Open Spaces

It’s true that I have neglected this blog lately. It’s not that I haven’t been writing, for there’s been quite a bit of that going on, but the type of writing I have been working on is different and not really what belongs in the content of these pages. It has taken me the whole month of January to put pen to paper here though. 

A very long month.

Many talk of the January blues, the long slump after the festive indulgences that usually accompany the end of the previous year. This year I have definitely found myself struggling to get out of the hole I have found myself in. I began sliding into it weeks prior to the New Year and there have been days when pulling up the duvet to block out the daylight has felt like the best option.

Though I refrained from making resolutions at the start of the year, for fear of failing with them at the first hurdle, I did use that period of reflection time to give myself a metaphorical kick up the butt. Much of my writing last year, particularly in my books, looked to the positive strategies I had employed and moving forward in developing such a mindset. Yet I knew that I was slumping and wallowing again. The old tune of “Mud, mud, glorious mud,” comes to mind but I needed to get out of that mud pool because it didn’t feel glorious at all.

I have read a lot about menopause, how depression and anxiety are frequently inextricably linked to it yet often not recognised as such. In my reading I have also discovered that this change in a woman’s life, this transition stage involves learning to accept the changes to become at peace with the new or reinvented version of the woman you were. I felt it was time to try to embrace this acceptance concept and for me, that has meant asking for help and pushing myself to step out of my comfort zone in a few ways. 

Without giving myself time and space to overthink and procrastinate I did three proactive things at the start of this month. I took three steps to pull myself out of that hole.

It is quite apt to be writing this today - on the 31st January- as the first step was that I signed up to Red January. In doing so I made a commitment to be active every day of January and as well as it being a fundraising venture for the Mind charity, it was a personal agreement to get outside, be in nature, feel the air and the weather - good or bad - as all of that would benefit me and my wellbeing.

The second step was booking a GP appointment to force myself into discussing what has been going on. No longer choosing the route of struggling alone, feeling that I should be able to do it all without support. Instead, though I was close to cancelling the appointment the day before, I allowed myself to tell the GP that everything wasn’t actually fine. The feeling of relief in having done so is good, as is the fact that we are working on a plan to move forward.

The last of my three steps was to sign up to a creative writing course which I began mid-January and which has stimulated some of the different writing that I mentioned at the start of this piece. The night before the course started I questioned my decision, the morning of the course I asked myself why I was struggling to walk through the door and as my husband dropped me off I resisted the urge to take flight and hide in a coffee shop. But I went into the course, met new people, learnt new things and am starting to write in a new way.

I am not out of that hole yet but I have had a few glimpses of the open space above and around me. I have had a few days when that space is at my fingertips and days when it fades away as I slide again. When I start to doubt my abilities in any way, it is all too easy for the sky to start falling in and to feel incapable of completing the simplest tasks. It has taken me several days to find the words to write this piece and I took two weeks to reply and complete a form that was needed for a commitment later in the year but I did manage to do both eventually.

That’s the trick of it all isn’t it? Never mind what the struggle was in getting there, allow yourself to feel good about the fact that you arrived. For now I am taking one step at a time, ticking off items on my ‘to do’ list and writing down one positive thing each week to add to my jar of 2020. Give me a few more months and the promise of a little summer sunshine and I’ll be up and soaring in that sky. I’m sure I will, won’t I?

The Ties That Bind

What holds us back from moving forward at those crossroad points of our lives? These past two years I have found myself thinking, some might say overthinking, and writing about choices we make in life and the directions that we take. Often the image replays in my head of a lone girl stood in a clearing in the woods with two or three possible pathways opening up infront of her. Such imagery serves to illustrate the dilemmas we face as we make particular choices in our lives but then again, such choices are rarely presented to us in such a clear cut manner.

It’s not like life gives us a series of signposted options where each path is marked to lead to a particular destination. Mostly I have stumbled around and only part-way along the path discovered my new surroundings and begun to guess where I might be headed.

There are obvious key moments in life where I have stood at the metaphorical crossroads and made a conscious decision to follow one particular path. At the end of school, choosing to study for a degree, saying yes to a marriage proposal, committing to having a family and most recently, walking away from my teaching career- all of these were definite pathway choices. Other aspects of my life feel more akin to being in stumbling mode, trying my best to stay upright as I keep moving forward.

Mostly we keep our momentum moving forward until we hit an obstacle blocking our way, don’t we? Sometimes we have the courage and reserves of resilience to keep pushing on until we break through the obstacle to continue on beyond it. Sometimes the obstacle stops us in our tracks and forces us to look around and notice details previously unseen. These are the reflective moments when we maybe appreciate what we already have and perhaps take some time to re-evaluate who we are and where we are going. I have probably spent most of this year doing that, if truth be told.

I am writing this as the last few days of the year play out their tune, whilst waiting for the fresh melody of a new year to begin. It’s that time when resolutions are discussed, set and more often than not, broken and discarded as quickly as they were established. That’s my backdrop to my thoughts tonight. Like many others, I am wondering what may be ahead for me and what choices I might be able to make in the next twelve months. For unlike the lone girl in the woods, free to skip off along any path that takes her fancy, I feel inhibited. Invisible yet very tangible ties bind me and can make any progress feel impossible at times. I find myself asking what is it that binds me? Confidence issues, circumstance, indecision - all are playing a part. None of us can really go skipping off into the woods without a second thought though, can we?

