How Does Your Garden Grow?

I drove behind a hearse today, after dropping my daughter at work. Just one vehicle amongst the traffic, a simple coffin with no floral adornment - most probably empty as there was no reverential slow speed being observed by the driver as it left the roundabout by the crematorium. That’s a place I’ve been to with increasing regularity, sadly. As you get to a certain age it becomes more likely that you meet friends and extended family at funerals rather then weddings and of course, there is a certain spot in the gardens where we visit to think of my Dad. There, with a clipped lawn and often a blue sky, a small numbered plaque marks his resting place - the officialdom of a final act. I prefer to think of Dad at other times, in other places, from the corners of your mind where the sepia-coloured memories glow like discarded embers from a comforting fire. If you try really hard, you can sometimes push enough embers together to spark a brightness from the past, almost to the point that you have to catch yourself and remember that he is no longer here.

So to return to following the hearse, on a January morning with a sky full of the blues and greys that start a wintery day. I was jolted by the image from my thoughts of my day ahead, the mundane mental list: cleaning, shopping, dog walking, trying to sort clutter to build myself a writing nest. Jolted instead into thinking about what it all means. That’s a very big question when you’ve only just surfaced from the security of your bedroom covers. Particularly today. Today had been one of those days when I had contemplated driving my daughter to work whilst still wearing my pyjamas- something I have never done and something I can assure you would not look like the glamorous yummy Mummies portrayed in a certain car advert! No, today, I had thrown on sloppy clothes, given my face a cursory look in the mirror and thought “that shit will have to do - I can fix it later.”

Looking at the hearse before me, I was struck by how small the coffin appears and how, as may well be the case for some, the stark, bare box seems such an insignificance. Dad’s funeral was so well attended that there was literally standing room only but I’ve seen others with a handful of mourners and there must be some endings where no-one sheds a tear and it’s all a matter of paperwork. Is a person’s mark upon the earth measured by the size of the final crowd that they draw?

To avoid sliding down this somewhat gloomy spiral with such thoughts, the jolt I had as I drove my usual route back home was more connected to the beginning I have made. That inner voice that we all have (I presume we all have it) began its own monologue reinforcing my decision to resign my post, to embark upon my writing, to persevere with this somewhat haphazard situation that I have created for myself. They say that you only regret the things that you didn’t do. That, and other such clichés came to mind and then, out of nowhere and with no predetermined mission to do so today, this blog piece begins to form in my head. I park on the drive, grab my laptop and head back to bed where the writing sanctuary of our newly constructed loft space allows me to think. High up, metaphorically and literally, I am away from the mundane. Looking out of the two Velux windows to one side, I see the treetops and the clouds rolling by, whilst the large window to the other side of the bed affords a vista across the rooftops to the town beyond. Though not the picturesque seascape I yearn for, as a frustrated novelist with idealistic intentions, the mere space extending on to the distant horizon and the time to sit here looking at it, is a calming opportunity and conducive to creative thoughts.

Thoughts have been my friends and my enemies lately. They are the necessary mechanism for my creativity to flourish and I have yet to allow myself to fully immerse myself in them, for to find enough distraction free time for that process still seems an elusive commodity- but it is early days. Those same early days have allowed thoughts in that start to sow the seeds of anxiety and self-doubt. When given any chance to do so they grow into emotional and sometimes irrational seedlings that need cutting down before they take root. There have been a few days when they have done their best to do so. I can picture them as I write, within a tray in a gardener’s potting shed with their labels neatly scribed upon them “this is a farce,” and “what are you actually doing” being the main plant names. So far though, I am managing them, as my cousin, who is a horticulturist, once advised - the best thing is to do a little of something in the garden every day. So I’m tending my mind garden! 

When all is said and done, we are in control of the marks we make upon a page and those which remain as a legacy for others to reference in the future. If you can no longer control part of your life, make changes to it - walk away, try again, switch it up a bit, whatever is necessary to start making things work. You can’t do it on your own, so look around for help - I have been surprised and struck by the number of people willing to offer their support and it manifests itself in so many different ways. Sometimes it needs to be actions that make a difference to your day. Sometimes words need to be said, and I don’t always want to hear them, but those that matter, know when I need to hear them.

