choices

March 6, 2015

Capability Scotland – Thank You

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Capability Scotland – Thank you!

I am honoured to be part of your launch for the ‘Great Scottish Book Off’. It was a privilege to represent you on ‘Good Morning Scotland’; (at 02:36:14) and the appearance at Blackwells last night was such fun. Thank you for organising everything so beautifully. It is a total pleasure to work with you, and I hope that my small contribution has helped to give your campaign extra lift.

Thanks also to Blackwells for their generous support hosting last night’s event.

I just want to say… I sincerely appreciate everything Capability does to promote positive, inclusinve living. We all need Capability, to remind us that everyone has something valuable to offer to the big picture. Our part may feel small, only one piece of the puzzle, but…you know how it feels when that one piece of the puzzle is missing. Imagine spending months putting together a thousand piece jigsaw, only to find a piece missing. And if that puzzle is made up of millions of pieces…..?

Whether we are campaigners, volunteers, tea and scone makers or listeners, each one of us is uniquely important. We celebrate life’s richness, when we work together!

Thank you and bless you, always.

Rose heart

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February 9, 2015

A Writing Habit

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Johannes Vermeer 'A Lady Writing' c 1665
Johannes Vermeer ‘A Lady Writing’ c 1665

 

The more I write, the more I discover there is to write about. It seems to be one of these laws of universal truth, that committing to a writing habit and blogging five times a week is easier and more fulfilling than writing less often, (at days and times which constantly need considering). Somehow, committing is the most important part, and then the rest comes more easily.

I have gaps in my schedule and become increasingly used to working around whatever else is going on. So, the plumber has just phoned to say he is coming over on Wednesday to get started on fitting a new boiler (YAY!) at a time when I would usually be swimming, or writing, or sorting out laundry. Instead of worrying that my life needs to be reorganised, I just accept that gratefully, and swim later, or another day. Life becomes so much easier, with the help of a few regular habits that become increasingly enjoyable. Blogging has become one of these: a personal diary and place for reflection that gives structure and support to me through the day. And, most importantly, writing it is soothing and pleasant. I do enjoy sharing snippets of my life with you, and reading about what you are doing. I am grateful for every comment, ‘like’ and ‘share’.

My brother tells me that the only thing other people cannot do for me, is write my material, which does galvanise me. Increasingly I find that blogging is useful to get me started and sustain me through book writing and editing too. There are many, many benefits to blogging, which are not immediately obvious. But I discover more every day.

 

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January 30, 2015

In Good Heart

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Looking back over everything, I am in good heart.

I have spent five years mostly sitting here, reading, writing, editing, chatting, commenting, and being around the internet communities where I continue to meet amazing people and make friends.

In my more retiring moments, I sometimes wish that I had done other things, like walking into the hills, where the breeze would rouse me and the views from the Pentland Hills down to the coast would invite me to remember the long view.  Or watching the spring flowers unfolding in March.  Often, I have missed entire seasons, so wrapped up have I been, in the cocoon of communications that is part of my work.

Aware that time is fleeting, I sometimes wish I could have spent more time playing with Seline, teaching her the card games of my youth – must see if I can remember how to play double patience – great fun – and generally laughing so hard, I feel my spirit floating out of my body.

Then, I consider my accounts: my Facebook pages, my twitter and Amazon accounts, this blog and Goodreads account. I remember their genesis in the world of Authonomy, and I think….wow, I set that all up.  Little phobic me, the girl who first turned on a computer monitor when she was thirty, set this all up and, with the help of so many friends and supporters, has kept it going, one way or another.  Through everything, this small network has linked me to sources of information and advice, consolation and inspiration in so many ways that I can hardly articulate.

But there we are. Life creeps up on one, sometimes. And our achievements are not always obvious until later, when we take a moment to look back.

Thanks to everyone who has been part of my on-line life, all this time. I value you, and your presence, more than I can say. I count it a great privilege to know you.

 

Drops_On_Rose_(260892746)

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January 21, 2015

Morning Walk

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‘Shambles is as shambles does…’ he muttered to himself as he hirpled along the road, his shoes scuffing softly on the cobbles. ‘Just what my mother used to say….’

Sauntering past in the other direction, happily linked on the arm of her lover, Susie turned and very obviously watched the old man, as he clattered into the doorway of the newsagent and in under the jangling bell. She was having one of those days when she saw everything: the curve of his lean jaw above the twist of his scarf and his unfastened coat; the pallor of his cheeks; the way his hair, obviously unbrushed today, twisted affectionately at the back of his head. Absently, she wondered if he had eaten yet this morning.

‘Wait a minute, Alice, will you?’ she queried, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. She turned and followed the man into the shop, aware that she was being even odder than usual today. If everyone indulged their hunches, the world would be a peculiar place….it was peculiar enough, and she hardly needed to draw attention to herself, but still.

