communication

May 15, 2014

What to Write Next

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‘We want you to write’ suggested Spirit, ‘because we think that will give you some true satisfaction.’

Feeling immediately overwhelmed, I thought, ‘Yes, but I don’t know what to write next. I don’t know anything.’

‘Oh, really? I could just feel the arch smile, the lift of the eyebrows… Here you are, almost fifty, with a husband, a daughter, one career behind you and another one well underway, and you don’t know anything? We beg to differ.’

‘You mean, about architecture, the nature of the cosmos, the probabilities of market trends, babies, healthy eating, women’s issues, that sort of thing?’

‘Perhaps you can write about these subjects. But just for the moment, consider the hundreds – thousands – of books that have passed through your hands. Do you honestly think you need to do yet more “research” before you can write about something that reflects your secret passions? Which books do you keep on your shelf? “A Course in Miracles”, the “Conversations with God” series, books about angels, the afterlife, forgiveness, time, the meaning of life…’

‘Yes, but shouldn’t I be a guru, or have a piece of paper from the University of Metaphysical Studies in order to write about these subjects?’

‘No. We all have to start somewhere. Look, instead of making excuses to put things off, just experiment. We understand that existential angst is one of your specialist subjects, but right now, perhaps it’s about time you had some fun. So instead of boring your husband with the “breakfast lecture series” would it not be an idea to share your thoughts with those who might be happy to read about them? Write about what you love, and if you need a bit of help, we will be here. After all, we are very pleased that God is one of your favourite preoccupations.’

I happily confess that I have always been intrigued by angels, the meaning of life, the importance of forgiveness, the purpose of time, the nature of progress, what it means to be successful, how to be happy and many more such topics which come under the heading “spiritual”. I enjoy fitting pieces of the jigsaw together that help answer the bigger questions, “Why am I here?” and “What is the point of existence.”

Angel stain glass window

 

I could have a stab at writing about these, I suppose – hopefully in a way that is entertaining and practical, as well as useful. Reminding myself of the spiritual buttresses of life does help me immensely to deal with daily practicalities. I could tackle potential subjects alphabetically, thematically, or haphazardly. Knowing me, it will be entirely haphazard….

 

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May 12, 2014

Difficulties

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Why does everything have to be so difficult? Discarding my clothes and relaxing, just seated on the edge of the bed, last night I paused and wondered. For once, I could look at this and see an interesting question, clearly expressed and heartfelt, but without the usual emotional downer that usually accompanies introspection of this sort. Even so, I was unsure there would be any answer.

To learn – that challenges can be overcome – with increasing ease?

Well, that felt like an interesting notion. Living is about daily practicalities. Understanding is not just about knowing things, and theorising on them. I know, for example, that love is the strongest force, and that life is easier and more relaxing when we give out love and can see only love in whatever happens to us and to those around us. I know, the more often I give out love and live in appreciation – every second, for everything – the nearer I come to living in the perfect present. For me, success means living so closely with the perfect present that we have no need of regrets, worries or fears. In that state, we don’t even need to ask, because a wish expressed is always heard and understood. Gratitude is the lubricant of our desires, as every wish is heard.

I believe this is where we are all heading, eventually. But life is a practical course, which teaches its lessons the only way it knows – by placing challenges before us and watching to see how we respond to them. Whether the car stalls at the lights, we are fed up with spinning here and there, we can’t see a way to the light at the end of a tunnel – if the lights feel like a train coming straight for us – despite travails such as these, life is always an enormous buffet with a range of choices. If we can hold on to that grain of faith which asks us to meet every consequence with the same light heartedness, we have really won the game.

We are meant to have fun with this. Options open out as we move forward in faith and optimism, and that is how we fashion our lives. It makes a good start, to accept that “difficulties” are only opportunities to learn how to be consistent, and then consistently, increasingly, successful, whatever we choose to do. Lots of difficulties, lots of different angles, these all challenge us, all the time. They ask the question, Are you faithful enough and strong enough to remember the lessons of last time? Can you do this? And this? Let’s try, shall we?

I am totally delighted that today my book and my blog are featured on WordPress http://en.blog.wordpress.com/2014/05/12/more-wordpress-books-authors/, a piece of good news which can be likened to the good fairy coming and blessing this house. Thanks so much, Ben Huberman!