Today is a good day, from starting as a day that felt anything but a good day. Inspiration for writing comes from the strangest places - I cannot explain it and will not begin to try. I will carry on with my mundane, my mindful moments and my inner monologue - for on days like this, I think she’s got something worth listening to!

Love and Marriage

What is love? This is a topic that’s long been explored in poetry, music, art, religious sermon even - there are many places you could look for definitions, creative responses to the subject matter or even research papers on the subject.

Well of course there are many different forms of love: from the lusty, magnetic attraction of two people forming a relationship to the love for a family member, friend or even a pet. Perhaps ‘love’ also incorporates feelings towards our possessions or pastimes- when you say you love a new dress or you love the sport or hobby that you have taken up? One small word that can mean so many things - shades of meaning, perhaps different grades of love? 

But let’s not overthink it. We all recognise the feeling of caring deeply about a person, a place, or an object but we all need to feel that we too are loved. That I think is the crux of what it is to be human - for to be loved is to be accepted and validated and to know that you are supported through the twists and turns of life.

Now sometimes there are grand gestures of love. Gifts given and sometimes sacrifices made to put the one you love first, even if you are worse off for having done so. Thinking about it though, I have come to believe that it is not the grand overstated gestures that really matter - it’s the little, everyday, often seemingly unnoticed measures that make us feel loved. It can be a shared glance of understanding, a touch of reassurance, a message on the way home from work to check if anything is needed. It can be when someone drops everything to listen, offer advice or a simple hug, even though they had a lot to do at that time but they knew you needed support right there and then. The love between two people can often lead to marriage, when those two people have found the courage to declare to the world that they have found happiness in each other and that they want to be together for the rest of their lives. A truly big commitment. 

There’s much publicity about who has rights to marry or even spend time with each other, depending on what country you happen to reside in. I’m guessing anyone reading this may have their own very clear ideas about their response to the question of whether marriage should be heterosexual or should be open to any couples wishing to make that commitment to each other. For my part, when you can see the love two people have for each other so obviously displayed and how they support each other, day in day out, then who has a right to deny them from making their commitment to each other in the formal expression of marriage, whoever they may be? For love knows no boundaries and sees no obstacles of race, gender, age or class. 

I am in a fortunate position of having been married for a long time, 28 years if you want the statistics. To quote a certain rock anthem, ‘it’s been no bed of roses.’ Well, not if you’re expecting a life of purely rose petals but that only happens in the movies doesn’t it? Roses come with thorns, that’s part of the package and so it is with marriage. There are times when you need space from each other and you can hurt each other with words or deeds that prick like a thorn. But that’s where the love truly shows it’s worth for that’s where forgiveness and compassion bloom.

I read somewhere that marriage is about being an effective tag team so that each partner can take a turn in the ring showing their strength when the other needs time outside the ropes, gathering the energy they need to struggle with their current demon. Certainly the love you have for each other finds new and sometimes surprising depths when life throws obstacles or tragedy your way.

I’ve also seen at close hand how the love in a long marriage has sustained when the ‘in sickness’ part of the marriage vows came into focus, when my Mum sacrificed so much to look after my Dad through his last difficult years and the courage she showed during his last days, being there for him to hold his hand and reassure as he passed. So love it seems, gives you strength, courage and a will to carry on through the grief to a place where you can reminisce about all the times you shared together through your marriage.

I did not intend when I started writing this to look at the end of a marriage but more at the start, for I was inspired to write this after having the privilege of being part of a wedding of two dear friends. The day was made all the more special by seeing their joy and love for each other and how evident their love for family and friends was.
Standing at the starting line of a marriage they, like all couples, have an eagerness and excitement to participate. They are in those heady early days of being in love and may that long continue. Marriage is not a sprint it is a long distance race and, as my Dad would say about his athletics, save some energy for later in the race and keep your stamina. It is also a team event and so you have to be prepared to pick each other up when you fall and keep going, whether that is a walk, jog or a sudden sprint. With that said, and a picture in my mind of my Dad at a track event with his stopwatch in hand, I wish happiness and unending love to any couple beginning their married life together and say ‘on your marks, get set, go!’