Susie took in the slightly dusty air, the rack of newspapers and the colourful array of crisps packets and fizzy bottles near the exit. But her attention was focussed on the old man, carefully clutching a small carton of milk and rooting in his pockets for change, while the shop-keeper waited, watching a screen pinned somewhere overhead. Absently he took the pound coin held aloft in icy fingers and proffered change. The old man’s head was bent slightly forward, as if the weight of the world had warped it. Susie approached the till.

‘Are you all right?’

The old man blinked myopically.

‘Yes, thank you’ he answered, slowly and with great dignity. ‘I’m fine, thank you, young lady.’

Susie wanted to ask him if he had had breakfast, if he was eating properly. She had an absurd longing to go round to his place and make a pot of soup, switch on the radio and fill his kitchen with the clatter of domestic noise, but instead, she just smiled and said, ‘That’s fine, then. Take care of yourself.’

‘The name’s Thomas, and I live up there – …’ he pointed absently, ‘Up the hill a bit. I like to come out for my morning walk every morning. My sister tells me it does me good, though I sometimes wonder.’

‘Your sister?’

‘Ena takes care of me.’

‘I’m very glad.’ Impulsively she gave the old man’s hand a squeeze. ‘I’ll see you again.’

 

Diego Velazquez 'An Old Woman Cooking Eggs'
Diego Velazquez ‘An Old Woman Cooking Eggs’

 

 

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January 12, 2015

Just Eat a Peach

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I have ideas for a book, provisionally entitled, ‘Just Eat a Peach’. Here is a tentative first chapter or introduction. Comments most welcome.

Personal observations suggest that changing personal habits can take anything from between six months and a lifetime.  More optimistically, I would say that where there is no pressing urgency, altering personal routines and habits can be expected, to take between six months and two years.

I can’t manage comprehensive self-sufficiency. Now does this text intend, in its scope and depth, to answer every DIY question from “How do I slaughter a pig?” to “What about Greenhouse gases?”  On the contrary, it is based firmly within the realms of my own experience and observations of what works and what may be a waste of time.

Where should we start?  There is so much to consider, and potentially every area of our lives can be re-examined.  For the purposes of this exercise it helps us enormously to make a start with something, when we remember that we are responsible for our personal circumstances and understand that there are excellent reasons to embrace change.  I wish to send out a rallying cry, to empower us to act, to do something, no matter how small, to make a difference.  While many citizens charged with aspects of decision-making seem to spend their time in power struggles concerned with budgets, targets, strategies, spheres of influence and planning, we foot soldiers can set to work with our gloves off – or on, if you happen to be washing dishes or gardening.

Seriously, do we want to wait until we have to choose between washing the dishes, or washing our hair?  Do we really expect to ‘have it all’ indefinitely?  If the Kyoto Protocol and Doha amendments being negotiated mean anything, they signal that we will have to make such choices.  Does it not make sense to start examining our habits now, so that the pains we have to go through are less agonizing?

Taking time to choose, then reflect, adapt and accept or reject our choices, is how we eventually achieve permanent shifts in our habits.  Much of what I suggest may not work out for you; and since I started writing, various problems have surfaced which make certain apparently ‘eco-friendly’ choices unworkable for me. Unless we have tried and tested something over a period, the chances are, it won’t endure, and may end up costing us more time, energy, resources and goodwill than we can readily afford.

But time is one commodity we seem to be running short of, unfortunately.  And certain themes keep coming back to me.  On the one hand, there is some reassuring evidence that I am on the right track; and on the other hand, I am reminded of the urgent need make a real commitment to change, to self-empowerment and improvement in my circumstances, regardless of my income bracket or job prospects. That urgency is galvanising.  I don’t know about you, but, I want to make a difference.  I don’t want to rely on others to come up with magical solutions at the last minute.

Pair_of_lemons

 

Kneading_-_colordul_plate

 

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January 9, 2015

Go Girl Go!

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She peeled back the curtains and noticed the drops of slanting rain, coursing down the window pane.  In the cold, without any of the usual warmth in the radiators, she shivered and yearned to crawl back to her warm bed.  But she had things to do, people to meet, appointments to honour.  Breakfast was the usual bowl of oats and nut shavings, but she decided to brighten it with a scattering of dried, bitter berries, which brought out the flavour and fed colour to her heart.