There is a pressure at this time of resolution making to be better, to reinvent yourself and become a new model, as if the current one has become outdated and defunct in some way. We’ll all have days when we feel defunct or deficient in many ways but is the concept of reinvention, striving for that yet unobtainable you, is that really a healthy option? I recently read somewhere that we  shouldn’t be looking for the ‘new you’ but instead be accepting of the ‘you that you are.’ This may prove to be my biggest challenge for the year ahead.

I started this piece with an idea that I would write about what might be holding me back from seeking work next year. As has often been the case, the process of writing down my thoughts served to clear the pathway for me to take a few more steps ahead. Those steps just might not be going in the way I had first thought. If I stand still for too much longer, I am afraid that the creeping ivy of self doubt will entwine my feet to leave me forever rooted to the spot so I feel a growing sense of urgency to move soon, in one direction or another. For now though, I’ll pause to raise a glass this New Year’s Eve and make a toast to unknown destinations. Cheers everyone!

Charity Begins at Home

I’ve thought hard about this and deliberated for a while before starting this blog. Although this title phrase kept drifting in and out of my mind along with fragments of what I might write, I have been struggling with my writing recently. There may be a layered cake full of reasons for that, waiting for me to delicately pick at with my cake fork but perhaps now is not the time and I should push the whole cake to one side with a determined action, saying “that’s too rich for me right now.” I may well return to a forkful of it in a moment though, for both cake and self-doubt have that way of tempting you back to them.
For now then, I wonder what you think of when you read or hear this title phrase. I know in the past I have heard it said and felt saddened that those extolling the virtues of such sentiment have somehow arbitrarily decided that one chosen cause or charity is deemed to be more worthy than another. Historically speaking, I am sure that insular-facing politicians exclaimed that the problems of people in far away places were of little concern or relevance to us. That is, of course, until those problems began to be shared by a growing number of people and then the very fabric of freedom was threatened so that such problems were shared and indeed the focus of attention.
History lessons from the 1930s may not seem relevant, conversely others may warn of stark and compelling parallels to the dark, political landscape we now find ourselves in. Either way, the point I am seeking to make is that now, more than ever, we are all inter-connected, whether we like it or not. To dismiss the hardship and struggles that people may have because they are far away from us is both short-sighted and to deny ourselves the value of helping others, whoever they may be.
Moving away from what could be seen as contentious or political the concept of starting with what you can effect in the here and now, in your local area, is ultimately positive and proactive. Trying to take a whole world, wide lens view is daunting and potentially overwhelming.
I cannot be the only one who has noticed more homeless on the streets, been struck by stories on social media of families in poverty, or had a moment of reflection in the run up to Christmas to consider the ill, the tired, the hungry and the lonely. How individuals choose to support those vulnerable in our neighbourhoods is not for me to comment on. Suffice to say I have thought about it and taken different steps in recent years to help. It may feel like a drop in the ocean, but every positive act helps.
In writing this, I considered how we truly do need to look at ourselves before we can move beyond that. Perhaps that is the real crux of the phrase “Charity begins at home.” I always thought it was concerned with helping out your own, supporting your family, friends and neighbours before being in a position to help those further afield. Now I am thinking it is imperative to look at myself first. If I am not being kind to myself, not charitable enough to allow myself to fall down a little, then how can I begin to help anyone in any way at all?
I return to that writing dilemma that I mentioned at the start. Am I being too harsh on myself and expecting too much from the very act of writing? Self-imposed deadlines or constraints, perceived expectations of what I should achieve are all not allowing me to be kind to myself. It’s that time again when we look to new year’s resolutions. I think I need to stop expecting and anticipating certain results, cut myself a little slack and see if that can help me to find my own light in the darkness. Just as I wish that the many who will have far less than me this Christmas, will find their own light and hope for the year ahead.

The Weight of Expectation

I find myself in show week again, which has happened twice a year since 2005. For those of you reading this who know me well, you will be used to hearing about how each show is going, what is going on behind the scenes to get the show ready and how I am feeling about whatever part I am playing in it. It is my norm every May and run up to December. You would think I had it all cracked then wouldn’t you?

Yet thanks to the influence of the ‘Perimenopause fairy’ I have found this run particularly difficult. Each show I have always had my role to play on stage alongside many tasks to complete as the show producer and often choreographer. Most years, although often stressful, I have felt in control and capable of meeting the demands that all of this has set for me. At this time last year, I recall writing a blog piece where I talked about standing on the stage waiting for the curtains to part and the show to start and feeling a sudden dread and urge to run offstage - far more than the usual stage fright that everyone in this strange world of drama experiences. I am wondering now if I shall feel the same again as I get to my cue.

Beyond that though, I have had a few problems along the way as this run has rumbled along. When trying to teach dance routines I have become easily flustered, often unable to quickly recall the next steps that I need to show the cast and as a result, felt low in self-confidence. My part this year is a main one and learning a sizeable amount of script has indeed been a challenge. It feels like I have been saying my lines over and over for months now and parts of them still elude me when the spotlight is on. I ask myself if I am getting too old for all of this?

We all have expectations of ourselves and when we feel that we cannot match up to them that is distressing at times. Then there are the expectations that others have of you and how that impacts upon them and your own self-esteem if you fall short of such expectations. As far as this show week goes, I don’t want to let down my fellow cast and my director who had the belief to cast me in the role. Talking to a friend this weekend about how we both feel, as we both have main parts in this show, it is apparent that we are both under pressure to meet the expectations of coming up with a good performance. Most strikingly though, is that we were both able to complement each other’s performances and yet were not able to see the merit within our own. Doesn’t human nature do that to us? We are blinded to the achievements that we are making and often unable to recognise just how far along a path we have managed to go.

