Thoughts from the armchair of friendship

I spent today with an old, old friend.  Over 36 years ago this old friend first introduced me to the idea of a guru and was the doorway into a world of extended friendships in London. He became like a brother for me and I miss his not living in London. Over time he moved around- India, America, South Africa and eventually settled in the US.  As I continued to live in London our opportunities to meet were rare and the last time I saw him before today was over 18 months ago.

I was particularly struck today by how wonderful it was to see him.  It doesn't matter at all that there has been this long gap between visits.  It didn't matter that the time before that was two years and before that, much longer.  Every time we meet we take up our conversation as if it was just yesterday that we were briefly interrupted.  It struck me that the feelings of love and care and friendship have never been interrupted and I could happily have sat with him (and his wife, also a dear, if slightly newer friend) for ever.

Our conversations veered from television to therapy, from holidays to horror trips and back and forth and it was as comfortable and warm as an old pair of slippers - familiar and fitting well, if a bit worn and worse for wear.  I so appreciate what my friendships mean to me.  When life gets tough and it has and it will if it is to be of any value, then it is my friends that have pulled me through.  Even if they haven't been the main motivator, and I like to take some of the creedit for moving me on from those difficult places, they have been the companions of my heart, standing at my side and holding my hand.  I hope I do that for my friends.

Last night I was lying in bed and I decided to count the number of close friends I have.  Not acquaintances, but people I feel I could tell the truth to or call on if needed. It's the sort of thing I used to do when I was a kid but haven't done for many years. I counted about 15.  Possibly there are more but that's the number that immediately came to mind.  Not a lot, I thought, for 61 years of life, but actually more than enough if I think about how much I am willing to do for those friends and I believe they would do for me.  There are actually more than that.  If I imagine one of my circle of people hurt or in need, I think there are more people I would drop everything for and run to their side.  Thankfully that's rarely necessary, but I know that I would be there and they would be there for  me.

So, today, slipping on the old shoes of friendship was so sweet and so easy and I've come home feeling a little fire in my heart.  I love that I have the capacity to love and be loved. As I drink my cup of tea, I raise a toast to long life and long friendships.

Saturday morning sunshine

As the sun streams through my dirty window panes I can look outside and see the leaves falling from the trees and the last few forlorn apples waiting for me to collect them and make applesauce.  Tonight we move the clocks back and tomorrow it officially the start of... what?

Autumn - bonfires, baked potatoes, soups, wooley jumpers and hats, scarves and gloves.  I have been knitting and have finally completed a completely great little scarf and wrist warmer set.  I feel quite inordinately pleased with this.  I have mentioned before how much of a starter I am and how rarely I finish things, so this is an accomplishment.  Autumn also means sorting out my drawers and cupboards.  I woke up this morning thinking about storage solutions.  Doesn't this sound like a marketing concept - storage solutions?  Does this mean I have to buy special boxes and bags to store my winter clothing in, or does it mean climbing into the loft, finding all the old suitcases and loading them up with summer gear?  Not sure yet.

I made these!

I am sure that I am not looking forward to going through my 'sock' drawer.  I have one drawer for socks, stockings and tights.  Most of these are in shades of black and once I start sorting I see that no two pairs of anything are alike.  There are dozens of pairs of almost matching socks, slightly the worse for wear black opaque tights, some that fit a thinner me, some that actually fit now.  I know exactly what will happen.  I empty the entire drawer on to my bed and begin to search for matching pairs.  I usually find some and then I begin to find wearable almost pairs, then I am left with the pile of odd socks.  What to do with these?  My tiny great-niece does not need a dozen black sock puppets, so in the bin they'll go.  The tights are more difficult.  I do, in the beginning, try them on, but how many times can you strip off one pair and put on another?  I feel like an elephantine burlesque star after a few pairs. Eventually all the ones with any runs or holes go in the bin and I am usually left with three or four useful items.  Sometimes I think I should throw everything away at the end of the winter and start again a year later.

This brings me to thinking about the autumnal palette of my clothes.  How many variations on black can there be?  My wardrobe is a costume shop for Greek widows.  In the cold dark mornings trying to find office-suitable clothes at the crack of dawn is a nightmare.  Everything looks the same, but slightly different.  I think it may be time for me to introduce more colour into my life, but which ones?

There is, it seems, no real solution to my storage problems.  Once a hoarder, always a hoarder.  I love buying clothes and  yesterday when I bought a new sweater and asked Ralph what he thought, his comment was, 'don't you have one exactly like that?' Not quite the compliment I was looking for, and no, I didn't have a sweater exactly the same, but a tee shirt that is remarkably similar.  Now maybe there's a solution.  Simply repeat the winter wardrobe  in the summer, but with clothes of different weights.  Substitute woolens for cottons and silks.  It might work, but again, it would mean me wearing black all year round, and as Ralph  pointed out, he's not dead yet, so please wait to put on my widow's weeds.

So off to the job at hand- maybe instead of sorting things out, I'll clean those grimy windows instead.  No point in wasting any of this precious sunlight.

New arrivals

And so today was spent sleeping and sleeping and sleeping some more.  Had a rotten headache that laid me low and I had no reason to soldier on, so I slept it off, I hope.

Also had some nice news today.  My friends finally had their baby, a little boy.  Strange how news of someone else's birth can put such a lovely glow inside me.  I am genuinely pleased for them and also was aware of how much this birth of a new little stranger re-evoked memories of the birth of my own children.

When I had my daughter, just about 40 years ago, she was two weeks late and I had to go to the hospital for labour to be induced.  I don't think theat's done so much anymore, but then it meant that I was hooked up to an IV drip and contractions were difficult to monitor as they were quite irregular.  After 10-12 hours of labour I finally had an epidural to relieve pain and my daughter was born with the assistance of forceps.  I remember very clearly that the doctor gave the baby immediately to Ralph, not me and I was left waiting for a few moments to meet my new baby.  I was just 21 years old and pretty nervous of the whole thing.  My daughter was and still is, absolutely beautiful though I have yet to meet a new parent who doesn't think their child is a beautiful little miracle.  Ralph was allowed into the labour room and was with me at the birth which, in 1970, was quite unusual.

When my second child as born I was only just over eight months pregnant and his early arrival took us very much by surprise.  He was a tiny scrap - just over five pounds and again was just a tiny, mewing miracle.

When my third child was born I went into labour right on schedule and had him very quickly after about five hours in intense labour.  He seemed in a great hurry to arrive and I was in an equal hurry to have him in my arms.  Ralph was with me and held me and let me squeeze his hands so tightly they had marks for hours.  The birth process was really amazingly fierce and exciting (also painful!).

Each birth was fantastic.  Each pregnancy different.  I was as amazed the third time as I was the first.  The extraordinary moment of birth, the moment when this bulge in my body became my son or daughter just had me reeling.  What a privilege to grow this tiny human being and how terrifyingly responsible I felt immediately on their birth.

Before the birth of each of my children I started baking cakes.  It was almost like a primitive urge that I had to obey, so when my friend mentioned that she had been baking, I smiled and thought, any day now her baby would arrive.

So, tonight, a bit headachy and tired I am really happy.  I remember that feeling of having this new life that was mine to care for.  I remember being scared, nervous, uncertain and massively excited.  Now I am the mother of two fully-grown adults.  I often wonder about those new babies I held so many years ago.  They may have grown up but the infants they were and their tiny hands and feet, their first smiles, their first steps and first words are alive memories for me today. Nice.