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May 12, 2014

Rebellion

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Strange, this morning she remembered getting her legs washed. As she rose and was dressing, a picture came of her standing by the sink, bored in the bathroom, as the aya washed up and down with a cloth, bent below her. Persistent but resigned, the aya would say, “Stand up straight” as Fran’s left leg bowed back at the knee, sinking her hip sideways. Annoyed and dismissive, Enjoying her rebellion, Fran thought, “So what? This feels good, it’s my leg” as the sinews stretched ever longer and the habit fixed itself. Odd child.

The wiser adult knew her right leg was shorter. It had been mentioned, “Yes, an inch or so” which must not have been very much, since no-one did anything about it. But those inches made a difference. She had used to go to a cobbler who would fit a platform, and for a week or so, she walked more smoothly, without the lurch to the right, her hips relaxed and level. But the levelling platform wore unevenly and within weeks, the shoes had to be discarded as doing more harm than good. A new pair of shoes every six weeks? Too expensive after she stopped work.

Maybe her left leg was doing its childish best to shorten itself by bowing out. Maybe such small connecting things are known, yet we do not listen for them or discover them because we are so concerned with appearances, and travel the easier paths of disinterest. Is that our karma for not listening, for being disobedient, for not bothering with the boredom and chores of others? That one day, we wake up and realise the trouble we caused had nothing to do with our legs, everything to do with our carelessness and subtle dismissal?

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May 2, 2014

Fran

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The last hours of the term had come and gone, and with it the last day of her schooling: The faded purple jackets, the wrinkled socks, the scuffed shoes, the bare legs beneath prickly tweed skirts. All these things were at home only in her memory now, as well as the sounds and calls that went with them, the slope of the ground in this spot, or the shade next to these bars. All in the past. Next year it would be someone else’s turn, and she was too old to do any more of this.

With a small sigh of longing, she walked to the gate, always one of the last to leave. This time she was old enough to take herself home and did not have to wait to be collected, as her mother forgot: nineteen next birthday, she was old enough to get home alone, even if she took a long time. There was no hurry, she didn’t start at her new studies until October – so long! Almost four months.

Suddenly she heard a voice: “Fran!” and felt the arm of her friend, the teacher, over her shoulder. A close goodbye: A real hug! Her spirits leapt for this sign of love, “Good luck, Fran, you will be fine!” and a heart-wrapped embrace in strong arms, the sort Fran would fall for. Now, no-one would say anything, there were no raised eyebrows. It was all okay. There were kisses on her cheeks, and she smiled up into eyes which glimmered. They said nothing, though both meant, “Thank you. If I don’t see you before, see you in heaven!” and it was finished.

Raised up, Fran was happier now, and more confident. She knew it would be all right. And that next year, although it would all be different, unusual, to be learned again, no matter. The bruises of lost friendship were already healing, fading.

Fran was used to moving, to change, to a feeling that nothing lasts. And yet, her friendships meant a lot to her and anchored themselves deeply. Nothing much could really be said – it was all a look, a smile, a passing word – but the resonance stayed, hanging like a perfume, and was never forgotten. Fran, for all the rooting up and re-setting, each time weaker in a new place, was a deeply loyal woman, and knowing. She knew what she was doing, when she gave her heart so easily. She knew that she would not stop loving those she fell for. And time, distance, age meant nothing. Death was not the point. It would all work out, it was all understood, allowed, agreed at the end. She knew she would see her friends, her lovers, even those she had adored from a distance. She would see them all again.

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May 1, 2014

Telling Stories

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Telling Stories

Are memoirists selfish? Occasionally, after reading “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” a reader may comment with a wistful sigh, that they don’t get to discover much about the other members of my family. Do they gaze quizzically into the middle distance and suppose they are dealing with a narcissist? Self-obsessed at least….the reflection may leave them wondering…

Memoirists don’t even have to claim to be accurate, for goodness’ sake! They can just bring a whole pile of memories to the table, and, so long as they are “what I experienced” they are allowed their own creative licence. No poring over volumes in the dusty halls of academe, no flights to far-flung Istanbul to track down long-lost relatives whom you recognise vaguely, but can scarcely speak to, as they stand before you patting your hand and remembering the way it used to be, before your grandmother left home….

There are indeed many other telling stories wrapped in with a memoir, waiting to be told. But the subject of a memoir has to wade into the past gently, finding a way through which leaves the bulk of other people’s recollections untouched, while benefiting from them enough to provide context, depth and explanations. I have no right to tell the story of anyone else’s life, and so I must leave other people’s life strands almost entire and alone, respecting the privacy of their memories, trials and tribulations and not using or abusing them to gain extra attention.