I think my thoughts for this blog piece are also being coloured by my perceptions of what others think of me right now. Almost a year has passed since walking away from my job and I feel an expectation is hanging over me, one that I should move on from this cosy little career break and back into the world of work. After all, I have had the chance to dabble in the daydreams of a writer and to publish a couple of books that have found their way onto the bookshelves of a few friends here and there. I should probably tick that adventure off now.

Do we always do what is expected of us though? I wonder how much we make our choices in life through efforts, conscious or not, to meet these expectations. Do we do things we want to do or what we feel we are expected to do? I don’t have the answers to any of that and perhaps that’s the stuff of a high level philosophical debate. I do know that people are often quick to make their judgements of others and to say what they think is the best course of action for them to take. Each individual has their own set of circumstances surrounding their choices though and nothing in life is clear cut.

As for me and what I am expecting of myself at the moment, I have a few answers and a lot more evaluating to do. I may feel after the show that I should stick to doing everything as before or I may step away from some of it for a while - let’s wait and see. To be honest, that is probably a good attitude to adopt to more than just my role within a local drama group. To continue writing, to look for a job, to challenge myself in new directions, all of those need me to take time to consider further and I have to tell myself that I shouldn’t expect to have all the answers.

Middle-Aged Spread

I have decided that I have reached an age where all the clichés heard as a youngster are starting to come true. The phrases that we have all heard but dismiss as meaningless, actually start to matter when they are applied to you directly. The ones about contentment levelled at people as an obvious spare tyre appears around their middle, for example. I don’t know whether a bulging midlife tummy is more acceptable for a man than a woman, more likely to receive a smile and a knowing nod of “oh he likes his food” almost as a badge of middle-aged honour. For my part, a similar middle-aged spread signals a heap of negatives.

Outfits that I was feeling good about wearing now begin to feel ‘a bit snug’ in places so I find myself moving them along the rail in my wardrobe and reaching for more comfortable and less conspicuous choices. That wish to fade into the background starting to creep in again, the one that I had pushed away with my red shoes and splashes of colour and the mantra of being fabulous at fifty, showing my true colours in my ‘Autumn years,’ all of that swept aside along with the offending outfit. Weight gain is often linked to negative mood, it seems that way for me anyway. It is so easy to slide down that spiralling helter-skelter of grabbing comfort food at a low moment and then feeling low because you have had that ‘naughty treat’ and then feeling the need to grab another, and on and on until somehow you can jump off that ride.

Lately, the phrase ‘you can’t have your cake and eat it’ feels ironic. It seems that I only have to glance sideways at a Victoria sponge and the calories are being absorbed by osmosis and joining hands to dance around my middle whilst sticking out their tongues in a joint act of defiance to say we’re not going anywhere. Motivational messages might extoll the virtues of feeling positive and guilt-free about having that slice of cake but then scales don’t exactly play a fanfare when I step on them in the morning and watch the numbers steadily rise. I may be giving the impression that I am addicted to cake but it serves as a mere example to the many items that I should eat less of.

Recently I have tried to do just that and to up the exercise, all the measures recommended by all the experts. I do seem stuck right now though and that is when the motivation factor is crucial. Some days I feel that I have two doors that I can choose to go through. One door allows me to continue on a path of willpower, with fruit and vegetables scattered amongst the righteous flowers on either side. The pathway is strewn with options of low fat, low sugar - dare I say low interest! The other door looks more attractive from the outside, with a sparkly sign on it saying temptation. Behind that door I can imagine a feast laid out like a banquet, cake stands piled high, chocolate fountains, warming pastry goods, roast potatoes, breads and cheeses. I could go on but I think you get the picture and you might be drooling like me at the thought of it all. Tempting though all that might be, as plates are cleared from this metaphorical feast, labels are revealed - guilt, self-loathing, no control, fat, worthless. That’s the trade-off I guess. The decision I have to make each day, of which door to open.

As middle age engulfs me, it has certainly felt harder to shift weight, to make an impact upon my body shape. Alongside this, emotions can often overwhelm me. So to move forward requires a two pronged attack. I need to deal with both the physical and mental well-being. Sometimes that needs support. The mere act of writing this feels a little like waving a white flag to ask for that support. I have a goal to achieve within the next four weeks. I have a costume waiting to be worn, my evil fairy outfit for my part in a local drama group’s production of Sleeping Beauty. I have to keep visualising that as I stand each day before those doors. I would love to look good in that costume. I would love to own the stage in it, full of sass, not cake. Maybe I should print off a picture of an evil fairy and stick it to my fridge. I will have to give it a good go anyway.

So I am trying to make an impact within those next four weeks. I am trying to keep motivated and not give in to the temptations presented at family birthdays, coffee stops with friends, convenience when rushing to be somewhere. There’s one more cliché coming into focus here: ‘mind over matter.’ I have to work hard on that and also on telling myself not to mind when comments may be made by those who shouldn’t matter to me. I’m working hard to ditch the comfort food and take comfort from the results that I hope come from that effort. I’ll just have to keep you posted on that one.

Screen Time

Have you checked yours this week? My phone now gives me a weekly report as a measure of how much time I have spent and how productive it was too. Who would have thought that we would be willingly scolded for our choices by a handheld device that simultaneously makes us use it to tell us that we are using it too much? The irony. These little screens have seeped into so many aspects of our lives though and the data that is held about us is scary if we take a moment to consider it. Think back to a few decades ago and the very freedoms that were hard fought for then and predicted as a dark future by dystopian writers have become reality. 

