Happiness Matters

June 14, 2019

Times they are changing

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Times they are changing

My daughter is now sixteen years old, a fact which gives me considerable pause. I have spent much time over the last two decades doing things for the family I am blessed to have around me. But have I used that as my excuse to not do things for myself? Probably.

There must be many people in my position, who surround themselves with details and preoccupations that put them at several removes from the concerns and convictions nearest their hearts. So how do we get back to the things we really, really want to do, instead of staying half-heartedly with those things we think we ought to do first?

I am guessing that most of us will wait until our kids have grown up, and we have a lot of time and space, before we sit back and reflect, remembering what we enjoyed doing before parenthood came along. We’ve all heard about the ‘empty nest’ syndrome, which apparently leaves parents bereft without their usual caring role.

With that in mind – I’ve done a lot of intense grieving these last few years and it is hard work – I have been letting my daughter leave me gradually, mourning and celebrating her passages into youth and adulthood in the small rituals with which growing up is sprinkled: the first time she walked to school by herself; the first time she went to town alone on the bus; the first time she was away for the weekend with a school party…

With suitable safeguards and many sage warnings, these small moments when I realised, “She can manage without me, now,” have paved the way for the recognition that I must honour her freedom – and the rest of my life – by now being meaningfully busy with my own projects. That I can do.

Thanks for listening.  

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June 10, 2019

Getting life into gear

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Getting life into gear

My “to do” list reads like this: housework, swimming, shopping, recycling, visiting my mum, shopping, tidying, answering the door, and getting life into gear. You know, get a grip, get organised, do things.

But… I’m doing them already, and there must come a limit to the number of times, or the speed or the efficiency with which I tackle the jobs in my life. Some things are more fun than others. Visiting Mum, while sometimes worrying, is also enjoyable, interesting, and a good way to remind myself of life priorities, in other words, how lucky I am.

But still, the notion resurfaces occasionally that I could do with being more disciplined about my own work, that, “I need to work harder”. Periodically, I glance at the stats comparing average earnings with mine, and think, “Right! It’s time to get organised…” and I wilt, thinking that surely, hard work alone does not answer that particular ambition.

So perhaps there is something else I could be doing, some different way in which I can frame life challenges that would make achieving things easier. Perhaps I’ve known all along that if I can make enjoyable what I am doing, that is worthwhile in itself. When I am happy, life is already lighter and more interesting, and my life automatically becomes what I want it to be.

More soberly, I begin to perceive that there is a marked difference between pain – which is, I believe, an inevitable part of life, the see saw of change – and what we generally call suffering, which is what happens when we internalise pain, in some ways erecting it into our next great project. Pain of all sorts is both natural and inevitable; our thoughtless conversion of it into what we call suffering might become a bad habit. I know myself, that I can tolerate quite a lot of pain. And so long as I do not rehearse it, hold on to it, I can accept it, feel it and allow it to be until it goes away. I do not also need to say, as I have been in the habit of doing, “Ah me, I am in such pain, life is hard etc etc etc.” Which is a bit like picking myself up from a fall, only to bash my head against a brick wall…

Funny what I think about while waiting at traffic lights.

Thanks for listening.  

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May 28, 2019

Taking things for granted

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Is taking things for granted a privilege? Sometimes I think so, yes, of course it is. And in the spirit of taking things for granted, I yearn for the quiet life, untrammelled by pangs of conscience or worry, reading my books, sat warm and comfortable in a peaceful space…with a clear mind and gentle ambitions carrying me through the years.  

Yet, such a vision of privilege and calm makes me restless: to live! Despite all the small obstacles that seem to gather round like spectres on a stormy day – there are always things I have to do, needling me away from what I prefer to be doing – something keeps my head up, and my desire to move, moving: I know I will get where I want to be, if only I keep faith. I will go for walks in the fresh air. I will enjoy swimming and laughing. I will write blog posts, I will finish my books and submit short stories. I will have fun and live a big life. I do.

Reading an account by a Buddhist friend of mine, who first became aware that recounting his life’s misfortunes made him the envy of his Buddhist friends – for to have misfortune thrown at one’s feet is to be given opportunities for that most sought-after gift, spiritual growth – made me realise that in some way, all misfortune can be strengthening: it puts one’s own circumstances into different contexts – I lost my house in a fire, but I and my kids escaped unharmed – or it forces one to choose fully – I’m alive, by some miracle, and I don’t intend to waste another second.