Deciding what to write about, and what to omit, has become, for me at least, an exercise in honest self-control; and if I aim for that, I will probably not go too far wrong. That is what I have always tried to do, at any rate, so that if anyone has an objection, I can at least be clear that I was doing my best to recount my story in my own way, with no other objective than to finally tell my truth. Not a bad aspiration, actually, for a day’s work.

Jules Breton - La Glaneuse Lasse
Jules Breton – La Glaneuse Lasse

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April 29, 2014

The Way We Work Now

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Alice was in a bad mood. Perched angrily on her ergonomic stool at her work station in the basement, she seemed to stay with these moods more often, increasingly impatient with the way we work now. Defiantly, she remembered a time when people worked together in teams, throwing questions to each other, making progress with thorny dilemmas in cheerful company.

In the days of plenty, there had also been colleagues to help make the tea, to tidy the desks and do the filing. There had been older gents and genial ladies only too willing to share their hard-won knowledge of the way the world worked; to point out pitfalls and advise on a solution that they were delighted to have discovered by accident: “Why, just phone him up and ask, dear. He is a nice bloke, really. I daresay a lot of people feel intimidated by him, but there is nothing he likes more than someone seeking his advice on something abstruse.”

She had preferred it, when people had had the time to use words like abstruse. Now it was all pixels, hard-drive, software, configurations and apps. Now it was all supposed to be so easy, you could simply do everything yourself, see? You don’t need a secretary these days, or a typist, you can just do that typing on your own dedicated PC. You don’t even need to print letters, or spend time on the phone, you can just email round, with attachments, or use your drop-box or intranet, and set it all up remotely. So quick, so easy. So much fun.

Not. The group emails from all the staff, advising on badly parked cars, on new timetables or rosters for the staff cover, or reprimanding the junior staff for rowdy conduct in the staffroom…the endless directives from management about productivity, filing and time management….the isolation of being responsible for drafting and sending correspondence with only a computerised task manager for company….

Alice, being the wrong side of fifty, was a telephone person, but rarely got the opportunity to speak now. Surprisingly few people telephoned, preferring texting…. without the delicate nuances of voice exchanges, alarming misunderstandings blew up out of nowhere, scattering sand all over her nicely soothed relationships. When the management abolished the tea trolley and the tea break, relationships that had been finessed with office chat became strained and unreliable. That ended up costing a lot, in wasted time, in extra meetings, disciplinary hearings and time off with stress.

Alice watched. She noticed what good working relationships were about: intangibles like loyalty, fair play, communication, give-and-take. Since none of these could be measured, computed or assessed for efficiency, the boys on the other side of the glass ceiling ignored them. Soon, all that thrusting aggression would implode.

For the moment, she waited, aware that her retirement was fast approaching, a release which would take her out into the sunshine. Summer beckoned, and she would leave this darkness behind.

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April 23, 2014

Stereotypes

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I stand corrected. And mute. And grateful. At my husband’s church, I have been reminded that stereotypes are unacceptable: gently, kindly and without the slightest hint of rancour.

Getting carried away with the joy of all Easter egg hunts and too much sweet chocolate, I had just blurted out, “Let him be, he’s just getting it out of his system, just like all boys…”

In reply to the mild rebuke, not entirely seriously, I resorted to that age old defence, “What about testosterone?”

But that is no answer, and never has been. Strange, that I should need reminding, that stereotypes don’t bear in them any grain of truth – they merely allow us to continue with lazy thinking, with “them and us” mentality. As soon as we resort to generalisations, we forget to see the individual smile, or to remark on its particular meaning.

You would think that I would know that. I have spent years defending my particular capabilities and weaknesses against the ravages of careless stereotypes, the casually flung cruelties, “Oh, I thought all spastics, were, you know……” and even against the assumptions that I must feel differently, have a particular point of view, a special take on something, or a particular weakness. Well, no, I just want to be treated like the rest of common humanity.

Like everyone else, I have my failings, even, those you might not expect to see. If that small exchange has taught me anything, perhaps it is that we learn constantly. In each particular moment, it becomes a discipline to consider what we mean and what we say.

Writing excuses my more clumsy verbal mistakes. But I cannot hide forever. If I wish to be taken up, as the rest of humanity is, then I must train my words and actions to be more careful, more considered. I cannot expect to be excused, merely because my frailties are conspicuous. We all have frailties to contend with. I have much to learn, in realising that while you manage to deal gracefully with life, I am still learning to do so.