Every time we click one of those seemingly fun quizzes on Facebook or allow access to a new app, we are willingly giving up personal details and our location, in fact we are often waving a big flag and shouting to all that we are currently away from our homes should anyone be interested, as we post stories and snaps of our days out and holiday adventures. Even our watches conjure up motivational messages or award a quality score on our sleep patterns and the number of steps we have made. Suffice to say, technology has seeped into all aspects of our lives through these screens. We have definitely opened the metaphorical ‘Pandora’s box’ and there is no turning back with it now.

Although I know all of this to be true, and somewhat resenting that fact, I find it hard to consciously move away from my screens. Now I have to rely upon them as a vehicle for my writing. Not only as the medium for creating written pieces but also where I have to trudge through the treacle-like experience of promoting that work, on all the social media platforms that exist through said screens. I have to accept that I need to use my laptop and my phone frequently but I am aware of how addictive this practice can become.

If you look away from your screen right now, the one you are using to view this, what do you see around you? Are you at home with other family members staring into their own devices? Perhaps, like me the other week, you are on public transport, crowded into a tube carriage with armpit odour as company or squashed on a bus with windows steaming up as the rain rivulets run down the outside of them. If so, I’m guessing a high proportion of your fellow travellers are engaged in their own screen time. Last week I stood in the High Street for a few minutes and just watched how many people were walking and screen watching at the same time, oblivious to their surroundings, some narrowly avoiding trip hazards. It conjured up a sci-fi plot where all inhabitants of a future earth are born with a phone screen instead of one of their hands, but I digress.

Recently at a hair appointment, I had to check my phone for a text message from a family member and I started talking about this very subject with my hairdresser. She brought up an interesting point, which is what really got me thinking about this blog post. Her bugbear, as she described it, is when she has made arrangements to meet with someone for coffee or lunch and the first thing they do is to put their phone alongside them. They then continue the time being distracted throughout, glancing at what floats across the screen and not giving full attention to the social meeting that both parties had signed up for.

It made me stop and think. How often have I done that? Does that mere act signify from the start that I am not fully committed to the occasion and the people that I am with? Perhaps it does. It is certainly something to think about. I need to work on separating my social and relaxation time and activities from my ‘work’ related ones. Keep my phone in the bag when I am spending time on the first of those, so that I can fully engage in them. Just as I have previously extolled the virtues of being in the moment, usually connected in my mind to being outside, close to nature, it is true that I should devote the same courtesies to connecting with the people in my life.

That all sounds fine and uplifting but I guess I am not alone in thinking of times when I have been the only one to put away the phone and to look around to see everyone else glued to theirs. Some evenings in our house, the television is on whilst every family member is either tapping on their phone screen or engaged in a screen activity on a tablet. Still, I guess we can all start somewhere. I can put away my screen and start a conversation, one where we actually look at each other too. It is all too easy to talk with our thumbs, to tap away and be drawn into screen chats, emojis and gifs. There's a lot of research out there about the negative effects of screen time, about the wisdom of putting screens out of sight for a while before bedtime, perhaps I need to take all of that more seriously. I am going to make a conscious effort to reduce my screen time. How about you? I wonder how many people can you actually engage with today. There’s my challenge, but don’t put your answer on social media!

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Thoughts of ghouls and ghosts and all things nasty come to mind as we head through the month of October and Halloween approaches. Opinions on this phenomenon are divided and although I celebrated the occasion as a child, with simple apple bobbing, buns on strings and the odd Meg and Mog story, today’s marking of the 31st of this month seems to have far more of the macabre and overtly horrific about it. Consequently as a parent, I didn’t let my children take part in the practice of Trick or Treat - something that they didn’t thank me for.

I didn’t feel comfortable about the process, how it goes against the message we instil of not talking to strangers and instead, because it’s Halloween and they are dressed in a scary mask they can knock on anyone’s door to demand a sugar fix. Aside from the stranger danger and how intimidated the random resident might feel on their doorstep, no one needs an entire bucket full of sweets to devour. I also question the proliferation of frankly disturbing masks, costumes and props that find their way into high street stores in the lead up to Halloween and wonder what young children make of such images around them. It certainly can’t help their bedtime routine.

In case you are reading this thinking I am just a party pooper, my children didn’t miss out entirely and I recall a few Halloween parties attended with friends or family. An image of my daughter in a witch’s hat and purple tutu skirt whilst my son wore a Dracula cape comes to mind and of course, casting spells in the style of Harry Potter was always a popular past time. Such days are a distant memory now and my children may be found at a Halloween gig at a pub or watching a scary movie screening whilst I am at home, cradling a mug of hot chocolate.

My wickedness is currently confined to playing the role of the evil fairy in my drama group’s annual pantomime. Within that I find that I am being thwarted by a subtle serpent. The symptoms of ageing, the menopausal Medusa, slithering in to sabotage my performance. Each week I find myself battling with confidence issues, memory loss and an ongoing problem with my foot that causes a fair amount of pain as I try to dance. Working on my confidence to convince myself that I can actually manage the part I have been given, takes a fair amount of effort. This week I am trying to get some of the lines into my head, as the performances draw nearer, but this is no easy task when on a daily basis I can walk into a room and forget why I went there and I am increasingly aware that I can stop mid-sentence as my brain plays a somersaulting game, trying to find the word that I need next. Whilst this is indeed a concern, I am working on it and making adjustments to be able to succeed by starting the whole memorising task earlier than I usually do and keeping my fingers crossed for that strategy to work.

