Explains a lot.
Swim… Write… watching the not so ostentatious – yet quirky – sparrows hopping around and scratching the grass, chattering to each other; reminds me of ‘Wild Love’ (3) starring Matt Berry, written by the legendary Bob Mortimer. We watched that the night before. It’s hilarious! Especially his ridiculous terms for the birds of paradise e.g. ‘Trouser Pigeon’. We also watched ‘What We Do in the Shadows’; also Matt Berry, with his equally entertaining fellow actors – including Natasia Demetriou, who is magnificent! I like to witness my father’s sceptical expression, as if unsure whether he’s allowed to laugh at something so absurd. He soon erupts into belly laughs with the rest of us, but that initial response reveals so much.
Swim… I can’t believe ‘Frankenstein’ – my new name for Frankie the dog – killed one of the chickens! She’s insatiable.
Stop
Part 2 – Home
Back to walking. A damp early autumn day, still warm enough to not wear a coat, but with the threat of more thunderstorms. The hint of a crisp breeze brushes my cheek.
Last week I swear I could sense a sigh of relief from the ground beneath my feet. The rambling tree roots perhaps. As the first rain signalled an end to the oppressive heat wave.
I have a few rare hours to myself today, to do my own thing: Walk with my dog. Meet other people walking with their dogs. Listen ~ Look ~ Feel ~ Write.
As I stroll into the open expanse of gently sloping hydrated green ground, an old greyhound spots me and immediately ambles over to say hello – not at all at an intrusive pace, but with just enough focus and interest and motivation to have the effect of me feeling singled out, special. It stops next to me. Stands side on. Patiently, undemandingly, waits for a pat. What a welcome to the park! Followed by a symbiotically tender greeting. The dog’s name, I discover, is ‘Willy’.
I’m looking and listening for birds though, to continue my bird theme, so I say my goodbyes and walk on. Nomar is busy sniffing the area, tail spiralling and zig-zagging, as usual. I rest on a bench in a small steep patch of woodland. A perfectly camouflaged (some would say ‘plain’) female blackbird tiptoes over the mulchy leaves, trying not to be seen, or heard. Voiceless. I feel honoured, and almost like I’ve been let in on a secret, that such an inconspicuous bird is the first one I see. And I watch her as she disappears.
“The air is wet with sound” (4; I couldn’t resist borrowing from Tom Waits!). I can hear a plethora of birds, though cannot see any of them. I wish I had better bird-call knowledge – I did pay attention to what the ‘forest ladies’ taught me at the woodland group, but my memory alludes me when it comes to such facts and details. I picked up a few handy phrases from them to help remember some of the bird calls, I must ask them for more. I grew up surrounded by nature and know so little factual knowledge about it. Intrinsically though, I know nature.
My mind meanders back to the last time I had a few hours to myself, only a few months ago in Provincetown, Massachusetts, on my summer holiday: I moseyed into town on a borrowed bike, made a beeline for a second-hand bookshop, then the smoothie shack, then a bench in front of the Town Hall. Once the town cryer had finished his bell-ringing and his speech about the Family Pride Parade happening later that day, he signed off with, ‘God save the queens’. I attempted to settle into reading my new book about philosophy and symbolism (5). It was hot and busy with noisy, colourful people also on holiday – I couldn’t exactly get irritated by this, seeing as I was one of them, albeit not so noisy and not so colourful. I wonder why I wasn’t wearing my peacock t-shirt which I bought in P-Town a few years ago. My brain strained to get my mind around what a “symbolic matrix” means, which apparently can happen between human and animal, as well as between exterior and interior, public and personal, language and speech… I was gratefully distracted by the busker next to me playing ‘Little Wing’ by Jimi Hendrix. I found myself gazing, almost in a trance, at his tiny ratty dog cuddled up inside a blanket in a pram. The busker offered his dog a small tub of water after each song and whispered tenderly to it. Soon, however, his voice altered towards irritation, as the dog had apparently given a signal (unbeknownst to me) that it wanted to get out of the pram. The little dog then had a run around on the grass close by, the busker chuntering under his breath.
A flash of white. Magpies swooping from tree to tree, chirping (try-to-log-bird-with-sound-in-memory-store); the varying pace of the short sharp intermittent chirps reminds me of morse code. A robin has been quietly milling around the exposed base of a fallen tree right next to me, while I’ve been distracted by the brazen magpies and their urgent “chak-chak-chak”. I just spotted it out of the corner of my eye. Now it’s gone.
Why do I not describe the smells, as I write in my head? There’s an autumn woodland scent I suppose; too intricate to put into words. Earthy… obviously!
Yes! ‘Jenny Wren’, so fast and loud… I was sharing with my newish counsellor recently that wrens remind me of my daughter… she whizzes by, settles on a small branch and erupts into song. JOY.
Ah, I remember that one – ‘my toe hurts Betty’ – wood pigeon. So moany.
Where are the woodpeckers?
That’s it for today, it seems unusually quiet in the trees now… as compared to when I’m in a hurry and resisting the desire to linger and listen. Because if I do I will be late for children, or clients, or supervisors. Everything seems paused_ as if inviting me to do the same.