Mental anguish

Yesterday I spoke to a good friend of mine.  She is going through major anxiety attacks and feels herself to be falling apart.  Another old friend of mine is suffering from late mid-life crisis and has burned bridges and alientated people through outbursts resulting from uncontrollable moods. A third has essentially stopped seeing people and stays at home all the time. What is going on?

I have had many times in the past where my mental and emotional states have overtaken my ability to live a 'normal' life.  I've had occasions where all I've wanted to do is sleep for weeks on end and other times when it was all I could do to prevent myself from killing someone.  These fragile times are generally accompanied by bouts of binge eating and rapid weight gain.  All in all, not a pretty picture.

I have great empathy for my friends and feel well-equipped to offer a shoulder to cry on or a listening ear, but I wish I had some answers.  There are lots of things to try and sometimes the state I had dropped into left me with enough energy to actually motivate myself to do something, but sometimes it was all I could do to swallow a pill that I hoped would have a magical uplifting effect.  Invariably, it didn't.  In talking to my friends I feel so sad for them and so poweress to help.  They all have loving partners and my heart goes out to them too.  I know what it is to see the helpless frustration that Ralph goes through when I am in a bad way.

I have had a lot of therapy and I mean a lot of therapy.  I am a master at working out the whys and wherefores of my depressions.  I can unravel all the reasons and usually come up with rational explanations for why I am continuing to suffer from the irrational states I go into.  What I've found is that none of this actually helps.  None of the background, history, life events or genetic inheritance analysis helps me to change my responses.  I believe that some of this is chemical.  My body goes into a state that I can't control, but I have come to see that I have a great deal of control over how I react to my body chemistry. I can be in charge.

One of my friends said that she found it impossible to understand how she could have fallen into this 'bonkers' state, to yuse her word. I also wonder how someone who has successfully lived for over 50 years, has a successful career and has raised a wonderful family can fall off the sanity wagon so quickly and forcefully.  It does make everything feel very precarious.  If it can happen to her, it can happen again to me, but at the moment I feel very strong in myself.  I feel like I have been preparing for winter SAD for a whole year and my defences are in place and ready.  I guard against the spiral of negative thinking that peaks its ugly head up and tempts me to listen.  I guard against the exhaustion that has no basis in fact.  I feel lucky that I have some work for November and December, but must also be alert to the possibility of temper tantrums and flare-ups that have messed up my work relationships in the past.

All of this leads me to clearly see that the only genuine help I have to offer my friends is friendship.  When life feels to much and they are narrowing their boundaries and their worlds to what feels effortless and safe, I can bring love and care.  That's the only thing I know helps.  It doesn't solve much, but it's all that I really know.

Costume thoughts...

Halloween is coming.  When I was a kid in New York we looked forward to Halloween when we could dress up in costume and go door to door trick-or-treating.  We would come home loaded up with sweets and spend the next day over-indulging in candy.

At least this is what American kids seemed to do.  Being the first generation of Americans in my house,  my brother and I didn't really get to participate in this pointless ritual since my parents couldn't begin to understand why we would  want to beg from our neighbours when they would willingly buy us candy at any other time.  Dressing up seemed such a frivolity that we never really did it.

One year I was allowed to go door-to-door on Halloween.  Along with a small group of other children from my class we went round collecting money for Unicef.  My parents could readily understand the point of this.  Collecting for children in other countries who had less than we did was a familiar idea.  Every meal time I was reminded of starving children in 'Europe' whenever I tried to  leave food on my plate, so collecting for these poor children made sense to my parents and even had a nobility to it.  I do also remember that along with the pennies we collected I finally got my thrilling share  of sweets, but still no costume.

When I was about 10 years old there was a nationwide scare about poisoned or tampered- with Halloween candy.  There was talk of apples with razor blades embedded in them, poisoned sweets and dangerous objects being given to children.  In addition to that there were rumours about the dangers of letting children knock on strangers' doorways.  All of this led to a new found nervousness and suspicion around the Halloween trick-or-treating and meant that adults began to accompany kids on their rounds and that candy couldn't be immediately eaten. It had to be carefully inspected first. Now it is clear that the stories of poisoned sweets and 'bad' people were just that, mythical stories and have now entered the American psyche as fact so that Halloween becomes a genuinely scary occasion for parents and children alike.

When my kids were small I remember helping them to make costumes and spending a bit of time sewing and scavenging materials so one could be the queen of hearts and the other could have a scythe and death mask to go with his black cloak.  Even though I remember a few Halloween costumes for the kids Halloween was not much of an event in the UK.  In the States there are huge displays of pumpkins, witches on broomsticks, carved jack-o-lanterns and row upon row of dressing up clothes sold in every conceivable shop.   Here we used to ooh and ahh over the few kids who turned up  at our door in bedsheets as little ghosts or wearing badly done face paint and it was a fairly rare occurrence.

Times have completely changed and suddenly the toy, candy and clothing manufacturers in the UK have embraced Halloween.  Every shop has garish displays in orange and black, black cats, witches, fake  blood and artificial  talons seem to be everywhere.  Sweets have now been conveniently packaged in tiny individual bags so you can hand them out to the gangs of kids who will show up at your door with their nervous parents hovering in the background.

When did we become so stupid?  When did the world become such a commercialised mess.  Halloween was originally connected to the mystical spiritual celebration of Samhain, the traditional end of light days and entry into the dark days. The wearing of scary costumes was part of the primitive strategy of warding off the bad spirits that might be in the air. Now there's a concept I can completely embrace.  Tell me about it - I've been aware of the end of light days for years, but also Samhain was traditionally the night when the veil between the two worlds - the corporeal world and the spirit world- is at its thinnest and we can commune with those spirits.  It is not an accident that the next day, 1 November, is the Day of the Dead in Mexico.  It's the day when Mexican families honour their ancestors and go to picnics in cemeteries and connect with their departed families.

I think that since we live in a society that avoids looking at death or spirit in any way except the most sanitised it would make more sense to celebrate the Day of the Dead.  I'm not sure though that there's candy involved, so it might be a harder sell.

One book only...

Years ago I remember reading somewhere that everyone has one novel inside them waiting to be written.  After that is often when genuine talent and creativity emerges.  After we've told our unique story, then what?

Yesterday I took a day off writing this.  I sat down in front of my computer fully intending to complete a Sunday entry and lo and behold, there was nothing.  Absolutely nothing! I couldn't invent or drag up any new thoughts or ideas that would entertain me in any way, so I guiltily walked away and left the page blank.  As I did that I remembered very clearly the times when I was studying fine art at university and had to hand in six completed works of art in six weeks.  After completing the first two or three I felt that I had nothing left to say and really struggled to invent something to put on the blank canvas.

This feeling of being presented with a blank canvas and slightly panicking has never really left me. I still have the same sense of dismay when presented with a blank page, canvas or wall that needs something put on it.  It's making that first stroke that gets me every time.  It's often very daunting and I use these feelings to stop myself from even starting.