It’s taken many years for me to come to an accommodation with who I am and the challenges I’ve been given: small ones, like being constantly uncomfortable, and bigger ones, like making something meaningful out of life, not just existing. And I still rock between being sharply aware of the many ways in which I am fortunate – is that sharpness forcing me to notice ways in which life can be unfortunate? – and relaxing, trusting that I am allowed to enjoy life fully. As they say, Life is a work in progress, and I think I’m making progress.

Thanks for listening.

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May 25, 2019

When electronic books rule

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When electronic books rule, will physical books and bookshelves one day be consigned to museums? Written out of our furnishing requirements as interesting curios from past times, and gazed at wonderingly by precocious five-year olds, the same way that children and adolescents now peer at old telephones and record players? I laughed when I watched a video of two sixteen-year-old boys trying to work out how to use a dial phone, but actually, I just felt old.

Kindles are great. But will we all be using them, all the time, in ten years? Will there be any need for shelving for books, when my kindle offers several free dictionaries and probably a thesaurus and an encyclopaedia as part of the start-up incentive built in with every new purchase of an e-reader? Think of all that shelf space saved!

Audio books, too, are growing in popularity, partly, I believe, because our kids have grown up with i-pads and mobile phones so a vocal interface is second nature to the way they relate. Which is no bad thing: for millennia, humans have used story telling and songs to pass down knowledge. The last twist merely reinvents what comes most naturally to human-kind. So is the writing on the wall for writing?

Will house-builders have an even better excuse for building homes in miniature? (“Ye don’t need book cases no more, love, so we can just put yer king-size up against the wall here, like that”)

In the not-too-distant future, physical books may only be available in community co-operatives, run like libraries, with a café, a shop and a second-hand clothes shop alongside. Or we may order our own POD copies at vast expense in what will have become a niche market. Whatever the prophesies of the technophiles, and whatever the demands of eco living, almost everyone needs books in one form or another. And there may come a time when we are immensely grateful to unearth old back numbers that we now overlook, with their modest orange, green and blue covers, and their restrained delvings into human suffering. As has been suggested in many post-apocalyptic narratives, we may even need to tear out the pages to use for personal grooming or for fire-lighting; or, when the power runs out, we may actually start reading them again.

Thanks for listening.

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May 22, 2019

Reactions to my books

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Reactions to my books have been and continue to be overwhelmingly supportive. I am very touched that my story has reached so many readers, some of whom have contacted me with messages of love and support and to share their own stories.

I’m glad if my experiences can help to inform and console: in navigating our way through life, I find there are few more toxic experiences than being lonely.

Many whom I would count as good friends express surprise, saying, I had no idea. They are astonished that so much can have happened of which they have been unaware, though of course, since I have been introverted, depressed and solitary for so many years, it is unsurprising to me that, until now, the best way I knew to maintain my dignity was with silence: I’m less ashamed of how things were then, and can talk about them. And my shame has a different quality – less, how embarrassing; more how could I tolerate that? which makes me want to advocate, not hide.

Which must be one reason why I started writing. I feared being swallowed up completely by my tendency to silence. So I gave up the unequal struggle to hold it all in, knowing, even as I wrote, that eventually, when I had smoothed it out a bit and found a way to come to terms, I would go public, despite an intense desire to chuck it all in and run away: my reactions to my books are still mixed.

I still think it matters to maintain peaceful dignity. But often that is a way of staying away from the helping arms that others willingly extend towards us. We do need to show our weaknesses, our frailty, and allow others to understand. I’m sorry that, for so long, I have been unable to share intimacies, or to trust that the reactions of friends and family would be supportive. I regret the missed opportunities to share more fully, because, at the very least, sharing would have helped me to notice that we all have stuff to deal with, we all struggle and suffer together in this melting pot called “Life”. Seeing that more clearly would have given me the courage to make more mistakes, be more outspoken, to take more risks so that I might move more freely and enjoy life more.

Thanks for listening.

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May 20, 2019

Time well spent?

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Time well spent?

Recently, I have been asking myself again, has my time – my life – been well invested? Why have I put myself through another difficult, emotionally draining and – let’s face it – financially unrewarding decade?

If I was an outsider considering the pros and cons of writing, on the surface, I would conclude that Fran Macilvey is peculiarly driven: to work early or late; at any rate, while her family sleeps; driven to continue with the next project, the next hope, despite setbacks, illness and puzzlement from those more sober and grounded citizens of her acquaintance who really would prefer that she apply her energies to a proper, reasonable, sensible and obvious job. Why, for goodness’ sake, must she always be different?