Hardly a birdwatching attempt that would even come close to the efforts of Birdgirl (www.birdgirluk.com); who, by the age of 17, became the youngest person to see half of the worlds birds. And ok, so I used several of other people’s words and ideas and mentioned a few of my recent viewing and listening habits, and wandered off away from the present moment at various times – it’s an improvement from the usual sprawling quotes, though I have to admit I didn’t quite succeed in my challenge.
But hey, good enough. I’m only human.
[1] Since posting this last month I have just listened to the Blindboy podcast episode again about how to cope with the news being overwhelming. The level of detail he goes into about whatever subject he is focused on, whether it’s serious or comedic, is addictively engaging and entertaining. His broad and diverse research is mind boggling! Anyway, I wanted to draw attention to what he has to say about boundaries – both for oneself and in relation to others and social media – as well as the misinterpretation of why ostriches stick their heads in the sand. Well worth a listen, when the birds are quiet.
I have been lucky enough to visit the captivating Province Town, Massachusetts, every few years or so since I was a teenager. This was pre-pandemic of course. It’s a vibrant and liberal peninsula, where I have enjoyed many vibrant and liberating experiences… often vicariously. Such as the 2019 Carnival Parade; a dazzling celebration of all gender identities and sexual orientations. However, I regretfully missed seeing the diarist David Sedaris performing in P-Town during a previous visit, even though I had the offer of a ticket – which I gave to my older brother instead. I regret this now, as I have since become a huge fan.
When I was there in the summer of 2018, I became obsessed with copying Billy Collins poems into my journal. I don’t really know why I felt compelled to do this… I think I often try to occupy my mind in bemusing ways when I’m away from my dog – who, by the way, was having a glorious time at his ‘home from home’, with his human Granny and Grandad, in the very rural Ceredigion, Wales. As I was saying – poetry copying – quite the sedate and introspective activity, not exactly fitting with the setting. Then again, the glass-like water in the bay; reflecting the ‘special light’ (as mentioned in the post ‘Borrowed Dogs’), creates an absorbing contrast to the town’s flamboyancy. Is that a word? I chose the following poems:
The Long Day
More Than A Woman
Creatures
The Deep
Haiku
Lines Written in a Garden by a Cottage in Herefordshire
The Future
I also attempted to write one of my own, but I can’t quite bring myself to reveal it right now. Maybe one day… ?
Last year I returned to ‘The Deep’. I was thinking about a complex counselling client whose life circumstances took me way out of my depth! But that’s all part of the job right? The poem begins by introducing a ‘map of the oceans’, where ‘everything is reversed’. I found myself re-writing the following section of the poem,
‘and drop another couple of miles and you have reached The Abyss where the sea cucumber is said to undulate minding its own business unless it’s deceiving an attacker with its luminescence’
(2)
It is puzzling to me now that I didn’t go on to write the next bit; ‘before disappearing into the blackness’, as if I would get lost down there, simply by forming the words on the page. It was an extremely difficult ending with this client, for many reasons which were beyond my control, but I wish I had approached it differently.
‘You’re not cut out for this,’ I often thought to myself, as explored in The Grounding Power of Walking (3). The article (with a backdrop image of a person walking with a dog) promotes daily walking to manage the sometimes destabilising experience of being a counsellor;
‘A curious contentment can be found in wandering and wondering through outer and inner spaces. I may even go so far as to call it happiness…’
This reminded me of what I need to do, and keep doing, to maintain my sense of perspective. The self-doubt can dissipate at these times, leaving space to replenish my capacity for the counselling work. As Sands so astutely notices: ‘Even walking a well-known path in the opposite direction can bring a completely new perspective.’ I often take a different route impulsively, it feels. This ignites curiosity about why I changed something on that particular day, at that particular time. It’s often on those sorts of days that I find myself writing too.
The writer’s block I have mentioned in previous posts, really set in around the time I stopped seeing my counsellor of 5 years. It just wasn’t the same having therapy on Zoom, plus it had already been a very prolonged ending, for good reasons. Regardless of the Zoom limitations, it was a lifeline for that first arduous, disquieting year of the pandemic – but it was time to end.
Around that same time I started a new job as a grief counsellor. I was so naive. It (the writer’s block – as if it is an entity in it’s own right) plunged to new depths in Iceland last summer. This was where I reunited with my US family roughly halfway (and north a bit) between us, after not seeing them for nearly 2 years. I tried writing a diary of everything I could remember about the trip, but couldn’t finish it. Many qualities of the place, though, are unforgettable.
Kerid crater lake, at a mere 180ft, provided just enough depth for an unexpected conversation between my younger siblings, my step-mother, her friend and her friend’s teenage daughter, and me. As we approached the ridge of the crater and began the spiral descent, a strained acknowledgement unfurled about my (much) younger brother. He was on the verge of leaving home for college… ‘flying the nest’.