When I think about this I think it's vanity.  I guess I am afraid that if anyone sees my work, my art, my writing, that I will be judged harshly.  I am vain enough to believe that if I continue to present a confident front I will fool all the people all the time.  There is one great problem with this.  I can never ever fool myself and I am the harshest critic I know. Sometimes I horrify myself with how judgemental I am.  I have a critical opinion about everyone and everything. I am also a terrible gossip.  These are traits that I display in abundance and don't really like about myself, but I guess my saving grace is I mean well and I know I have a big heart.  

When I write this blog I have to go through my days, my nights and all the emotions that shoot through all the time.  It's such an interesting exercise to decide how much of myself to put down on the page.  Do I put down my bad habits?  The things that I don't like having pointed out to me because they are character flaws?  Do I make myself look good so when I look back at the past few hundred entries I am presented with the depth and beauty of my wondrousness (ha ha ha!).

I think I find some sort of middle ground.  I don't put down the sloppy habits I have or the fact that I am unable to wash dishes to the standard that my crazy other half demands, but I also don't put down the high points, the times when my work goes really well and I am applauded by my course participants or when I cook a super-fantastic dinner and feel unnaturally proud.  I try and find the me that I can accept and doesn't feel threatened by having revealed too much.  

The original purpose of this blog was to give me a way to write myself out of winter depression.  I am on the cusp of another winter and in five weeks or so I will have been writing for over a year.  Should I stop at a year?  Has this written record of my emotional journey served its purpose?  I'm not sure.  Maybe I only have so much originality in me, maybe I can only go so deep and then I need to protect myself from too much self-knowledge.  I am not at all sure.

There is always the option to scrape away to the next layer of me, to peel away the next layer and start writing about my inner doubts and unacceptable emotions in order to work through them.  This sounds like hard work and also a bit like self-flagellation.  The other alternative is to peel away the layer of self-doubt until I find the loving, positive me.  Revealing this feels much more threatening and I am sure is more valuable.  I've spent so long concentrating on the crap.  Maybe it's time to look elsewhere.

Completely random thinking...

While I was out this afternoon I started thinking about the women in my life and the differences between the way they see the world and the way the men I know see things.  It isn't a secret that there are differences between the sexes though I have no doubt that different doesn't mean better in any way. It is just different.

This was prompted by thinking about my friend who is having a birthday party in a far and distant land.  I didn't go to the celebration even though she is a close friend and I would have liked to go.  The main reason was that my beloved other half couldn't take time off work and travel across  Europe for a three day party.  I understand this and harbour no secret resentments over this.  It is a fact and as a schoolteacher he can't just drop everything and go. C'est la vie.

I know that the women I count as friends think it's fine for me to go and leave my husband behind to carry on working while I sun myself in foreign climes or party the night away.  I don't think any of us would feel the same if it meant our male partners went off partying while we stayed behind to work.  Why is this?

I think it is a generational thing.  Traditionally men worked while women did whatever it was that women did all day.  When I was a child in the 1950's my dad worked in the hot and steamy city all week and the women took the children to the countryside, only seeing their husbands at weekends.  It was a normal state of affairs and I still think, womens liberation and modern day progress aside, there is still a bit of a carry over of that attitude.  Certainly I feel easy about going away for weeks at a time to see family overseas, but if Ralph were to announce his intention to do the same, I would be distressed and feel hard done by.  I guess he feels the same and I'm usually pretty callous, not to mention selfish, when I make decisions to go places without him.

So instead we are both at home this weekend and we spent this afternoon in the West End of London.  Earlier this week there was the announcement of the UK government spending review.  It was disastrous, far-reaching and can only lead to even greater hardship for thoise already in need.  You would never have known this from the crowds out shopping today.  It seemed that every other storefront was a cafe, a restaurant or coffee  bar.  All of them were heaving and we queued for a table at lunch.  How fortunate we are and how oblivious we are to that good fortune.  I can go and spend over £2 for a coffee and not even think about it.  So much of the world has so little in comparison.

The Apple Computer store was mobbed and immediately after having the thought that I was lucky to have so much in a world where so many have so little, I I felt completely deprived by not being able to afford the new Apple Mac mini computer.  It was truly a thing of beauty and all I could think of was 'I want this'.... how sad is that?  I don't need it at all, but how skillfully I was manipulated by sleek design and marketing to lust after this new object. This is fairly embarrassing, but another reality that I was aware of today.

The world is so cock-eyed.

Approaching another anniversary...

2 November 1969

Was there ever a time that I wasn't with Ralph?  It  seems like all my memories, all my life events, all the growing and developing I've done, I've done  in the company of this one infuriatingly wonderful man.  Our 41st (!!!!!) wedding anniversary is approaching and I can hardly believe this is possible.  Ten days from now on 2 November we will  pass another year together.  Is it just habit? 

I absolutely believe that it is still a decision beyond choice. I have to be with this crazy man.  I love him and my existence is tied up with his in a way that I find impossible to explain. I've tried.  Over the many years we've been together I've wondered if I have  marriage answers for anyone else and I come up with only one guaranteed answer.  If you want to stay together in a vibrant, mad relationship you have to be me and you have to hook up with Ralph.  In other words, it works for us and I do not in any way presume to dish out cliches and platitudes about how to keep other relationships alive. 

For years I've been of the view that it is impossible to give relationship advice to others because one never knows what goes on behind closed doors with couples.  What may look completely dysfunctional to my eyes, seems to work for others.  The happiest and most idyllic of couples turn out to nearly kill each other in private.  Who am I to say what works for others?  I can hardly work out why this marriage works for me, except that I love this madman I am married to.  I'm sure that helps.

I was thinking this morning about the year in which we got married.  Ralph arrived in the States just a few weeks before we announced our engagement and a few weeks after that we got married.  Very quick and very certain in only the way that 20 year olds can be.

The first US Apollo moon landing had just happened, Woodstock was in full swing and the hippy generation ruled.  The Beatles made their last live appearance on the roof of the Apple Studio in London and then John Lennon and Yoko recorded 'Give Peace a Chance'.  These things were happening with a constant menacing background of the growing war in Vietnam.  Richard Nixon became the US president and totally screwed up my entire generation by introducing a compulsary draft into the armed forces and escalating the war.  There were  huge anti-war demonstrations in Washington and the UK, in an enlightened moment, scrapped the death penalty.  It was an exciting time in which to be young and in love.  The world felt electric to me, but that may have been because I saw it all through a haze of pure love.

As it turned out the draft, the war and the situation in America spurred us on to moving to the UK in 1970, but 1969 was fantastic.  Young, in love and in New York City, it felt like the city was presented to us as a giant wedding present there for the taking and we took.  We went to the theatre, restaurants, museums, mini-holidays, threw parties and had the proverbial honeymoon year of newly-wedded bliss.

Looking back I can see how innocent we were.  The idea of future never entered our thinking.  The idea that anything bad could ever happen to us was not even a glimmer.  Maybe that was one of the keys for us.  We were so wrapped up in each other, so unconcerned about having things, that it didn't matter that our furniture came from dumped rubbish or that our clothes were secondhand. We hadeach other and that was so strong and so solid that it still carries us along today.

During the course of the last 41 years we have been able to afford new clothes, designer labels and our own home.  We seem to have come full circle.  We buy secondhand clothes again and often pick up bits and pieces at flea markets and secondhand shops.  The difference now is that we are more aware of the unknown future since sometimes we seem to live there.  Words like savings and pensions have entered our vocabulary.