The thing that I am finding most difficult is the pain and discomfort with my foot and it saddens me, after dancing in some shape or form since the age of three, that dance is proving problematic. Ironically the issues are typical for a dancer so it is even more poignant that I feel my dancing shoes may soon have to be hung up. Throughout my life, whatever size or shape I became at different points, dancing has been my release. A way to forget about everything else for a while and to let my mind focus upon the movement, the joy of the expression and the fun of being part of a performance- whether alone or in a group.

Dance has always come naturally to me, to move in time with the beat, to flow from one part of a routine to the next, to extend an arm line with poise and a smile, were all aspects I learnt early on and are now just second nature. My mind is still willing and imagines me succeeding in the spotlight but the body is finding it hard to deliver the goods these days. Then, of course, that wicked snake slithers in to strike a confidence blow or a lapse in memory and that which I had always thought was a strength of mine, begins to crumble.

My pointe shoes are wrapped up in a dusty box in a corner of the attic, for pointe work is a young girl’s game and I never quite had the whole slimline package for that. But I do not want to wrap up all my dance shoes yet. I have noticed the work of this evil ageing process but I am not ready to surrender to it yet. I am determined to keep dancing, with my painkillers and massage techniques at the ready for the recovery process.

I have heard that something wicked this way comes but she’s ready to rock an evil fairy costume and to kick ass! With a high kick and a pirouette, obviously.

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Performing at the Commonwealth Institute, April 1975

Blowing Out The Candles

Birthdays make you think don’t they? Beyond the arbitrary marking of time passing, the little traditions we observe of gift giving, messages penned in cards and making a wish as you cut your cake, all lend themselves to kick starting thoughts about the past, changes that have taken place since previous birthdays and aspirations  for where you might be heading in the future. With both my birthday and a milestone birthday for my daughter being celebrated within the space of a week, there have been a lot of thoughts floating around my head this weekend. 

A year on since my ‘fabulous fifty’ celebrations and I find myself writing this 50^th blog piece and thinking of all that has happened since I began blogging last July. What began as an anonymously safe space to log my thoughts like little diary entries of my midlife musings, now has taken its own shape and direction, openly as me for all to see. The content of a great deal of the posts formed the basis of my book and to have written and published a book would have been something that I saw as unobtainable a year ago. With many negatives that I could have dwelt upon, writing has somehow become my lifeline, my positive action and escape. It has often been my nostalgic route too, dredging up glimmering moments from the past to give them a fresh opportunity to shine again.

Such thoughts are quite apt this evening as I think about the significance of the next few days. Tomorrow we are going out for a family celebration of my daughter’s 18^th birthday and then two days later will be joining her in all that she has planned for her special day, as she officially joins the adult population. No longer my little girl in a pink tutu dress, running around the garden. No longer the Rainbow, the Brownie, the Guide, full of ideas and keen to help in the running of activities. Now instead, she is a grown woman with opinions and a drive to complete tasks that she sets for herself.

I find myself welling up as I write this. I have blogged before about the role of parents when your children are adults and how that is often hard to define. Much of who I have become over the last twenty-something years has been inextricably linked to being a mother. Choices I have made within my career to fit around childcare arrangements and the way that I tried to accommodate both home and work demands. Choices I made with my husband through the years about purchases, holidays, moving house and redesigning our current home, to provide what we felt would work best for the good of all of the family within the financial parameters that we had. Often quick to help out my children, to facilitate their hobbies, to provide transport to and from their social engagements, it is easy to become the ‘yes person’ to their requests.

Then, initially unnoticed, they begin to need you less and less as they become more independent. Then the day comes along when it hits you that you are no longer the central figure in their lives, no longer run ragged by the daily to and fro of school, clubs, appointments, work, dinner, bedtime and starting all over again the next morning. Some days this revelation feels like the positive success story that it is – you brought up your children well enough for them to be functioning independently within the world. Some days though it can leave you feeling without a purpose and yearning for those times when you held their hands to cross the road and you stamped your feet to keep warm as you stood in the park, pushing them back and forth on the swings for just a few minutes more.

It is all about adjustments. I have had a lot of adjustments to make at different points throughout my five decades. Some have taken longer than others and some have needed more support than others. I worried about my children the first time I left them with a childminder and on their first day at school. I cried when they went off for their first residential school trip, out of their sight of course, but nevertheless I cried. I panicked that they would not be okay the first time they walked to the shops or went to play with friends in the park on their own. I was both proud and a little sad on their first day at High School, dressed in such a grown-up uniform. I wished I could have had all of the pain of injections and X-rays and illnesses as they came along, so that they would not have to endure it. I hoped all would be okay and their nerves would hold whenever they had exams or tests at school or for their hobbies.

I had no control over any of those things and at the end of the day, I have no control over what will come next for them through their adult lives. So I have to adjust to that and accept the truth of it. Yet, whatever age they are, they will forever be my children and I will always want the best for them and worrying about that just goes with the territory. It is part of the job description of a mother and that’s fine by me. There are 18 candles to blow out on the cake this week and there may well be a few tears to wipe away at the same time, but I shall be proud to do so as we all sing ‘Happy Birthday.’

Back to School

This week has seen the annual proliferation across social media of first day at school shots of children standing somewhat nervously, somewhat excitedly, all smart in their uniforms and ready to go off for the new school year. I felt quite emotional about this last weekend as this is the first year that nobody in our house is following this pattern. Neither of my children are packing bags with arrays of coloured pencils and newly chosen lunch boxes and I too, after almost thirty years of being governed by academic calendars, am not returning to a classroom or office of folders, waiting for my attention to help the children whose names are contained within them.