Once we reached the water’s edge and settled on a large rock, gazing into the dark aquamarine – almost luminescent – water, we seemed to sink deeper into our memories of caring for babies. The containment of the crater gave permission for us, the three mothers in the group mainly, to share our mixed feelings; about the intense relentlessness of caring for a dependent. And subsequently, the protracted loss of letting go. This coupled with a reluctance to face oneself again: We sat slightly back from the cryptic crater lake, choosing not to approach our reflections in the patient, waiting water.
My own children are still young and so I don’t, yet, have to face that final wrench. I have memories of my younger siblings as babies and looking after them; feeding them, changing them, reading them to sleep. Now it’s like a gulf exists between us; emotionally as well as geographically. Where did they go? I often ask myself. Where did I go? They’ve probably been wondering. I became a parent. And when I do visit them in the US and when I do get a break from parenting… I’m inanely copying poems into my journal.
What a brilliant memory though of the P-Town Carnival Parade; my young siblings and their diverse group of teenage friends dressed, ironically, in striking black swan costumes. My tiny intrepid daughter taking the lead, as a rainbow bird. I was watching on the sidelines, with her baby brother and with my father; the two of us (my Dad and I) dressed also as black swans, albeit half-heartedly.
I wish I could be a better sibling, as we all watch our father slowly disappear – each with our individual and isolating experiences of this, it seems. Meanwhile, the cancer; gaining in power and pressure, exposes itself in my father’s crushing discomfort. A back-breaking battle with the ‘treatment’; an active volcano surging under the heavy earth and its gravity. He’s still going… and I wait with the weight of not knowing how to help from a distance, or even when we were close in Iceland, and not knowing, fearing, what it will be like at the end… and afterwards. Relieved that I have seen him. Regretful that I too, felt crushed.
It wasn’t the holiday we had once hoped for (ambitious ‘wild west’ plans scuppered by Covid), yet it was one I will remember vividly. There were no dogs though, that would have helped! There were horses… lots of wild Icelandic horses… watching me in my grief. While the darkness of my father’s illness was held more lightly, perhaps, in the midnight sun. I’m not sure I could handle a winter there…
P-Town, too, with it’s ‘special light’ and ‘gallus’* people, enabled me to tolerate delving into my darkness. I wish I had remembered this in the confines of my bedroom on a drizzly Brizzle day, during a global crisis, after a zoom session with a deeply distressed woman. Working in a tiny office space in my bedroom was a problematic, temporary situation I try not to think about these days. I try to remember that, with the ‘good enough’ conditions and containment,
“Out of the darkness and formlessness something evolves…” (5)
and
“…This aesthetic element of beauty makes a very difficult situation tolerable”
(Bion, 1978, from A Seminar held in Paris)
But what about when it’s not good enough?
And what of my grief for my counsellor of 5 years. I recall a crumpled ball of paper, a letter, held tightly in my fist, after reading it aloud to an empty chair. It was called ‘The Letter Your Teenager Can’t Write You’ (4) – again something I had copied because it summed up a lot of what I couldn’t feel, let alone say or write, when I was a teenager. I have since travelled a long way from that place with it’s extremes of stagnant, stifling heat and ice cold antipathy… am I trying too hard to be poetic here, as if it might make something less real… what am I actually trying to say? I felt constrained and bitter in relation to my parents? Nevertheless, I have since travelled to somewhere softer and lighter and more colourful.
In our final session my counsellor and I had each prepared a journey and landscape to describe. Mine was akin to Collins’ antidote to ‘The Abyss’ in the final section of his poem as follows,
‘What attacker, I can hear you asking,
could be down there messing with the sea cucumber?
and that is exactly why I crumpled the map into a ball
and stuffed it in a metal wastebasket
before heading out for a long walk along a sunny trail
in the thin, high-desert air, accompanied
by juniper trees, wild flowers, and that gorgeous hawk.’
(2)
The rocky mountains aren’t quite the desert, though provide the desired effect – as I soak up the memories and associations, the abundance of tiny mountain flowers of all colours; from my Colorado photos in the post ‘Mild Mild West’ – not dissimilar to parts of the Icelandic landscape, although the black rocky volcanic surroundings of Reykjavik were like nothing I’d ever seen before. I wish I had stepped onto one of the black sand beaches or walked behind a giant waterfall.
I digress. My part-imagined/part-remembered place, with a herd of peaceful horses as witnesses, was the destination I chose to finally say goodbye to my cherished counsellor. Before moving on to discover the next leg of the journey.
Most days though, I’m not gazing at a special light on the ocean, or soaking up the thrill of a progressive parade, or imagining traversing the rocky mountains in the company of wild horses… I’m juggling childcare and work; both draining in multiple similar and differing ways… and this is probably the sort of poem I need to be re-visiting:
Haiku
Walking the dog,
you meet
lots of dogs
Soshi
* ‘Gallus’ is a term my superb Scottish Sister-in-law recently told me when describing my 8 year old daughter. It means bold, cheeky, or flashy.
Bion, W.R., (1990). Notes on Memory and Desire. In R. Langs, (Ed.), Classics in Psychoanalytic Technique (pp. 243 -244), Jason Aronson, Inc. (Original work published 1967).
Psychodography 