letting go

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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September 29, 2014

Claire Wingfield interviews Fran Macilvey

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Claire Wingfield Interviews Fran Macilvey

I am delighted that today, writer and editor, Claire Wingfield, interviews me about the process of writing and publishing my book, ‘Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy’.

Claire is one of my mentors, instrumental both in motivating me to continue writing, and in helping to edit the manuscript so that firstly, it was more readable, and secondly, that so it didn’t end up telling lots of stories about other people. In this blog I have touched on the difficulty of writing memoir and, while endeavouring to be as truthful as possible, not treading on other people’s toes.

Her honest feedback also motivated me to keep going with the quest to find a publisher. It may have taken a few years, but it has been worth it! Claire has written ‘Fifty Two Dates For Writers’  to keep writers motivated.

Thank you, Claire, for being such an inspirational friend and a thoughtful critic.

You can find Claire’s interview, ‘Writing One’s Life’ on her blog today. Anyone who ‘likes’ this interview has the chance to win a copy of my book.

 

Good Luck flower

 

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August 11, 2014

Abject humiliation

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Easy, get down off the boat’s slippery gangplank, only have to raise my right foot a bit higher and be careful in the rain. There we are, now, ready to start the climb up the stone steps to the island. Done this sort of thing a million times before, but usually alone, so that I can get the angle right, the exact tip needed. If I don’t quite make it first time with the foot-lift, I can have another go, while others behind me surge amicably past making friendly, reassuring noises.

Not this time. Thinking to be polite, and needing a bit of help with balance, I solicit the help of the friendly bloke clad in the regulation fluorescent jacket, on hand to offer assistance. Believing it needful, he pulls me forward, as if I am like a child and he can hoist me up. Except that, at this new angle, lifting right foot high enough to reach the step becomes impossible. I fall before I get started, and am heaved upright by two or three very willing persons. For me, an ageing, gentrified lady of fifty, the whole experience is exasperatingly familiar.

I hope you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell? Thank you, I am fine, and don’t feel in the least put out that I was effectively pulled off my feet and then raised up like a heavy lump. Being a heavy lump is scarcely a consolation, and if I let it, it could become the latest abject humiliation. Instead, I let the whole thing slide off me and disappear. Result! I have another blog post in the bag.

Except, – Oh God!- there are no handrails on either of the stairways up to the old and dignified room that remains intact amidst the general, geriatric ruination of this castle. So I stumble up and around the spiral staircase doing the landlubbers equivalent of the doggy paddle. Then all of a sudden, as if he knew exactly what I would like the most, a lovely young man appears at my side and offers, “Here, you can lean on me” and we proceed together, happily upright, me moved more than I care to admit. In the general mishmash of emotions bubbling away, it would take only a little something to start me crying. Oh, God, that is lovely music, where is my hankie? There are times when I just want someone to lean on.

Going down is the familiar story in reverse and even less dignified, filled with eddies of fear and uncertainty, while I work out what to do with my elbow crutch – it is dangerous, inflexible and in the way, so eventually I throw it down the stairs ahead of me, just to be rid of it – and then the rest is easier.

Is this yours? asks another helpful lady.

Yes, it is mine. Would you like it?

Brodowski - Portrait of a woman
Brodowski – Portrait of a woman

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August 5, 2014

Hanging it all out to dry

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Hanging it all out to dry

Writing autobiographical material is a bit of a tricksy business. We are rather beholden to tell something of the truth, though heaven knows that can be rather difficult, both to discover and to articulate. Entertainment value also supposes that we have to write something interesting, kinda, avoiding narcissism and voyeurism on the way. And, I suppose, we run the risk of offending whomever we mention in passing, if our portrayals are unkind, thoughtless or incorrect.

Writing “Trapped” is, by far, the most difficult thing I have done: relentlessly exorcising demons, re-examining every facet of life as I have lived it and understood it, and taking responsibility for many parts where I could have done better, been more kind, generous and especially, more aware of what others had to tolerate. Writing has allowed me to offer an apology, of sorts, and to meet and make up with friends and family, before it was too late. I am so glad I took that chance. I am so glad.

With hindsight, I also suspect that one reason I started writing was to demonstrate that, clearly, the world is very much kinder to me than I have hitherto been to myself. In that sense, there has never been anything to worry about. If only because publication brings friends and readers who are constantly generous, loving, thoughtful and supportive, writing has already worked wonders. I have harboured many fears – and I am sure many writers do – some of which we commit to paper, read through and then launch on an unsuspecting public amidst a sea of doubt. We fear the clamour of disapproval. Waiting fearfully for the backlash….blessed approval or silence answers.

Constantly seeking reassurance, perhaps writers habitually focus on critiques which are muted or less than stellar. We receive fulsome and genuine praise from all quarters, yet the comment we focus on is the lone voice which ‘damns with faint praise’. Many of us do this, I am sure, and I have decided to stop. Focussing too much on the critical critic is perverse, ridiculous, and completely ignores the truth that all opinions are valuable, and some have benefits that I will never notice or understand. I let it be, and write when I can.

Self-portrait - Orpen
Self-portrait – Orpen

 

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June 6, 2014

Lopsided (2)

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Vaszary - Bathers Outdoor
Vaszary – Bathers Outdoor

This is meant to be a faintly amusing post.  Unlike the last ‘Lopsided’ though it hobbles along on much the same theme.