Although removed from that immediate environment, the first week back at school makes itself known in other little ways to the wider community. There are certain times of the day to avoid walking the dog in the park, when it would be busy with the newest intake to the local high school letting off steam on their way home, slinging off their heavy school bags to snack and chat with each other. My husband’s morning journey to work has become more crowded and taken longer than it did each day over the summer break, so he is back to factoring in more time for his morning routine. Just being out and about for a walk or to pick up a few groceries, there seems a renewed purpose to people as they travel to or from school, or pick up placatory treats on their way home for tired and not-so-tidy uniformed children who will want to chill out and play rather than settle to some homework after their long day of listening and following rules.

I think all of that gives a little context to my unsettled feelings this week. I thought I had adapted to this writing life, after all, I have been doing this now since Christmas. A discussion with my daughter last Saturday showed how similar we both are. She said that she felt like she wanted to be buying new stationery, even though she has no need of it, just because she used to like shopping for it and planning for the work ahead. I have always been a lover of new stationery too, even my writing now is still divided between laptop and notebook – part of the joy of writing is the physical act of letting your ink flow across the blank page and then selecting a new, funky notebook to begin the process all over again once the current book is full. My writing notebooks have become like sketchbooks to an artist and I am now half-way through my second one this year. A glimpse inside the covers and you would quickly see what I mean, not neat at all, jumbled notes, some even scrawled up the margins but nevertheless meaningful to me at the time.

I mention this stationery fetish as it is connected to that need to plan for what is ahead, to embark upon a new term, to give yourself something new to boost your mood so that you can continue with a renewed energy. Last week’s blog ‘Fairy dust and wishes’ talked about my determination to manage the part I have been given in our drama group’s pantomime, by setting myself goals to achieve – fitness, weight loss and learning lines etc. For me, the new school year was always a moment for personal reflection where I would think about what I wanted to achieve in the academic year ahead, what I might do differently this time round. I guess that is why I have been asking myself similar questions recently.

I have a new writing project in the pipeline and have been working on that almost every day for a few weeks now, giving both it and myself the structure that is needed to make purposeful strides forward. I also face a challenge connected to my writing. This month I am due to lead a talk about my journey into writing and publishing my book and some of the issues covered within the content of it – menopause, mental health, self-help and empowerment. Planning for this event, takes me back to times when I prepared training sessions for fellow teachers or presentations to support talks to parents. The difference, I suppose, is just the context. Whilst I have the skill set required to lead a discussion and I know the content from first-hand experience as, after all, it is my story, it will feel strange to introduce myself as an author.

I am not going back to school this year, in all honesty I do not think I shall return to school in future years – not in a professional capacity anyway. Yet this month still feels like a new beginning for me, reminiscent of all the new terms that I faced. I am growing into my new ‘author uniform,’ I am working out my own timetable and rules and if I need to, I may even get myself some new stationery.

Aged five or six, at my first primary school in Heston, Middlesex.

All Change, Please...

I have been subject to many changes over the last few years and sat here today thinking about the whole concept of change, it is interesting to think of the way that we feel about change and the ways that we choose to describe it. For example - the winds of change - that’s a phrase that has a sense of foreboding which I suppose many of us have when we know that change is coming.

How about these descriptions? Making a complete ‘seed change,’ or that’s a ‘sea change.’ Perhaps like me, you were unaware that both those terms exist. The former meaning a dramatic change to think of things in a new and different way, taking a completely new perspective - referencing how crop rotation would change the look and content of a field. The latter meaning a gradual change over time and originates from Shakespeare’s ‘Tempest’ and has a much more poetic feel, linked to the loss of a father at sea:

“Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change,
into something rich and strange.”

The implication being that nothing is lost forever but instead does change and shift into something new but still with its own beauty and merit. I have learnt something new today in exploring both phrases and yes, we are all still capable of learning and actually the process of doing so is a change within itself. By learning something new we adapt the knowledge we already had.

Anyway to return to thoughts about the changes I mentioned. There is the old saying that I am sure you all know:

“All good things must come to an end”

H. H. Riley 1857

The problem with this is the presumption that the change that befalls that good thing, in itself makes the result bad. Actually it can just be different, and eventually, different can be as good, or even better than before.

When we make a significant change in our lives part of our resentment to the change is perhaps a grieving for what we are giving up. We sometimes have changes imposed upon us by circumstances out of our control and this can be a distressing experience for all concerned. For rarely does a change happen to an individual in isolation. We are all connected to a whole network of people and something that impacts upon one strand of that network can travel far and wide to the rest, like a vibration in one part of a spider’s web, emanating outwards to reach all corners that the web touches.

I have learnt that it is the indecision that causes the most distress. Whilst we are considering making changes we have all the ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ and ‘maybes’ to consider and the unknowns are there to intimidate us. Actually though, in reality, the unknowns can still be laid out before us but once we have made up our minds to move towards them, taken our decisions, then we free ourselves up to face the changes ahead of us more calmly and with a resolve to succeed.

When I kept toying with the idea of leaving teaching I was at my crisis point, when my stress levels were their highest. Once I had decided to make the move, there was almost a calm that descended, a relief that the decision had been made. At each stage I have faced in my writing, since taking this career break decision, I have had peaks of anxiety when I have stood at those metaphorical crossing points. The fork in the road where the fairy tale character decides which path to follow, not knowing which one would lead to treasure and which had a wolf or dragon waiting at the end. Often in life, we take the wrong fork. We find obstacles in our way but we keep on going and by taking steps to get around them we are often stronger in the end.