We are no longer 21 and lookiing through rose-coloured glasses.  We are both in our 60's and looking through bifocal lenses.  This gives me a very different perspective on life.  I now imagine a future with Ralph when we don't work and we can spend longer days together.  A future when we have time to look at each other and see through our myopic eyes that the person in front of us is still crazy, still exciting and still wonderful.  I am so lucky.  I met the right man at exactly the right time in the right place.  Of course I was too young, I was still a student and he lived across an ocean from me, but it could not have been more perfect.

So is there a secret?  Is there an answer for a great  marriage?  Maybe  perseverance is part of it.  Also, when things get tough and they will and continue to do so, to remember that the person in the mirror is the only one in this relationship that can be fixed. Maybe it's really important to remember that he is not me.  He is not clairvoyant and he is not able to read all my many moods, even after 41 years.  We keep talking.  For me, that means more than the surface chatter that I am so good at, it means genuine communication and sometimes that gets tough. It also means looking without my glasses in order to see the real  person I am with, the handsome, alive, beautiful person I have been intelligent enough to grow up with. 

I am comforted by the knowledge that as I age and my short term memory fails, I will still have so many spectacular long-term memories of being with Ralph. How great is that!

Self-examination

Over 18 years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Since then, for over 15 years I diligently checked for any suspicious lumps or breast changes.  At least once a month I would check while in the shower and get familiar with what was normal and what felt odd.  Thankfully I never found any further problems.  The cancer, once removed, never returned anywhere else.

Today in the shower I realised that I hadn't done this meticulous checking for at least six months, if not more.  I'd forgotten all about the cancer.  I had forgotten that it might ever return since it was such an old memory.  Is this a good thing? I think it probably is.  I no longer identify myself as a 'survivor' of cancer. I no longer live with the expectation that bad things always happen to me and that the cancer will come back.

I find this strange and pleasing since I do live with a daily reminder of cancer.  I have one breast and a large scar across my chest where the cancerous one used to be. This is me now.  when I look in the mirror I have to remind myself to see myself as a one-breasted woman.  I am just the way I'm supposed to be and that makes me very happy.

There are some down sides to having one breast and one of these is having to wear a prosthesis during my public hours.  Cleavage is not an option if I value the symmetrical. I can have one sided cleavage, but that looks very strange.  Low-cut tops are out too, they show some of my scarring and even if I don't care anymore, it does tend to make others a little uncomfortable.
  
Maybe these things are benefits.  As I get older and see my friends aging, I can also see that wrinkly cleavage is not so beautiful.  Because we have breasts doesn't mean that after a certain point in our lives we should expose them to public scrutiny.

I have debated having a small tattoo where the breast used to be, but most of the friends (and my husband) that I have run this by don't like the idea at all.  Why not I say?  It's not like the world would see it, but I still haven't come up with the perfect tattoo and other than having a breast tattooed in the space where it used to be, I have not been inspired. I would welcome any realistic or otherwise suggestions.

Not worrying about my health is a very good thing.  I always describe myself as a knowledgeable, educated hypochondriac.  I know a little about lots of illnesses and yet I am not a hysteric.  I never imagine that I might have something dreadful.  I do worry about my family.  When my son or daughter coughs it sends me crazy.  I can imagine all sorts of asthma attacks, bronchitis, pneumonia, you name it, they've got it.  This is not hypochondria, this is part and parcel of the Jewish mother's job  description.

Noticing that I am beginning to take my hale and hearty make-up for granted is great.  Not checking for bumps, lumps, growths and sickness is real progress.  I used to be someone who rarely got colds, but often had major surgery.  Today, I am healthy. 

You see what progress I have made.  I can say that I am healthy without touching anything wood, crossing my fingers or whispering so no one hears.  Not only do I feel good today, I am not feeling particularly superstitious.  I know that stating things out loud does not tempt fate, and even if it did (just in case) I'm feeling lucky today.

Resisting temptation...

I can feel it coming.Slowly, inexorably, inevitably trying to settle in the neighbourhood of my psyche. The arrival of SAD.   How do I know this?  Partly because I wanted to sleep all day today and I haven't really had that feeling so strongly for many months and also because I am having a major crisis of confidence.

Usually I have a reserve of self-belief. I do my work.  I paint my face.  I do my pottering and generally live my life without spending too much time worrying about whether I am good enough or skilled enough or even whether or not I am talking too much.  This week that confident facade began to crumble.  I felt it creeping up the other day, actually the first signs were at the weekend, when I was irritable and snappish at everything and  everyone, more precisely at Ralph.  Then I went to work and felt that my course was not very good, too sloppy and too informal - too much of me in it.

This morning I woke up, jumped out of bed as usual, showered, dressed and then debated as to how to spend the day. My first and strongest instinct was to go back to bed and not move.  I recognised that this would not be a good thing for me to do, especially since the urge to do it was so strong.  So, of course, I went shopping.  I drove to a  nearby shopping mall and spent a few hours looking at clothes I didn't need and trying on shoes I didn't want.

As I was driving home I suddenly remembered that I could have music in the car and started listening to Premal and Miten singing.  Lovely.  I remembered to notice the trees changing colour and the blue, if cold, sky.  Singing along at the top of my voice and driving in the afternoon sun was a delight and just what I needed.

Coming in the door I once again was overcome by tiredness.  Sheer exhaustion brought on by nothing more than fading daylight.  I really felt as if the call of my bed had almost a magnetic pull and it was all I could do to resist.  I thought about writing this blog entry and felt totally de-motivated.  'Who am I doing this for', I thought. 'If this is for me, then I don't have to do it, I can leave it till tomorrow'.  As all this self-defeating thinking spiralled through my head I forced myself up the stairs, resisted the pull of the bedroom and sat down at my computer to write. In the mood that I am in today I started to worry that I haven't enough to say, that what I write is stupid and a waste of  time, that it is of no importance.  I guess that's true but I made a bargain with myself to do it and having made a commitment to myself to write for at least a year has been a good motivator and a positive message to me about  keeping to my agreements.

I am frightened of this wave of sleepiness.  I've been here before.  I know how it goes and I am determined to resist this year.  I could make sleeping an Olympic sport, but all it does is feed my sense of worthlessness, so I'll pass for now.  Early nights are one thing, but making my days into nights as well is really not a good idea.

It is definitely time for me to start a project - but what?

Officially irritated ...

I am officially angry at the world today. 

Political news is getting to me.  I am enraged by the British placid acceptance of a hideously self-interested government hiding behind a deficit to make the changes that the Conservatives would have made regardless of the economy. Why aren't we out manning the barricades and chaining ourselves to fences?

I am irritated by the rain, the impending change of clocks that will mean the days are almost so short as to be non-existent and the cold weather that is so suddenly upon us.

I am angy about everything and therefore will not write anymore today.  I cannot face spewing this indignation on to another page.

Suffice it to say that I am hoping this will pass, or perhaps I will self-combust in a fit of pique.  I'll keep you posted.

Remind me again...

Why am I here?  Why do I exist?  What is my purpose?  What is it all about?  where is all going?  Is it going anywhere at all?  Does it even matter? Who cares?

In the Spring I went to a workshop with Krishna Das.  He chants.  He has a spectacular voice that effortlessly seems to come from way down deep inside of him.  He says that the practice of chanting keeps him from being depressed.  He freely and openly talks about the depression he keeps at bay through finding a deeper inner self through his chanting practice.