As she stumbled to the car, her right knee collapsed and so did she, grazing her hand and grasping in vain for any handhold at the rear of her smooth, aerodynamic vehicle.  As she leaned and slid upwards, praying desperately, despair could have taken the lid off all her hopes.  But, as she spoke her annoyance, she noticed that it lacked its usual conviction.  Like a chesty cough loosening in late spring, her words were blown aside, she kept her focus, and got to the baths early.  There she swam better than she might have.  Warmed in the sauna, she accepted an invitation to tea, chatted companionably and then zipped through all her town chores easily.  As the wind blew, she tripped, stumbled and fell, and oft-times she could have become distracted with the discomfort at her edges, the aching joints, the cold breeze blowing rain and dirt in her face.  There was a time when she would have.

But no more!  Now, her determination to smile felt liberated, and bits of stumbling resistance were chaff, just to be ignored.  She knew, now, that if she would simply keep on doing what she chose, that life would get smoother, easier, gentler, kinder and more and more and more and more FUN.  As she crested the hill, turned for home and contemplated the many successes of the past hour, she grinned widely, felt as if she was flying, and knew, this time, she meant business.  Go Girl Go! For God’s Sake, just FLY!

 

 

SkydiveWingsuit flying

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January 5, 2015

Writing Courses

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Having edited a rather (what should I say?) vexatious piece of writing, not so long ago, I found myself metaphorically pacing the floor. (Not literally: Pacing the floor is anything but restful, but I stood up and sort of strode, almost….which means I was feeling vexed.)

I really did not want to do any more of that particular piece, because the same questions came up over and over again. Just little things, like passive voice, intrusive narrator, too many words obscuring meaning, and lack of ….pace, perhaps. I caught myself thinking about facilitating writing courses. Just fleetingly, I decided that would be good. And let that idea go, because I always dismiss my new ideas.

So, when a friend recently warned me against thinking too hard, because I always argue myself out of my good ideas I was struck both by the uncanny accuracy of her warning, and by the permission, nay, encouragement she was giving me to be more creative, spontaneous and to try something new. For God’s sake, girl, woman! Try something new and see where it takes you. How old do you have to be, before you live your life as you choose?

Then, entirely unconnected, I sat up in bed late at night and started scribbling notes like a maniac, which gave me an outline for a writers’ course; and before I had lost this enthusiasm, I phoned and sorted out dates, booked a room and paid the deposit, dealing with all the practical details that would commit me, before my usual arguments came back to bully me into doing nothing. It happened easily, and the details were no problem. So, I take that as a good sign.

Course notes – progressing well. Perfectionism….harnessed creatively, I hope. Excitement …brewing nicely.

 

Die_Briefschreiberin_(Schwester_Gesine)

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December 11, 2014

Seeing

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 300px-Bildnis_Ottilia_Giacometti,_1912

 

Little Amanda, in special white stockings, lived lightly with her grandmother, an old curmudgeon, overbearing and humourless.

Grandma had her own daughter once, a beauty with bright green eyes and hazel, switchback hair running in careless shiny ropes down her back. Beauty went off with a beast, who took her downhill into the town, underground into the dungeon city at the base of the hill, the hideout of the poor, desperate and cold citizens with nothing to do, except gaze with gauzy eyes into the middle distance, the dark walls enclosing them, the weight of a whole city above.

From there, a baby was pleadingly brought to the old woman, wrapped in newspaper to keep it warm. Baby child Amanda was quiet. Occasionally she would sing, self-consciously curling her lips, as if to mute the sound. She wasn’t supposed to be happy. Grandma, with her bent back and stern gaze, was unhappy.

But the sun shone, so Amanda found escape from their flat into the back green, below the gaunt height of the tenement. Lying on the grass at the base of the hill, she would gaze dreamily up at the trees, admire their swishing branches and hope flowers would sail down, land on her face and arms. Fragrances blew around her. Beneath the branches, she breathed deeply and her heart lifted.

Not so far away, Simon held a yellow duster. Motes swam in the air, then settled again a little way off: on the mantelpiece, on the round-headed clock, the dust and grime kept the corners of his living-room warm. It annoyed him, a little, when the sun shone. Then he could see streaks and marks from dearly departed toby jugs.

Habit tugged him over to the window. The sash and case rattled faintly as he adjusted the blind. Without really seeing, since he looked so often at the same shorn hills, he watched…adjusted and looked again.

Her dark brown eyes, almost black, found the flicker. She looked too, smiling quietly and easily, careless that caught, she should behave differently. No-one else noticed that light brown face, saw those window eyes catch the sun. No-one else was there to watch the shape of her cheeks, the way her hair swept back. That blue dress, hidden under the bright, waxy green of trees fully awake.

Amanda grinned. Simon smiled.

The old man turned away, shaking with regret. Where was Ellen, to share this? He had long ago looked at beauty like that, in that way. In the business of passing his days, he had lost the urge to look outside. Outside!

The duster lay on the floorboards where it was dropped.