I am grateful for the reminder.

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April 17, 2014

Sounding Plausible

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It was in her training, the way she had been thought to consider and reason. It was in the daily round of telephone calls and interviews, people asking questions and expecting her to know the answers. It was in her genetics, and in the diplomatic pedantry that her father taught her.

“Father, why are you wearing green wellington boots?” “Well, now, lieveke, that depends on whether you would like to hear the practical reason, the medical reason, the environmental reason, the aesthetic, the pragmatic or the spiritual reason…”

“Just why?”

“Well, you see, my other shoes, the only ones I brought with me are not practical for wandering around garden centres…these boots are also more comfortable, since my toes are aching, and they are waterproof, which is useful on a day like today. I do not want to spoil the leather on my shoes. Also, since I forgot to bring my polishing set, and we are going to Tante Mieke’s funeral, I shall need to keep my shoes clean.” He smiled archly, enjoying the verbal game.

So, it was her habit, when making polite conversation, to attempt answers to most questions. When a guest at her sister’s “House cooling” party asked, “Why is the Earth round?” she answered easily, “Because round is the optimal shape. Leave a bunch of elements suspended in air, and they will naturally pull together in a round shape.”

He nodded agreeably, and then, fixing her with a stare, challenged, “Is that true?” to which the only honest reply was, “I’ve no idea, but it sounds good, doesn’t it?” so that he gave a grudging nod. She was not dishonest, since she would readily admit she was simply playing with ideas; but, ever and always in her professional career, she had made a living out of sounding plausible.

 

 

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April 11, 2014

I Had No Idea

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Reactions to my book, “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” have been overwhelmingly supportive and loving, with thoughtful and generous crits and reviews being posted on Amazon UK, Amazon.com (USA), Goodreads, Facebook and other websites. I am very touched and pleased that my story has already reached so many readers.

Interestingly, a great many people whom I would count as good friends, react surprised, saying, I had no idea. They are really astonished that so much can have happened of which they have been unaware, though of course, being introverted, depressed and solitary for so many years, it is unsurprising that, until now, only little fragments of my life and times, my thoughts, have surfaced to reach the light of day.

I counted it an important necessity 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 before now, would have given me the courage to make more mistakes, be more outspoken, to take more (small) risks so that I might move more freely and help others more often.

Today is a new day. And these resolutions build up slowly, gently forcing my hand. Thank God for the kindness of friends and strangers, and for the love that you have shown me. Thank you.

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March 27, 2014

Midnight Monologue

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It’s time for a midnight monologue. Why is pain always worse at night? No matter which way I turn, it hurts. Either my left toes are crumpled painfully beneath the heavy covers, or if I lie on my side, my knees knock and rub together. Trying on my front, my neck hurts when I turn it sideways, so I flop over to lying on my back and it starts again.

Meantime, my husband is shuffling uncomfortably beneath his breathing apparatus. It noisily breathes air in my direction, a surround sound like the middle of the waves at the seaside. Now, ordinarily, I love the sound of the sea, but, with the noise and the cold vent of air blowing in my direction most nights, this is all a bit too real for my comfort. I try to ignore the disturbance, breathe with it. After a while I give up and wonder crossly if I should refer myself to the department of sleep medicine…. They seem to take themselves very seriously, so it must be mostly men who get this sleep apnoea thingy. I hear stories of women sewing tennis balls into the back of their husband’s jammies so they can’t lie on their backs. Women and their complaints are just left to manage. Even when a mum with three children under ten suspects she has something serious – which turns out to be secondary cancer in her abdomen – she is fobbed off with “it’s just your age….”

I should try to get to sleep. Need a few deep breaths. In, out…In, out but my sense of resentment builds, lifting open my eyelids crossly.

Need to get up to go to the loo again. Hubby always brings me a cup of something, several if I’m not careful, especially at night. “Would you like a drink?” he asks, so kindly, and though after a considered pause, I may say “No, thank you” he brings me one anyway. It’s his way of showing how much he loves me, well worth the inconvenience of going to the loo at three in the morning. I never bother to turn on the light. I can do everything in the dark nowadays so as not to disturb the family. At this time of year it hardly gets dark anyway.

Soon time to get up, judging by the early morning manoeuvres going on. Covers are pulled away, and I shiver. Just have a snooze, now that the noise is switched off…..

“Mum! Is it the first week, or the second week of the holidays that I am going camping?” Daughter jumps on me. Ten past seven.

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