To Dance with my Father Again

I’m not sure I’m ready to write this as I sit this crisp, cold autumn morning, thinking of the subject matter. This week sees the 6th anniversary of my Dad’s death and I have spent this weekend trawling through old photographs which has been a bitter sweet experience. It became obvious that I don’t have many photos of my Dad and I suppose there were several reasons for this. My early childhood pictures were mainly of myself and my brother, or some included my Mum - I suppose that Dad was behind the camera. Later pictures rarely had him feature as he was always more comfortable in the background of events. That all said, it was therefore a treat to find the few snaps that we did and to glimpse the hidden memories from the past.

An unassuming man, Dad worked hard to make our lives better and mostly left us to follow our own interests, just as he was free to follow his own interest in athletics and walking. When you’re a child you don’t think to ask your parents how they are feeling or what they would like to do. You just spend your time demanding things from your parents without any consideration of their wishes. Yet, looking back, we did spend many a Saturday ‘helping’ Dad at his athletics club, so perhaps he did have time for himself.

For many years Dad liked a beer or two, or maybe more, on a regular basis. In the days when he was still teaching it was acceptable for staff to pop out for a pub lunch and a swift pint on a Friday lunchtime, before returning to lead lessons in the afternoon. The educational landscape has changed dramatically since and there wouldn’t be time now to get to the pub and back, let alone consume anything and let’s leave any moral issues about alcohol consumption by those in positions of authority to one side! Back then though, Friday saw the teachers lunching at the pub and seemingly having a more positive work-life balance than current times, and still supporting their students to achieve good results.

Our Sunday habits involved walking and a pub too. Dad would take us out for a walk, usually to spend time in a park, whilst Mum cooked the Sunday lunch. I remember with fondness sitting outside the pub with a bottle of coke and a packet of crisps that we had added salt to, from a little blue bag. After returning home and eating our roast dinner, Dad would doze off on the sofa - sleeping off the beer and roast potatoes!

The few photos that we did find were mostly linked to athletics and walking. Dad with his stop watch in hand, ready to be official timekeeper at a race meeting at Battersea or Crystal Palace, or a few with him in his full running outfit at the end of a race - clearly not looking his best. The walking pictures were usually from our family holidays on the Isle of Wight. We used to joke that we could only go somewhere exciting if we could walk there first! Often we would walk 5 miles or more to our destination but that was all part of the experience - climbing styles, avoiding nettles and cows in a farmer’s field, trying to negotiate a cliff path that was perilously close to a sheer drop! 

As I grew older I know that I felt closer to Mum, than Dad. Perhaps that’s s girl thing? Girly shopping outings as a teenager replaced by conversations on common ground about married life and then childbirth and raising toddlers. These phases are where I didn’t think to include my Dad more.

All too soon, he had suffered a stroke which brought on dementia and it was too late then to ask him meaningful questions. Adopting the role of carer with him, those were the times when Dad was in the room but spiritually elsewhere. Memories were often discussed with close family or friends at this time, with Dad sat alongside, out of a need to try to include him and in the vague hope that a shared memory would bring him some comfort or respite from his daily anxieties at the time.

There’s a line from the show ‘Blood Brothers’ referring to the character’s mind going dancing. Perhaps by this time, Dad’s mind was dancing, or in his case running a marathon. I wish I could remember a time when we had danced together though and think of the song lyric with pangs of regret. So, make the most of your time: sing, dance, laugh, walk up a hill together and take photos to share - not of stuff, instagram meals and landscapes, but of people who matter, all of them. 

Kind Hearts and Karaoke

The seeds of friendship can be found in the most unlikely places and, when nurtured well, can grow into a thing of beauty, strength and compassion. Back in our playground days, we fell in and out of friendship frequently according to who wanted to join in the latest game or craze with us: French skipping with the athletic girls, swinging clackers, joining in bundles on the playing field or racing to complete a Rubik’s cube. The rules of friendship were somewhat blurred at the time and on the whole, falling out one day could be repaired and forgotten about by the end of the week. Sometimes, amongst all this you might find a best friend and a few people kept these for a long time – perhaps even counting a playground pal amongst their adult circle of friends.