Change is a fact of life and at my time of life, there are many - both physical and emotional, with a few events or circumstances thrown in for good measure. This year has helped me to develop a resilience to face changes, to understand their context and to get stronger and more capable of embracing them. Am I going through ‘the change?’ Oh yes, undoubtedly, but it doesn’t have to define me. The more I research and discover, the more I write, the more empowered I feel to cope with what lies ahead. None of us knows what will happen next but more and more of the same stuff is boring isn’t it? So take a deep breath and ‘all change, please.’

Shabby Chic

Scratch beneath the surface of a grand veneer and is it all that the facade promises to be?
Think of a plush setting that you have visited - a hotel, a theatre, perhaps a high end restaurant. Do you notice the details or are you just swept along with the moment and the ostentatious paraphernalia on display? Take a closer look and it may be all too easy to find the cracks, the forgotten dusty corner and, rather like the proverbial swan, see the drudgery and sheer hard work of all those persevering to keep the cogs turning smoothly to maintain the illusion for the public.

We visited a National Trust property yesterday and marvelled at a chandelier in one of the rooms. We were intrigued to hear that it is cleaned bi-annually and that the process takes two people a whole month to complete. Things of beauty take a lot of work behind the scenes to maintain. Looking at the dining table all laid out with cut flowers, thin stemmed glasses, polished cutlery and an array of fine tableware, it felt as though we had stepped into a moment in time, glimpsing a bygone era of decadence. It brought to mind a stark contrast to the modern-day, throwaway mentality of fast food, delivered to your door at a click on your phone, disposable and nondescript. Whatever the reasons for today’s proliferation of instant gratification, the almost immediate satisfaction of Uber eats, microwaved ready meals and fast processed snacks does not remain a satisfaction quelled for long. Whilst we have created these systems in our society to provide us with quick fixes so that we can get back to our busy days, in so doing, are we in danger of forgetting how to take time out, to pause and notice our surroundings and to appreciate what we have before us?

As I started writing this, I was sat in a hotel bar alongside my husband on our anniversary weekend away. From this vantage point I could see both aspects that I mention, the two sides of the coin - the beauty of the well chosen furnishings, the hotel guests sat around taking time to chat, whilst woven all around the scene was the work going on by many staff to maintain that facade of luxury. On a Saturday morning in July, with many wedding guests arriving, there were times when the staff looked overwhelmed and the luxurious image slipped in places as tables were left uncleared with discarded food and glasses dotted around and the ever-growing queue for the bar dented the peaceful atmosphere we had originally sought. I put down my pen and we headed off for a dip in the pool, an altogether more tranquil experience.

Thinking back to that scene now, I wonder if others were disturbed by the parts I have just described or if they could just zone out, carry on with their conversation or morning read regardless? As I have grown older, I have found it more difficult to do that. I think back to when my children were young and I could hold a conversation with another Mum whilst sipping coffee, changing my child’s shoes and wiping their nose and sending them on their way again to play with the toys in a noisy church hall toddler group - all without a second thought. Now I have to focus on one thing at a time.

That’s maybe no bad thing and as I said before, just taking a moment to pause is invaluable. I am having to work at this still and particularly the last few weeks I have found that I really need to carve myself some time, remove myself from the routine and home environment to be able to pause and hopefully then, to write. It’s back to the need to find the space to think, to recharge, to allow the creative part of the brain a chance to spark. When I have removed myself to the garden, or my loft room or a coffee spot nearby, I am in a much better position to let the pen flow.

I have just read one of those quotes posted with regularity on Instagram, which read something like this - If you look for good, you will find it, if you look for the worst, you will find that too. I think you can stand in a stately home, a grand hotel or a regency theatre and find either the good or the worst, if you try. The best advice is to share a moment with good company and the good grace to be thankful for that time. Pause the distractions, sip your tea from a china cup, indulge in the delight of a little decadence if you can and, just for that fleeting moment, relax.

Silence is Golden

Is that really the case? That very much depends upon the context. In current times the moves to promote speaking out about an injustice, saying no to anything that makes you feel uncomfortable or speaking up to show a courage to ask for help- all of these are without question, a commendable course of action to take. My thoughts are concerned with the many moments as a wife, mother, daughter or friend when I have chosen to be silent. Silent when it feels the hardest thing to be but when to say something would bring hurt or unhappiness to another or would simply solve nothing by being pointed out to those involved. I have not always been able to maintain this and all too easily, a few words slip and are instantly regretted for the fallout that ensues.

With so much in the public domain now and a plethora of social media platforms available to us all, silence is a fast evaporating commodity. The spread of a few comments on Facebook or similar is the technologically heightened version of cruel playground gossip and all too easy to become swept up in. When is the last time you felt the need to bite your tongue? I have been learning the value of doing so, much more as I grow older. Family dynamics can require careful balancing and I am still not the best placed person to extol the virtues of silence in that regard but I do need to learn. There are some things that need to be said and airing what we really feel, though hurtful or difficult at the time, can ultimately lead to us all being in a better place. Then there are things that we all may actually know but it does no-one any favours in actually saying any of it out loud.

What about the times when you know something about a friend but you cannot share it? I expect we all make judgment calls all the time and much of this will depend upon how much you as a person revels in a bit of gossip. It’s worth noting though, that for all the gossip and information a person tells you about another, you can be reassured that you will be the feature of at least as many talking points when you have left the room. Those who are the ring masters in the circus of gossip are often adept at juggling - balancing just enough information to give each individual to make them feel part of the game without revealing too much of themselves. But juggling is a skill that takes time to develop and the more balls you add, the more risk there is of dropping one.