Because I am, is all. I make that sound nonchalant, easy to say. But if my life has taught me anything, it is the total futility of trying to keep up with other ‘ordinary’ people who have ‘ordinary’ jobs. I’ve tried that – really, I have – and it has only led to heartbreak and losses of a different kind.

In the old days, the pain was about not belonging, never fitting in, and never really understanding what was going on; I had that sinking feeling which made it plain that I never would understand, no matter how hard I tried. Nowadays, though there have been a few disappointments and false starts, I am increasingly certain that I understand the basics of life, its purpose and meaning, and that I will continue to make progress. On my present path, every difficulty lends itself to a purpose, for a reason and I notice the ways in which unexpected outcomes serve a longer-term goal.

I write to share my experiences. I can write, and so I do. I can explain, and so that is my attempt, in the hope that those who may read my pieces know that I understand something of their loneliness, their anger, even their desolation. It is not unusual to have these feelings, it is not peculiar or suspicious. They are just part of life.

Gradually, writing has revealed that our ‘bad’ experiences can complement the ‘good’, making our lives a contrasting tapestry which, when we look back at it, hopefully fills us with gratitude and optimism. That is how I see myself making the best of life’s knots, at any rate.

Thanks for listening.

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May 13, 2019

Reading cheerful books

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Here is a listening version of this blog post.

Reading cheerful books

Increasingly I find I make a virtue of reading cheerful books. I have read a lot of chic lit – that brand of rather uniquely sexist literature that fashionistas decry because they say it appeals to the lazy instincts of womankind. Woman meets man, loses man, finds him again; or woman loses man, finds herself, finds a better man. We are prone to scoffing at such easy, soft options for reading, as if by not reading Proust, or the latest discoveries unearthed within the pages of ‘Archaeology Now’, we are letting down the side, betraying the freedoms for which our older sisters and mothers fought so hard.

But what if the lot of women is already hard? What if the first thing woman does when she rises at seven, is to put away the laundry, open the curtains and make the beds? What if, when she reaches the kitchen and is within hailing distance of her breakfast, the first thing she sees is the pile of unwashed dishes at the sink? There is not much room there, for escapism, and precious little to look forward to, unless, of course, she is that delightful fiction of mankind, the woman who enjoys cleaning and clearing, and finds daily menus a delightful challenge.

As it is, I manage several loads of laundry a week, half a dozen cooked meals and an assortment of domestic duties, usually with considerable aplomb. On the occasional occasion when I mention my dislike, my husband, who rarely does laundry, says I make too much of my dislike. A few years back, his incomprehension would have been my cue for an argument and a bout of despair. Now, at least, I can think of a calm reply with a hint of humour, “Spoken like a true officionado” or some such… It’s just a pity that it takes me a week to formulate it, by which time the moment has passed.

There are times when the sheer loneliness of domestic isolation can become a bit overpowering. Held down by such feelings, happy stories and humour are a vital escape, allowing the mind to lift, and then find solutions, strength and new resolve. If Alice in her cupcake shop can tell the CEO of a large multi-national corporation that she is not interested in promotion, then I can find the steely resolve I need, to withstand long periods of fatigue, failures in communication and the demands that everyone makes on my time.

Thanks so much for reading.

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May 9, 2019

Difficulty moving forward

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Difficulty moving forward

Here is a listening version of this blog post.

It is natural, when we have difficulty moving forward, to assume that we have no wish to move. And there are those who will capitalise on our difficulty with moving forward and taking the initiative by assuming, for example that, “Since you’re sitting there, you can do this for me / wait for me / come with me…”

But since I have worked out – so recently that it is almost embarrassing – that deciding, doing and moving are all that bit extra challenging for me and that taking that extra time and effort out of an average day counts as a peculiarly painful loss, I am now surprisingly indignant when I spot this habit gliding silently towards me, ready to take up position in service of someone else’s life, ambitions or expectations.

Paul D’AguilarPerfecto Resting

Hubby says to me, “Well, please go and do what you would like to do…” and is baffled that I find it difficult; while he would find it relatively simple to decide. He is a man who knows his own mind and is quite happy to populate his spare time with things he enjoys: more power to him.