My experience has been that I have a couple of friends that were made at secondary school or university who I keep in touch with and others who have become friends through work circles. However, it is my hobby which has brought me to a place of developing friendships that run a little deeper. A weekly drama group which combines a collection of people of different ages and backgrounds in a common goal to rehearse, perform and support each other in their hobby. Something about the process of drama is inspirational. People who would never normally meet in other social circles, cross-generational and with all different talents working together for the common goal of putting on a show. I’ve seen people go from shy, anxious individuals perhaps coming along to help out backstage, to standing proudly in a spotlight giving everything they have to their performance, their self-confidence soaring.

Friends I have made through this group have been there for me through personal tragedy, difficult days at work and stressful situations as well as being part of celebrations, fun times and achievements. Perhaps there is something about being part of a creative process together that helps the social bonding – sharing the workload involved in putting on a show, learning your lines and moves together and standing as one as a cast on stage to receive the audience response. It is true that friendships have grown here over the last decade or so and the group is such that we both work and play together – choosing to meet up outside the constraints of weekly rehearsals, with karaoke featuring often as an opportunity for a good laugh as we sing, dance and – let’s be honest – drink together.

Within the long and complex process of putting on a show, we all have different strengths and weaknesses but I have been touched by the small acts of kindness shown to one another to help out with a task, go over a scene where someone may be struggling and mostly in valuing the efforts that each of us are making. In fact, it is at drama that I was inspired by the kindest lady I have had the privilege to know. A gentler, more unassuming person you would be hard pushed to find and the joy of seeing her go from a timid chorus member to commanding the stage dancing with a feather boa to ‘Hey, Big Spender’ is a memory I shall treasure forever.

To look back on this highlight is to confront thoughts of her untimely passing just 4 days before she was due to join us on stage for our annual pantomime. A devastating blow to the group to lose such a core part of the group and such a special lady, it was a remarkable measure of the strength of the group working together to support each other in a way we never felt possible. The old adage is that the show must go on, and indeed her family were adamant that the group should do exactly that, but they were the hardest performances we have ever done.

The group has moved on in many ways since, with new members who never had the opportunity to know her, taking centre stage. This is rightly so, as a group is more than any one individual part of it and the nature of this type of group is that it changes and develops with each new venture that it begins. Though, the best bits of her personality linger with those of us who shared a stage with her and there are times when I have felt that she has joined us back there – who knows?

So yes, I lost a special friend and I discovered depths of character amongst other friends in dealing with this. This is why the friendship I refer to has a strength and meaning beyond that of those playground past times. But by referring to this dark episode, I don’t mean to belittle the contribution that others have made to my life – others who have walked into my group and life since this time. For a friend is not measured by the length of time that they have stood by your side but rather by the impact they have had upon you. Some friends tread a path together tentatively, gradually growing in their shared experiences to find themselves in a place where they realise just quite how much they need each other. Some friends have a presence that’s more immediate, taking you by surprise in how quickly you find yourself seeking their opinions, valuing their advice and noticing how aspects of your life are better for having known them.

It all comes down to kindness – in a busy world where everyone has to be somewhere, meeting a deadline, sorting out a list of chores and responsibilities, it can feel as if everyone is caught up in their own selfish endeavours. So when you find someone who can put that on hold, even for a moment to do something for another person, show a little kindness of heart, then that’s worth celebrating. I am very lucky to have found several people who are happy to share their kind hearts and karaoke evenings with me.

Parent Sandwich

People make different choices about their relationships. Back in the 80s, when I met my husband, within our social circles, it was still the accepted norm to meet someone, get married and then have kids. We followed that pattern and after 7 years of marriage, started our family.

When you have a freedom like that, you don't really appreciate it. Those 7 years where we could stay up talking to friends until 3 in the morning, cadge Sunday dinner off the in-laws with little notice, lay in bed on a Sunday morning until it was actually Sunday afternoon and fit in work commitments around it all and still have plenty of time for each other.