Today, whilst walking down the road after seeing my doctor I found myself questioning the ultimate purpose of my life as one does on the way to the supermarket.  Contrary to the image I present to others, this is a question I am regularly busy with.  So far I hasve no real answer, or I have millions of answers and not one of them is 'the one'.  I am not sure what I am looking for but I haven't found it yet.  Even when I was a disciple of Rajneesh I don't think I ever really found that answer and now, many years later, I'm still looking.

I often feel like I am constantly turning over stones on my path.  Underneath each stone I hope to find my definitive answer and usually I just find bugs hiding from the light.  Maybe this is the answer, who I am is also a series of bugs sheltering in the dark afraid to come into the daylight.  I think this is true, but I am tired of turning myself inside out trying to find the true me.

If I was a political/environmental activist I would at least have a cause with which I could ally myself.   If I was a philanthropist I could donate large amounts of money and define myself through the self-righteous glow that often comes with these sort of donations, but I have no spare money and I am not really a political animal so these are not answers for me.

Do other people question there daily existence in this way?  This is generally not a topic of dinner party conversation and as far as I know I am a bit strange in this way.  Are most of the people I know too busy surviving their daily lives that such questions have no place in their repertoire of concerns.  Maybe most people never even think in this way.  I never thought to ask.

I cook, therefore I am.  That I know this to be true.  Right at this moment there are six newly made jars of apple chutney made from apples from the tree in my garden and a loaf of bread is in the oven.  This is normal for  me, no big deal.  Who I am and what my purpose is cannot be this easy, so I dismiss it. I know I believe life needs to be hard to be valuable - bullshit, I tell myself, but the message does not easily sink in. I still cling desperately to the mistaken belief that the harder the struggle, the more valuable the result.  No  struggle means no worthwhile result. I never said I was smart!

I recognise that this is self-defeating thinking and as I look at the calendar I suspect I have just recognised the arrival of my old friend - late autumn doldrums, the harbinger of winter depression.  This is the first time I have identified this thinking before it becomes an inevitable downward spiral.  This is a great positive step in the right direction.  Usually I only see this when I am so deeply mired in the low feelings that I can't see any way out. I am making progress.

Hindsight, insight, foresight.  Maybe this year I can stop asking myself stupid questions.  Who I am just is.  Why I am here doesn't matter, I'm just here.  What is my purpose? I have no idea, the idea is just to do the best I can, enjoy what I have and know that it all will lead  to the same end, so I might as well enjoy it all.

Oh and by the way, I've lost 10 lbs so wherever I am going, I'll be  carrying less weight with me.

How much is too much?

Subjectively speaking I think you can have too much of a good thing.  Last night I didn't fall asleep till 4.15 am because my stomach was full to bursting.  After a month of watching what I eat and being very careful about amounts and portions, I threw caution to the winds and ate an enormous three course dinner.  Worse still, it was at home.  I served it up myself and could easily have taken less.  I am a glutton, I have no restraint. Such is the price we pay for greed.

This leads me to ask the question, how much is too much?  Do we all have to exceed the limit of enough before we know what too much is.  My girlfriend was talking about woman wearing too much make-up as they get older.  I love make-up.  Face painting has never been more fun for me and certainly more necessary.  The question is when have I troweled on too much?  When does make-up go from being an enhancement to a clown pastiche?  Only Ralph will tell me and he hates most make-up anyway.  He says I'm wearing too much make-up when all I've done is wash my face!

How much is too much in the way of clothing.  I have two large wardrobes full to bursting with clothes.  They're not double size or walk-in wardrobes, just cupboards from IKEA.  My intention (operative word here is intention) is to clear the wardrobes so that my winter clothes fit neatly onto the rails with no pushing and shoving and arguing for space.  I intend to colour-code the clothing, trousers all together, shirts, skirts, etc. but somehow there is always too much.  It's easy to throw away things I don't like, but throwing away much loved, but seldom worn, items is harder.  Funny though, as I think about it, I don't remember getting rid of anything because I'd actually worn it out.  No frayed hems, worn collars or split seams on my clothes - just surplus to space.

Shoes, handbags, scarves, bras, pants, socks, tights - all these things seem to grow faster than my weight.  I have drawers full of unpaired socks, pants that started life as pale peach and are now varying shades of grey.  These can definitely go. Boxes full of hats, pull on berets, woolie caps, the occasional floppy-brimmed sun number that has never been worn - these need immediate culling.

Well, thankfully my Sunday is almost over and I have thrown out exactly two shirts.  I did get rid of a saucepan the other day and a few items of clothing, but more action is needed.  I have to admit that I have too much of everything.  Too much time, too much make-up, too much clothing, too much indulgence.  The only thing I don't feel I have too much of is friendship. I went to say good bye to my two dear friends who do the expat thing of leaving the UK for the winter.  Two months in India, four months in the sun in Thailand.  I don't envy them the warmth, the daylight or great food.  I will just plain miss them.  At this  point in my life I can have full cupboards of things, but my friendships are the things that genuinely fill me up and I don't have enough of those.

Empty cupboards are most welcome, empty spaces for the next six months without my friends, that's something else.

Turning over new leaves

Autumn - shorter days, chilly mornings, longer shadows, falling leaves and more falling  leaves. As the weather turns from sunshine to autumnal breezes, my allergies kick in with a vengeance. Just as the rest of the world packs away their antihistamines for yet another summer season, I start stocking up on mine.

I am allergic to mold - leaf mold and damp mold for sure and this time of year, as the gardens get filled with dropping leaves wet with October rain, I start sneezing.  And sneezing, and sneezing.  My teeth ache with sinus pain and my inner ears gets itchier by the minute. What a pain in the neck.  I take all kinds of meds to cope with this, but the only ones that really work make me too sleepy to function normally, so usually I just stockpile tissues and scare off everyone with the loudness and violence of my sneezing. It does make me long for winter - if not for the short, dark days that are approaching.

I also become irritable.  'What???' I hear you say. 'How is that possible?'  What I meant to say was I become even more iirritable and short-tempered and snappy.  This makes living with me tough, for myself and my beloved.  I try and temper my words and think before words come spewing forth from my mouth, but alas, I am rarely successful in this.  What this means is that our Saturday morning walks together become sparring matches with me snapping and Ralph challenging my snapping and me denying that I am snapping and so on and so on. What a comedy and how ridiculous that this happens with such regularity. After 41 years together it seems thatwe can't let any of these moments pass unremarked on.

Maybe this is a good thing.  It certainly keeps us on our toes and means that in those moments of taking the other for granted we remind each other that it is not a good way to relate.  Fundamentally and totally there is always love and this helps, heals and brings humour back.  Necessary when life is such an allergic mess.

Almost a year ago I wrote about our Saturday morning  shopping expeditions, with our bags over our arms and the local shopkeepers chat to enliven the day.  We still do this and it really has become an essential weekend routine.  No matter how much work there is to do, what chores remain undone, we always find time for our little walks together and of course, lunch.  Lately it's Japanese.  A delightful little place down the road run by what I think are husband and wife.  Very calm, quiet and very slow, but we're in no rush.  The food is great, we talk and catch up and laugh together.