But what if I have never really known what I would prefer to do? So that by the time my speedy friends have worked out their idea of a good time – “Want to go to the cinema? Great, let’s go!” – it’s too late for me to add my considered response, “Actually, I would really, really love to go and walk in a park with tall trees…” without sounding like a kill-joy. The assumption evolves effortlessly that I am countering an earlier suggestion with a no; whereas I am merely slower to unearth my preferences. (If I were able to leap into a blank canvas with my idea first, others could and probably would counter it, but at least my speed would shield my reputation.)

Perhaps I come to this now merely because I have reached an age in which it is expected that I want to go slower. I receive mailings about funeral plans, insurance for the over fifties, home equity release schemes, sedate holidays for those on the brink of retirement… Which are, again, lots of other people’s ideas begging a hearing.

Whereas I feel that I need to start moving. I have so much living still to do.

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May 5, 2019

Unexpected reading

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Unexpected reading

Dusting a crammed shelf next to my desk, my working copy of Trapped falls to the floor and I pick it up and open it.

It is unexpected reading; and I am scared, not because, as used to be the case, I am anxious about finding grammar glitches and typos, but because I wonder now, how I will feel about the writing, and the experiences after so long. Have they finally left me and gone away to a dignified retirement? Am I encouraged by what I read?

I’m baffled and bemused to discover that it still makes my eyes water; and I notice in the midst of what was always an appeal for help, the acres of time I wasted. Even as an adolescent, I was aware of that wasted time and regretted it; but now, I think, Why did I accept it? How the Hell did I tolerate it?

The answer, like these questions that have sat up and beg me to pay attention, lies I suspect in the discipline and open-ness to truth that is forced on me by getting older. There is something about being young, that feeling of having all the time in the world, that gives us permission to sit and wait. That sense of timelessness which we can squander is often characterised as the joyous, endless horizon of youth, the notion that anything is possible. And so it is, providing we take the chance to do something. Or else, it can become a field of endless, formless regrets.

Inevitably, the field narrows as we get older, until our demise ceases to be a remote probability and becomes an urgent motivator: It’s got to be now or never! While young, I accepted my situation because I could see no way to get out of it, and I tolerated it, because there was no choice. I had neither the type of Georgette Heyer character nor the energy to defy expectations by leaping up and eloping. Nor, in fact, did I have any idea what I would rather do. Oh, yes, of course I knew I wanted to get away, and dreaming of escape has always been a favourite fantasy, but after the escape, what then? That was always the stumbling block.

Thanks for reading.

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April 29, 2019

Telling the truth about life

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Telling the truth about life

People think I’m very funny because I’ve got used to telling the truth about life. “Oh, how drole, how very amusing!” they chortle, trying not to choke on their tea, their coffee or their biscuit crumbs.

It’s easy, really. More often than not, I say what other people are thinking. I blurt out the “one stupid question” that no-one wants to ask for fear of looking idiotic. All things considered, I have little to lose, so I think of truth-telling as my partypiece: my secret weapon.

It was my father who first started me thinking about the value of this. During a visit abroad, as he was happily relating tales of his adventures, he confessed that it could be very tricky using humour to brighten the mood at a dinner party. Humour, it turns out, is a remarkably local affair – I may understand irony, family humour, but the neighbours will probably consider the same joke unduly forward and rather rude: what might be amusing to the French ambassador sitting on dad’s right, might deeply embarrass the Lithuanian consul seated on his left… Difficulties with language and the communication of small subtleties can proliferate alarmingly.

“So, what do you do?” I asked wonderingly. (Sometimes my naivete astounds me.)

“Well,” he turned to me with a twinkle in his eye, “I just tell a story against myself. It could be anything. I might have told the cook I wanted salad for supper, not salami, or I might have dropped my glass of wine. Whatever it is, I just make it amusing and everyone laughs. We are all very entertained and the joke is on me, so my problem is solved. No more international misunderstandings. Very important, you see….”

While I marvelled at my father’s dedication to his job, even to the extent of putting himself forward so that everyone might laugh at his antics, gentle humour is indeed a wonderful way to disarm unkindness. If we make ourselves look a bit daft, our friends will probably feel more comfortable telling us about their mistakes too.

It was my father whom I thought of, when I had the wonderful idea to take twenty years of hard knocks and turn them into stories that might entertain. For the most part, I can and often do gleam something worthwhile from what I used to think of as my wasted years, by telling the truth and laughing about it.

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