Then Bam!  Babies arrive and you can't distinguish one end of the day from another. Relentless rounds of feeding, changing, smiling at relatives and friends who've come round to coo, leave you unable to stir a cuppa, so stirring any passion is completely out of the question. After childbirth your intimate areas don't quite hold the allure of sultry promise as previously. When you've had to put your private parts in the public domain of a hospital birth it seems like everyone's had a look up there including the guy who only came in to the room to change the bins! So it takes a while to think of yourself as attractive again.

Though debilitating at the time, the sharp end of parenthood passes after a while and then you continue on to each new phase or, if you're like us,  you do it all again and repeat the baby madness with the added complication of a toddler in the mix. If you think the 1st was tricky, you don't know what has hit you with a 2nd!

Still, without any formal parenting qualification and no prior manual of support, we grew into our parent role and did the best we could to support our kids from one phase to another: baby, toddler, school years into teenager and beyond.

Somewhere along the line, it gets easier doesn't it? Kids grow up and the family dynamic changes and you get to that point where you can stop being so much of a parent and get back a little of that freedom can't you? I mean, that appeared to be what I observed some friends doing. I began to think of possible couple holidays that we might have and fantasize about moments of calm, in a more settled house. Ask a woman what her fantasies are and you might expect all sorts of erotic scenarios with various hunks playing the lead. Actually, it's more likely to involve the need to carve out a bit of peace and quiet, sipping wine somewhere with a pleasant view and a slice of cake!

Anyway, I should get to the 'parent sandwich.' This is something that has happened to us over the last decade I suppose. Not only are we parents to our kids, something that we willingly if somewhat naively signed up for, but somewhere along the line we have adopted the role of parent to our own parents.

I lost my Dad six years ago but to be more accurate, I lost the clever, funny, kind man that he was ten years ago when his illness struck and smudged areas of brilliance in his brain. So looking back on it, from then I had to step into that parent role to explain basic daily things to my Dad and to support my Mum. Not only had she lost all the things I had with Dad, but she had lost her soulmate too and looked like a ship cast away on what was to become a very stormy sea.

Not long after his death, I almost lost my Mum too. A perforated bowel and sepsis did not make a good prognosis but somehow, after all the difficult years with Dad, she found the strength and reserves to come out the other side fighting.  It was probably a six month fight when at its most difficult, yet to this day she lives with the effects of the time. Being the positive person she is, she manages well and doesn't often let on that she's feeling emotional or anxious or lonely. So my 'parent' duties with Mum have reduced to more of a checking in and supporting from time to time and that's absolutely fine. 

More recently, it is my husband's turn to be the sandwich filling. Both of his parents are now in their 70s and have growing health issues and lessening independence. A proud and driven man, he has risen admirably to the task and, as the eldest child, feels duty bound to carry the weight of it all on his shoulders alone.

I never realised how the lines of responsibility and duties of care blur as your parents enter that phase of life, where they need you back in their lives more than they ever like to admit.
Like a dough stretched out, being pulled from each end by our kids and our parents, I find the safest survival tactic is to stick together and hang on in there. From time to time, they loosen their grip and we can take up the slack to remould ourselves and start again. 
We may not be in a place where an exotic couple's holiday is possible but a moment here and there for each other will have to do. I'm lucky to still have the man by my side who was acceptable in the 80s and, all things considered, he's okay now too.

If you're currently coping with a parent with dementia there are support networks out there, for example: https://www.dementiauk.org/ 
Perhaps you have other methods of support that you can recommend too?

Coffee and Cake - Code for Therapy!

I’m completing those medical type questionnaires and I think they’re missing something. You know the ones where they try to check out your addictions and give a health baseline? My answers portray a somewhat bland, some might suggest boring response:

Have you ever smoked? – No

Do you / have you ever taken drugs? - Prescription only, a morphine drip after an emergency C-Section for my first child and a couple of puffs of gas and air having my second before I decided that I didn’t like the woozy feeling and gave up on that!