Without becoming caught up in specific details, for that in itself would be to start painting with a gossip brush, there are times when I have overheard a comment or glimpsed part of a message on a group chat obviously not intended for my eyes as a nearby phone lights up. Though not setting out to discover what someone really thinks about another or quite believing how unkind an off guard comment can be, once you know something you can’t un-know it. That is the point at which you make your judgement call and when silence can indeed be golden. To pass on the comment or confront the person who was making it would be options with consequences that may well be far reaching. Better to keep quiet and to learn from it - knowing that your judgement of another may now be coloured by the incident but moving on, nevertheless.

In the past, when different circumstances combined to make life particularly tricky, there were times when I would stand in the shower and cry. Some days I felt that I had nobody to talk to and so the confines of the shower cubicle were the only space to let it out. Silence about my feelings was not golden and in hindsight not the best option to have taken but it was probably necessary as I was processing what was happening to family members.

Now that I am in a place that I feel I can move out of the shower cubicle and am more relaxed about sharing my thoughts and even crying in front of those I trust. Still there is a balance needed, isn’t there? I don’t always choose to tell it like it really is - who wants to be that friend or family member who is always negative? Those who know me well enough, know that sometimes silence or that stock answer that all is fine, are both mechanisms employed until such time as I will be ready to talk about it. They also know to balance when to give me the space to process thoughts and when to push me to break a silence so that I can really say how I feel as let’s face it, we all know that ‘fine’ is code for all is far from fine. 

Relationships are a complex entity with many facets, some of the hidden ones only starting to reveal themselves after many years. Scratch beneath the superficial and a solid relationship - romantic or platonic - will have those hidden depths. Thirty years into knowing my husband and we’re still discovering these depths as we have come to rely upon each other’s strengths when faced with a bump in life’s road. The trade off for all the down sides of ageing is hopefully an increased wisdom and a fine tuning of trusting your judgement. A judgement of when to speak up and when to have the strength to rise above it all and let your silence speak volumes. I’m still working hard at following the path to wisdom, how about you?

Father’s Footsteps

There are things that I wish I could tell my Dad, things that have happened since he passed away that I would have shared with him. Achievements of family members, places he would have enjoyed visiting with us, big decisions that he would have had an opinion on. When I pause to press a play back on the past, to the days before his illness when he was an active presence in family life, I ask myself what he would have made of all these developments.

Thoughts of him come into a bittersweet focus as Father’s Day is celebrated each June. The same would be true on other key dates of the year, his birthday and Christmas for example. On this Father’s Day (the seventh there has been without him) I am pausing to think of what a father brings to the family unit – what has been missing since we lost that kind and gentle man, with his dry sense of humour.

Little things come to mind, scattered anecdotes of times shared together, either from my own childhood or when he was in full ‘grandad mode’ to my children. Countryside walks up hills, over stiles and along narrow cliff paths with Dad leading the way – the intrepid adventurer would need a risk assessment completed nowadays but the freedom of it all was precious. Walking featured with our children too when Grandad would pretend the fairies were holding a meeting in a certain tree trunk and provide the soundtrack, out of sight of my daughter who was searching amongst the roots and moss for a glimpse of a glittery fairy wing.

Being a lover of the Goon Show and particularly Spike Milligan, it is perhaps no surprise that he was prone to quoting nonsense rhymes and often creating his own versions. For years, I think my children thought that Grandad’s version of Miss Polly who had a dolly that was six foot four, was the correct one and that their nursery teachers kept getting it wrong.

As a mathematics teacher, you might expect him to have been a man of order and pattern, yet there always seemed to be a chaotic trail of paperwork strewn around him as he marked papers or sorted race results for his athletics club. Dare to clear the table and we would be told that he knew where things were amongst the clutter and he certainly managed to work his way through it to achieve the tasks he needed to.

As a father, he brought humour to the day to day and although not an extroverted man by any means, he would be quick to make a joke to lighten a mood when needed, He worked hard to provide a solid home for us all without ever drawing attention to the fact that he was doing so. If his work was difficult or making ends meet was problematic, he never let on – not that I can remember any way. My perception is that of a man quietly doing what he needed to for home and family to succeed at one time or another an adventurer, joker, teacher, athlete and provider.

Now an experienced parent myself, I think of all that my husband contributes and is as a father too. He too has taught our children from his example, as they have grown. He has brought laughter with shared ‘in jokes,’ games and funny experiences over the years. Mostly, he has been quietly strong, a provider who feels responsible for the family whether that be their happiness, safety or financial security. In recent years, he has been able to let on if he has found this role difficult at times, whether in the past he perceived it as weak to admit that something may be difficult or to ask for help, I don’t know. I see it as positive to let that guard down occasionally so that we can try to work together to resolve issues and move forward.

From childhood boys are still told not to be a ‘wuss,’ to not run or cry ‘like a girl,’ or to ‘man up’ when faced with a challenge. Such expressions contribute to a certain image of a man, one who has to be strong, capable and dependable which also negates the need for showing emotions. Being brave enough to say how you feel shows a strength in my eyes and I’d much rather have that example shown to my children. There are times when his version of being a father can look like it’s in the background, quietly getting on with all that needs to be done to keep the family ship sailing on. I hope that he knows that it doesn’t go unnoticed and with that in mind, wish him a happy Father’s Day – relaxing with the family.