The chill in the air and the different colours on the trees signal another summer passing, another winter approaching.  I love the routine and seeing another year go by.  I hate the sneezing. I look forward to winter. Now there's something I never thought I'd hear myself saying.

Puppy dog tales

This morning I woke up, plugged in my computer and spent a few moments looking at sites for dog breeders.  This idea of dog ownership is still with me, but alas is not to be.  I have a husband who does not want a dog, or rather does not want me to have a dog.  I understand his objection.  A dog needs walking, training, cleaning, tending and attention.  I am someone who starts projects easily and with enormous enthusiasm, but I am not so good at the follow-through.  I am certain that Ralph sees the future and in it he's the one walking the dog and wiping up the certain to happen accidents.  Also my brother told me I can't have his dog (!) and if I get a puppy I better be ready to commit to the dog for between 12-15 years.  I can hardly commit to taking care of myself so far into the future, so I think a dog is out.  I'll have to be content with my visits to my doggy nephew.

I cooked this afternoon - coq au vin.  I used the recipe from my dog-eared, falling apart copy of 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking' by Julia Child.  My god, the woman certainly knows how to complicate every recipe.  Every stage contains five mini-stages and I have to say that I used the recipe as a jumping off point and didn't religiously follow Ms. Child's complex instructions.  Came out good and can't wait till tomorrow and dinner.

I certainly love to cook.  It is the one place in the house where I feel completely at ease and inspired.  I bustle around, making a mess, mixing, stirring and feel like a magician/witch in my joy in combining spices, seasonings and ingredients.  I came to a bartering agreement with the new cafe around the corner from my house.  I bake his cheesecakes and he feeds us dinner in exchange.  I like this arrangement.  It feels fair and equitable and I get to not cook on the days I work when I am just wiped out in the evenings.

Actually, today I am not at all inspired to write more, so I will stop now. No point in boring myself with more words.

I want a dog, I think

While I was in the States I visited my brother in Connecticut.  House in the suburbs, two cars in the garage, the whole nine yards, as they say.  Not my kind of life, but nice and my brother and his wife are happy.  The one thing they do have that I could easily take away is their dog.  Sammy is his name and he's a rescued bichon.  Curly, white haired and much too big to be a real bichon, but I guess he was the opposite of the runt of the litter.

Now,  I am not an animal lover.  I grew up pretty frightened of dogs and can clearly remember a traumatic experience when I was about 10 and walking home from a friend's house.  I was alone, the way back was unfamiliar and I got slightly lost.  Suddenly I was cornered (or so it seemed to my 10 year old self) by a large dog, no leash, no owner, barking like mad.  I ran down the street, the dog followed, all the time barking.  I eventually found my way home, running all the way.  From that time on I can remember being very afraid of dogs.

When I was in India I was forever crossing streets, ducking into doorways and avoiding all the street dogs by hiding behind Ralph.  The dogs there looked really strange, all bones and bark. Most of the dogs were too tired to care very much about me, but occasionally I'd see four or five together and then I would feel genuine terror welling up.  I was never bitten or attacked and I can't say that anyone I know was either, but reality never got in the way of my fear.

So it was all the more surprising when I fell for my brother's dog.  Initially I was very wary.  I froze as he barked and barked when he saw me for the first time.  I went rigid when my brother suggested I give him my hand to sniff and finally I slightly relaxed as he went quiet when he discovered I wasn't one of the bad guys.  As the days went on I relaxed more and more with this little scrap of a dog.  I scratched his belly, stroked him behind the ears and generally developed a relationship where I could happily let him lick my palm with abandon. (I think my spouse might appreciate the same treatment, but that's another story.)

I even felt happy to be home alone with the dog.  Unheard of for me.  It felt strange.  This dog is one of the most delightfully placid creatures I have met, including many of the people I know.  He didn't ask for much.  Hardly needed to go out and mostly just lolled around.  In other words my kind of dog.  He did become more dog-like every evening after dinner when he would bark and indicate it was toy playtime, but mostly I let my brother and sister-in-law do that duty.

The one thing missing for me was that I kept expecting him to talk.  This dog had such a lovely nature and clear personality he even smiled!  I reckoned that if I'd stayed on with my brother, in a few weeks the dog would have started to talk, if only to tell me to shutup sometimes.

I've thought about getting a little dog.  It is an appealing idea.  I can see that it would fill a gap in my house that's been empty since my kids left, but the reality of a dog is something else.  Chewed  shoes, wet floors, crap in odd inappropriate places, these things do not fill me with joy.  Finding dog sitters, kennels, visits to the vet, these things also do not thrill me.  I guess I will have to content myself with being an absentee auntie to my brother's dog. 

Despite the attractiveness of the fantasy, this is not the project for me right now.

Sheep Counting

In the middle of the night I woke up and ...  boom!...I was wide awake. I got up, walked around, attended to bathroom needs, played solitaire on my iPod, and settled back into my bed and waited for that blessed wave of sleep to wash over me.  Guess what? It didn't arrive as I planned. I just tossed, turned, plumped pillows, straightened duvets and nothing, no sleep.

When this happens I get a bit edgy.  Do I have insomnia?  What is that?  If I have to ask I don't have it. Am I depressed?  Now there is a stupid question.  I would never let a depressed episode go unnoticed. Perhaps I woke up because of some  sort of organ energy imbalance.  In Eastern medicine there is a belief that different organs are more or less active at different times.  Feh! I don't really believe that. Lung energy is not the reason I'm awake, or is it?

After lying there for some time, actually about thirty minutes, I was on my back, calm and not sleeping, so I decided that I would count sheep. I then started wondering when this tedious task became synonymous with an aid to inducing sleep. Then I remembered that in India they don't count sheep - perhaps sheep are not so plentiful, though we count sheep in the Bronx and I remember no sheep anywhere near my block of flats.  In India they count stars.  I can see how this would be more difficult since we see so few stars over London as a result of too much light pollution. Then I realised that I get to create the star-filled sky or the sheep-filled  meadow. Doh!!

Anyway, to come back to the counting of sheep, I always get one or two in my long line of sheep that balk at jumping the fence and have to go back and do it again.  This holds up the smooth progress of the line. Then I stopped and realised that nowhere have I read that the sheep  need to jump a fence.  Maybe they just need to be strolling past in a long line and be counted as they pass me.  New concept.  So I tried that but I kept getting confused and counted some of the sheep twice.  This disturbed me since I wanted my counting to be accurate.  Please don't ask me why.  It just needed to be right.

Well, I carried on counting and the next thing I knew it was 7 am and time to get up.  I had finally managed to let go of the need to be awake and lull myself into sleep. I love the feeling of falling asleep.  I really revel in the pleasurable sensations of my body allowing the day to drift away and relaxing more and more.  I never have that pleasurable feeling of slowly coming to consciousness in the mornings.  I forget to stretch and re-inhabit my body before I jump out of bed and start the day. Maybe as I count sheep next time I will add an image of sheep stretching and slowly coming awake so I can remember to do this in the morning.

This morning I am thinking about what my day will look like. Where to go, what to do?  The ideas for a project that I had the other day are still baking in my mental oven.  Nothing has emerged yet, but I await the arrival of inspiration. I want to put my blog entries into book form. Not for reading by the general public.  Why would anyone want to do that, but for myself, so I can see a year's worth of entries in one big, fat, colourful volume.  In December I will have been writing this for one year.  For me this feels like quite an accomplishment.