How much alcohol do you drink? – Most weeks none; it’s not a usual thing in our house. Lately, if meeting up with friends, a few glasses to get into the spirit of that Friday frolic fever. You know how everyone seems to manage their mundane and stressful working week by putting Friday up on a pedestal all week so that we can glam ourselves up, park our working lives and feel silly for a few carefree hours? Close friends might testify that’s it been more than a few glasses on some occasions, but no-one puts the whole truth on these forms do they?

Do you exercise? – Well, I walk the dog when no-one else in the family will and I join in dance routines at my weekly drama group. If the dishwasher is loaded and the TV programmes haven’t caused me to nod off and the stars of passion are neatly aligned, I might have an extra bit of bedroom exercise from time to time.

What’s missing from my questionnaire though is the thing that I am now having to admit to myself is my addiction: coffee and cake. Along with a proliferation of coffee shops over the last few years, comes the realisation that they’re tapping into something. It’s not that everyone has just suddenly developed an unquenchable thirst for coffee – though it is in itself addictive. It’s more to do with the fact that we’re looking for a little slot of relaxation and, when you find yourself a friendly local coffee spot, a smiling barista with a few minutes to listen to you and make you feel important. This, I’ve come to realise, is my therapy.

Half an hour on a sofa in a coffee shop with a sweet treat and a latte and I’m ready to carry on with my day. Whether I’ve sat alone or to catch up with friends, used the chance to check work emails or to chat with my Mum or pop in for a moment away from the kids to actually talk to my husband (though often we’ll sit alongside each other checking out the screens on our phones as we sip coffee) – it’s all a way to recharge batteries and pretend for a moment or two that life has been put on hold. An equivalent slot on a sofa with a therapist would be infinitely more expensive and possibly no better for me.

My coffee time is my ‘me time’ and has become a necessary part of my week – my mindfulness programme. I can make coffee at home and have been known to create perfectly adequate bakes but it isn’t about that, is it? Taking time out, in a little sanctuary of calm, is to step away from the plate spinning that encapsulates my waking hours; a plate for managing an increasingly stressful job, a plate for coordinating kids’ activities, a plate for caring for pets that we were persuaded into buying and now have most responsibility for looking after, a plate for keeping the home running, a plate for being there for friends and family. How many plates is that now? I’m a walking circus act!

This year, I have to admit that my need for ‘coffee therapy’ has certainly increased – possibly to worrying levels. I’ve been joking with friends that I am having a midlife crisis but I think it has just been a significant year. One kid has finished university, the other managed to get through GCSEs despite many challenges. We’ve had 5 months of disruption as we have refurbished the house in an effort to future-proof it, for we see little hope of our kids being able to fly the nest any time soon. My job has taken a new direction too, with more responsibility, more deadlines, more of everything except money and recognition – such seems the accepted norm in the austerity driven work place of the current day. Against this backdrop, I’m planning celebrations to mark a significant birthday – I intend to be fabulous and fifty, at least for the celebrations, it’s most likely to be downhill after that!

Why one birthday year should be more significant than another is arbitrary. For many, each candle on the cake is just another passing year – one no more meaningful than the next. Many have developed this habit of celebrating the ‘decade birthdays’ more than others and certainly, for the last few years I’ve not particularly gone overboard on the celebrations. Six years back I spent a memorable birthday night sat alongside my Dad’s hospital bed, following the difficult decision to withdraw medication and wait for him to pass. The fighter that he was meant that he struggled on way past expectations and died 8 days later. So I guess my birthday has been inextricably linked with those events since.

Determined – that was the word he used to describe me in his speech on our wedding day. Determined to pursue a course of action whether he was proved right or wrong in the wisdom of my choices. Well, despite many stumbling blocks along the way, he was proved right that I’ve been determined enough to stick at my marriage and persevere as a parent – something that comes with no prior qualification or manual.

With no let up on the horizon – mortgage payments to continue for a fair few years, workloads staying heavy, it’s fair to assume that I’m going to require coffee therapy for a long time to come. Now, pass me my latte.

Does coffee therapy work for you? How do you make time for yourself among your daily responsibilities?