He saw her again when he left, the front door slamming shut behind him. Deeply busy, dreaming.  Such a beautiful child. Such wondrous sunlight. See those flowers…red flowers.

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December 8, 2014

Domestic desperation

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A piece of flash fiction, for a change……

Domestic desperation

I recall a time when women wore dresses, plus floral aprons, if they knew what was good for them. Frilly, prettily tied at the waist. Not the practical, full-size kitchen chef ones, with depth for drying hands and wide pockets collecting scum. My workaday wrap probably makes me unfanciable. My hands are older than the ideal, too: liver spotted and scarred with livid lines from the metal grilles and shelves of our oven.

In the blinding summer light of June, I am flamed. While my daughter prepares raspberries and cherries and doles them out carefully into three separate bowls, the sun beats through the wide kitchen window, and I desire coolness. I love heat which warms my bones, but this inferno, during which I must work and move and calculate, is ungovernable.

“Had a good day, darling?” I ask, absently, as my husband’s keys turn in the lock and he approaches cautiously, twisting off his tie. I am not really listening, as I must take the flapjack out of the low oven, turn down the heat under the soup – I thought it would be cooling, I was wrong, okay?- and blitz it, while stirring custard to go with the flapjack and raspberries. I thought custard would be comforting, I was wrong, okay? Over half-way finished, there is no point remembering I have ice-cream in the freezer.

I make wrong decisions when I am alone. My daughter comforts me when I weep with frustration and longing. For a bit of a change, for a new place to rest, where the cushions are comfortable and someone else has just done the cleaning. Just for a change, while I get my breath back.

Hubby hovers, unsure whether to stay in the volcanically hot kitchen, and risk getting in the way to plant a warm, affectionate kiss on the face of his favourite woman – our daughter is a girl – or whether to tactfully retreat so that I can get on with finishing cooking, free of distraction.

Either way, when he leaves, I feel lost. I am alone, I am too hot, my husband is not helping me, and all our longings lie quietly where they have been birthed and left to finger their way upwards, wordless.

At last, my daughter sidles through, arriving in answer to my repeated callings that supper is ready. She is a little hang-back, perhaps frightened how I might be at this tipping point in the day, but she has the courage – such courage! – to wrap her arms around my waist. I cannot pull her off, because my yearnings mirror hers. I desire to be cool and fragrant, wrapped in a dainty apron that reeks femininity and layered, scented secrets. I desire to smile widely and hold. So I set down the pan, step sideways so I can lean on against the kitchen cupboards, and hug tightly. In her warmth, her red cheeks on mine and her thick, fair hair shadowing us both, I recall my coolness.

 

Femmes_séchant_le_linge_(Ev__Carpentier)

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December 3, 2014

Resistance

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Yesterday morning I had a waking dream, there to remind me to take it slow and certain, to step with confidence and keep my head up. Not to think too much about what is going on around my feet, not to notice the litter on the stones. Instead, to stay on the path, and walk steadily.

This morning, I thought, ‘How lovely, finally, to be free, to be relaxed and happy and to take my time and do what I choose, lots of lovely stuff!’ I decided while showering for my swim that, for the next thirty-five years, or as long as I have left, I would dwell on pleasant preoccupations, rather than the worrying kind that are my usual companions. And straightaway, as if to contradict me -‘No, you won’t!’ – my mind set up a trip, so that I slipped off the top step of the pool and ended up sitting sideways on the second step, jammed at an angle, my foot caught and twisted awkwardly. It hurt. In lots of different, awkward and unexpected ways, the pain is unpredictable. I tried swimming a couple of lengths and then gave up the struggle and got out, hobbling to the changing room on the arm of the pool attendant.

I was trying to laugh it off, because I know that this was just resistance.

Have you ever made a decision, such as, ‘I’m going to just get on with this!” and then something happens that makes it impossible? The computer printer jams, the intercom interrupts you, the pan boils over, and there you are, back in the old mood, the old pattern…..

Nowadays I call that resistance, and I do my best to overlook it. I want to stay positive and re-focus on my dreams, on my delicious preferences, and on looking after myself enjoyably. But resistance, which wants just to get back to the old mind patterns it recognises, would rather I just got back to what is familiar, and will set up all kinds of ‘accidents’ to bring me down again.

I won’t let that happen, so I am smiling. And while three guys were helping me as I inched home, and though my foot does wince, I am determined to ignore it. When I was being attended to, I tried to laugh, even as I cried with the pain. It was funny, actually, and I can see why it happened, but goodness, it was sudden and unexpected, and I felt rather an eejit reassuring everyone it was nothing to worry about, as they stood about with clip-boards and concerned expressions while I cried and laughed simultaneously.

Can anyone reassure me that yes, they understand exactly where I’m coming from? Does anyone else see life this way?

 

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