I have started journeying to the Commonwealth Pool – rebranded “The Commie” since I last used to go regularly – an Olympic-sized space, ideal for floating, stretching and generally larking about.  At last I can swim in peace, without feeling in the way, without needing to excuse those who do not yet have the nautical equivalent of a driver’s licence.  Learning to drive has taught me all about navigating aquatically, but lots of other swimmers don’t seem to think about this need, so in smaller pools, there is much battling for position, and many apologies.  Here, in this vast space, there is room for everyone.

The “Commie” is two metres deep, and there are warning signs on the tiles: No non or weak swimmers beyond this point.  What is a non? I wonder, flippantly.  Getting in, therefore, suggests I am on my own, entering swirling eddies, deeps with danger.  But there are places to hang at the side, ledges to rest the feet.  It is fun, though I am sure that in a moment, I will discover a catch (apart from the underwater cameras). At the end of the swim, here it comes – getting out is harder than it used to be, when I happily lifted myself out at the side with my arms.  These steps are deep, and the height I can lift a foot on any morning tends to vary, depending on several factors.  Five years ago, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to the relative virtues of whichever foot or hand to use.  Nowadays a chronically sore left shoulder, sore left hip, a sore right knee and a sore right foot give me pause: Once of each, blithely layering themselves over my ease, in their own, special way.  That’s okay, but to have to stop so that I may weigh up which pain or lopsided jolt I would prefer is occasionally disconcerting.

There is bad news that depresses – this isn’t it! – and there is bad news that makes me do something. If I have to go swimming to keep myself moving, to keep warm and flexible, I will do that most willingly. I wish I could persuade my daughter to share my enthusiasm. Maybe today….it is a lovely day. Have a great weekend, and thanks for following, reading, commenting and enjoying.

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May 20, 2014

Difficulties (2)

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Sending off all my pet hates, sealing up my worries, discarding my concerns takes great discipline.  You would think I could just get on and do it – hop out of the cage and be done with all this negativity stuff, but it doesn’t seem to work like that.

Bad news and habitual difficulties have a habit of clinging on, a bit like the smell of mouldy old clothes – and there is a prize there for anyone who can spot the pun. Actually, this is one of my favourites, sent to me in a dream many years ago. I need to get rid of my bad habits, my old hang-ups. It would be good if I could just discard them for ever. Or box and send them off to the sorting office in the sky. Slap on a stamp and send them away, so that they cannot contaminate, and maybe so that someone else might fix them.

Old messages are part of an old record, with deep grooves, so it takes a while to notice how deeply buried are the old, tired repeats: “I can’t manage…I have to do everything alone….” Out-of-date litanies these may be, but still, they spool round, and on bad days, in tense times, can spill out and threaten to soil the new growth.

Maybe that thought of ‘trying to quit’ doesn’t work so well, because the universe prefers positive formulae. How about, “I am consistently fortunate. Good fortune is all around me, all the time.” I find myself warming more easily to positive words. I find them easier to wrap around me like a cosy blanket. It feels more welcome to embrace the good news than shun the bad: when we try to shun the bad, we have to remember what the bad is, which defeats the purpose of trying to shun it. I think I will stick with the positive stuff. Much easier to work with, and eventually, the hope is that the good news will smooth over the old stuff and allow the positive to flow more easily.

‘Living mindfully’ is a phrase I used to hear a lot. I think it means, remembering not to slip, to go back to the old, deep tracks that are so easy to tumble into. Patterns of defeatism, failure and self-hatred are seductive often because they have been our companions for such a long time and their voices are familiar: which is why discipline is so useful. The refusal to go back there, to slip away un-noticed into the strange comforts of familiar brutalities must be a conscious decision. That conscious choice takes determination and a lot of patience. But the first step, as always, is to decide.

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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 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 30, 2014

Lopsided

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Okay…so now to put on shoes.  Gingerly, she dried her toes, being careful not to let the towel flop into the sopping puddle beneath the bench.  Though she instinctively tilted to the other direction, it was important to remember to put her right sock and shoe on first, so that the broader, flatter foot could then support the weight of her left leg lifted over her right knee to put on her left sock and shoe. Done the other way, her left foot bent uncomfortably outwards, trying to support the weight of her right leg as she lifted it over her opposing knee. That caused warping and damage of all the wrong sorts, so it was important to remember the right order of things.

Collecting her towel, costume, shampoo bottle and comb, she was grateful that she travelled light. Given her body’s lopsided lurch, could she pass through that gap? Would the floor be slippery? Was she risking a drop into the pool? Only one way to find out – “Excuse me!”  All right this time.

Passing through the swing doors, she balanced carefully so that the door weight would help rather than hinder, and carefully negotiated the stairs down. It looked easy enough, because she had been coming to this pool for almost forty years, but, put her at another poolside, and the vista became more frightening, less certain. She had patterns, places she went and could visit, because they were familiar. Remove that relaxing element of knowing what came next, and she floundered. It all became a bit predictable after a while though. She did long to go somewhere different.

People are not symmetrical, naturally, and there is no harm in that. Mostly, our hips and backs are able to compensate for minor differences, such as one leg slightly longer than its neighbour, or a slightly off-kilter spine. But put the whole mishmash together, and some days, she just wanted to dissolve into the water, so fed up was she with her short-sighted, just about can’t quite get it life. This morning at the pool, for instance, putting on her top and jacket, she leaned against the wall of the cubicle and tears just sprang up and kept coming. She was grateful for poolside noises echoing, which disguised her gulping sniffs. The yearning for release was so intense that she could hardly see her way to leave, to walk down the steps and out the door. But no-one commented as she reached the car, sank into her seat and wept shamefacedly, until she forced herself to stop. Got to go. Lopsided or no, must get on.

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