Before the winter sets in my intention is to read through my blog from the beginning.  I want to see if there is any pattern to my life. I'd like to monitor my mood swings,my health and maybe even weight! for the past year. I don't know if I will discover anything useful, but maybe I can read my own story a bit more objectively than the way I live it.  Maybe I can begin to see my changing emotional states as just a line of sheep that can be counted as they go past, but no one sheep is more important than another.  That would interesting.  I could start a new insomnia cure - counting Cynthia's many moods.

Is it a man thing?

Sometimes I have to just sit back and marvel at the pitfalls that my man encounters  and falls into time after time without fail.  After over 40 years of marriage my beloved husband still says some of those things that men should learn in their teens are not appropriate to say to women. 

Let me give you some examples and dare I say it, suggestions for what might be better.

Question:           Do I look fat in this?
Wrong answer:  Not really.
How can this ever be a proper response to a question that should firstly, never be asked, and secondly, should never be answered. There is no right answer to this question and if it must be answered, say 'you look spectacular'.

Question:           Does this dress look OK?
Wrong answer:  It depends on how you define OK.
I cannot even begin to list what is wrong with this answer.  Has he never heard of lying?

Situation: Upon presenting myself at the door, ready to go out - comment from him is 'you're going to wear THAT?!"

Question:           Did you like the sweater I was wearing last night?
Wrong answer:  I didn't notice.
Please clutch at straws here, say yes, say remind me again since you always look good, anything but not noticing.


Question:           Do I look like I've lost a bit of weight?
Wrong answer:  Not sure, turn around, I guess so.
The above question is never asked unless the questioner has actually lost weight! Therefore the correct answer is always YES.

These are little things.  In the big picture of love and marriage they don't actually matter much, but the developing of a thick skin is a necessity when married to an honest man. 

I have two children, a daughter and a son.  My son is too aware of the consequences of wading into these questions that women ask unprepared. He knows that the minefield of self-esteem tied up in these sort of situations is not even worth setting foot into.  Perhaps his generation have more clearly understood that tact is as important as honesty.

As a woman I should have learned that  these sort of questions are not ones that I should be posing, but I just can't help it.  I know they are not even slightly evolved, liberated or spiritual and still I ask. Just as, I imagine,my long-suffering husband can't help telling the truth in response.

Mothers, sisters and daughters everywhere - we have a responsibility to teach our men, young and old, to be complimentary, tactful and a little bit dishonest.  Only then can we relax when they say (in the words of Eric Clapton):

'Darling,  you look wonderful tonight.'
'

Fat mind/Thin mind

After having sworn off dieting earlier this year, I find myself, once again on a diet.  Not exactly a diet, but readjusting my way of eating in such a way that I lose weight.  What's the difference, I hear you ask?  Well, none actually.  I am not adjusting my eating so as to get healthy.  I am healthy, just too big. So what happened?

As the year went on and the winter took hold I found that slowly, slowly my weight was creeping up.  At first it was imperceptible. I could tell myself that it was just a case of trousers being slightly tighter, waistline expanding and then it became a case of buying new, larger sized trousers.  Finally, I caught sight of myself in a number of full-length mirrors and had a proper shock.  There was this large, puffy, older woman staring back at me.  Too much weight round the midriff, rounder face, jowls more prominent and generally looking short and tubby.  I knew I could no longer ignore the evidence in front of (and all around) me.  I needed to stop allowing myself the treats that I had quietly incorporated into my daily diet.

I do not really own a full length mirror.  I have arranged mirrors in different rooms.  In one I can see my head and shoulders. In another I can see myself mid-section upwards, in another I can see my feet and the bottom of my legs.  Usually I don't have to piece all the puzzle bits together. Confronting my entire image in shop window reflections or changing room mirrors was like those old 'magic eye' pictures.  Suddenly a light went on, the reality hit me, I saw the whole image at once and knew I had to change.

So far I have lost 5 lbs.  Not bad and I have found it fairly straightforward.  I have started listening to my inner self-talk more but I don't think I'm listening to the most nurturing voices.  There is the fat mind voice that tells me that one piece of cake, ice cream or french fries won't do any harm.  'Hell, go ahead, have it, life is too short for all this denial, so you can have a better day tomorrow, it can't do that much harm'.  All of these little messages are whispered in my proverbial ear.  There is a bit of validity in this voice but it is irresponsible, manipulative and quite seductive.

The thin mind voice is far more strict. 'No fries, no slippage, don't eat that cheesecake, the pounds will pile on, your foot thing (plantar fascitis) is caused by being overweight, your back will hurt more, your cholesterol will go up, you can't carry on looking like this, you have to change, you look slovenly and you are beginning to show every single year of your age, stop eating'. My god, this voice is critical, negative and judgmental. Not at all motivating, more punishing and harsh.

Now you can see the problem here.  These schizophrenic minds/voices actually do not need listening to at all because there is another voice, the voice of the compassionate mind.  This is the voice I have to strain to hear.  I have to listen very, very hard and make everything else go quiet so I can hear it whispering.  This voice soothes me, tells me that I am beautiful and am doing the best I can.  This is the voice that applauds my positive efforts and forgives any slips.  It is the compassionate mind's voice that nourishes my heart and means that I am not hungry for 'treats', since it treats me well all the time. I have trouble with this voice because sometimes it gets shouted down by the other two voices.  I have not quite developed the habit of listening to it first and letting the others go quiet.

This morning I heard from a very old and very dear friend and he is going through tough times.  Life is not as he planned and he sounds sad and in turmoil.  My compassionate voice immediately sent him love and care and I realised that when I am in stress I can learn to send those same thoughts to myself.  I am learning to project this compassionate voice and raise it above a whisper.  I am learning to be as kind to myself as I try to be to others. Slowly, I am learning to listen.

New Directions...

The ad should read:

"One slightly past middle-aged creative woman with loud mouth, good sense of humour and a lot of heart, looking for a new project to fulfill this sense of unfulfillment of which  she is ever-increasingly aware. Must be partially sedentary and under no circumstances should involve sport, children or animals."

I need a project. Something wonderfully creative, not too taxing mentally since I am getting older and don't want to have to spend hours on research though as I write that, it doesn't sound bad.  I want to make something, do something, create something, but I am stymied as to where to begin.

I have boxes and boxes of things I have saved for just such moments and yet, none of them are 'it'.  I keep thinking that I'll know when I see it, hear it, read about it, but I don't. My paid work is fine, even picking up a bit, so that side of my life is taken care of.  I could throw myself into being the perfect wife, but I find little satisfaction, beyond the ordinary, in that.  I already love and care for my self and my husband, though I credit that this may not be his opinion.  Men always seem to want more.

I was tossing and turning in my bed last night, unable, once agin, to sleep and realised that I'm still a bit jet-lagged.  I thought I would make use of the insomnia moment and planned how to bake cheesecake for the now open restaurant round the corner.  I will use the restaurant kitchen so as to save having to satisfy health and safety standards and come to some barter arrangement for doing the baking.  I also started to visualise this mini-quilt that I want to make out of the Japanese fabrics I have been saving.  Each time I see a kimono scrap or scarf I buy it and squirrel it away for future use.  Maybe I can finally begin that.

When I was in California I met my son's girlfriend.  I'm sure this was an anxious moment for her since those who know me will know that I am the epitome of the over-bearing Jewish mother.  Well, it was also an anxious time for me.  Would I be able to keep my mouth shut? Would I be overly nice and insincere?  Would I like her?  Would she like me?  All these questions ran round my mind and in the end it was fine, I think, or at least it was fine from my side.  I was so concerned with making a good impression I didn't ask anything about her background, family, parents, etc.  Now I would like to know some of that  .

 To get back to the point of why I introduced the girlfriend into my quest for a project - her mother sent us a gift.  A big gift.  A beautiful, handmade, double bed sized patchwork quilt that has me in awe of someone able to make wonderful things like this quilt. I want to be able to do this.  I think I could, but I also think I would never have the patience that this quilt required. I am a project starter, but not so much a finisher.

While I was in the States I went to a number of shops filled with things you don't need and will never need.  Many of the shops displayed the work of local craftsmen and artists.  A lot of what I saw selling for exhorbitant prices I realised I could easily make.  I am talented and creative enough, but I also realised that most of what I saw I wouldn't want to live with, even if I could make it.

So this is my problem - do I create something, begin (and perhaps even finish) a project that has no purpose and that I don't need or want, or do I expend my energy on redecorating the downstairs toilet?  Who knows....

A little night music...

Midnight... I am suddenly wide awake having already slept for an hour or two. I get up, walk around, turn my bedside lamp on and start to read.  Nope, that's not right, I don't feel like reading, so I turn on the TV and quietly begin to channel surf.  I come across a Carole King concert from the 1970's on the BBC and settle back into my pillows to listen.

Often I think listening to music is a passive event, but last night I found myself listening differently.  I was listening whilst flashing back through memory after memory, feeling after feeling, all recovered in my mind by hearing Carole King.  She was singing all the songs from her album 'Tapestry'.  I knew every single word, every nuance of inflection in her voice was anticipated.  It was nostalgia heaven.

It got me thinking of all the music that has meant something to me in my life.  I began to remember back to when I met Ralph in Amsterdam for the first time.  There was a jukebox (!) in the student hostel we were staying in and the most popular song and the one I associate with meeting my future beloved was Donovan, singing 'Hurdy-Gurdy Man'.  Now when I hear that song I never bother to judge whether it was any good, it really wasn't, but I am so suffused with good feelings and warmth that the quality of the music doesn't matter at all.

As I lay in my bed I remembered the music that my friend Veeresh used in the first groups I participated in.  He was a master at attaching music to our emotions and I still cannot hear Marvin Gaye singing tracks from 'What's Going on' and Barry White crooning in that deep voice for me to be transported back to moments of true joy and emotional high points. It is a musical Pavlovian response.

Remember 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull' or the soundtrack of 'Chariots of Fire'?  Again this music is more than music for me,  it is a key to my past and my memory.  All of it attached to good feelings and heartful times. Likewise for Stevie Wonder and all the tracks from 'Talking Books'.  Many years ago I was fired from my traineeship with Veeresh and I still cannot listen to 'Sunshine of My Life' without stopping for a moment and remembering that painful time and my good friend, Anam.

All of this music, all of these memories came flooding back last night.  James Taylor joined Carole King on stage and I thought my memory bank would overload.  How wonderful that music from our pasts can re-inspire memories in the present and in turn those memories have the power to re-invoke such wonderful times, full of hope and promise. It made me long for those days and yet, feel so privileged to have the feelings and memories.  I did for a moment remember the younger me, the me that was not touched by cynicism and age, the me that thought it was all possible and had a moment of nostalgic regret, but that quickly passed as most memories were so very special.

I was with my father last week.  He really didn't know me at all.  As I said, it was not unexpected, but he did remember music.  When I sang to him in Yiddish he sang with me and finished the refrains of old Yiddish songs we sang 50 years ago.  Somewhere in his mind the music is still alive and triggers some long ago time.  I was really happy about that.

All of this came from thirty minutes of TV in the middle of the night.  The journey through my past and through the emotional times connected with mentally singing along last night was a joyous surprise and when I eventually fell asleep it was with a big warm smile.

Feeling better...

I am so pleased that the sun is shining and I am up and about today.  I woke this morning and felt immediately better.  I've had two absolutely indulgent days in bed. I am so lucky to have the luxury of being able to take time out to get better.  I only work part-time and I never take for granted the bliss that having time for me, is. Ralph, who has hurt his back, doesn't even entertain the idea of taking time off to recover.  He soldiers on regardless. 

I spent two full days flat out in bed.  I read, watched TV, slept and didn't drink enough.  I never do and yet I seem to have survived fine for over 61 years. I don't even feel all shriveled.  I am never thirsty.

My bed has always been such an easy place of refuge.  When I was a teenager, I would come home from school and lie down.  This was the natural thing for me to do.  Was I a particularly lazy teenager? I don't think so, but I was often depressed, so I know that bed became a safe retreat from an uncertain world.  I still have this sense that if everything gets too much, I can always sleep, or at least pull the blankets up over my head.  Some kids I grew up with would be punished by being sent to their room.  I never, ever had my own room (poor me!).  I shared with my brother until I left home to get married, then I shared with Ralph.  So, going to my own room was not really an option during my growing up, but pulling the blankets up and sleeping always was.

I think I finally let go of the need to always go to bed at the first sign of melodrama or feelings I couldn't cope with after I was in hospital for 28 days having my back operated on.  I came home from hospital and spent a further few months pretty much in bed (and in pain) and I think, finally, I had had enough.  I don't need to retreat so much anymore.

On some level, I loved it. No duties, no responsibilities. I also know I loved my duvet days in the same way that a child loves their security blanket, or loves their pacifier.  It's fine for a while, but not really something that adults do when they actually live in the world.  I now allow myself these days when I am truly not well and as I said, even though I feel ill, I like the luxury of the not-doing, but the sore throat and achy muscles, I can live without.

So, today the sun is blazing through my dusty windows, the house is talking to me in that voice that starts quietly and then eventually shouts 'Clean Me'! As soon as I feel better I'm sure I will, but for the rest of the day I am going to be wirh myself, still recovering, but well on the road to health.  Hallelujah! 

A trip down Denial...

Sometimes, after arriving home after a lengthy absence I am able to be objective for a brief instant and see my home and my beloved in a fresh light. Seeing Ralph after almost two weeks away was wonderful.  He looks great and feels even better. The house... well, the house is another matter.

The subsidence cracks persist and in order to feel relaxed about it I have to consciously send myself off into a state of denial.  Don't get me wrong, this is an easy process for me, almost a default setting.  I do it all the time, but it still creeps up and disturbs me.  Ralph has repeatedly assured me that my house is not falling down, but the lady on TV who does property programmes does not give the same advice, so who knows.  All I can do is trust.

Our house is stuffed with things and mainly books and papers and clothing.  Do you think those de-cluttering people might help?  I am afraid that I will go into crazed, maniacal whirlwind mode and throw away everything, including things we want.  It's happened before and caused no end of relationship problems.  Time to turn on the vision denial button again.

Meanwhile I have arrived back with a cold.  I haven't had one for some time and I'd forgotten that sneezing, sore throat, runny nose, aches and pains also come with a complete regression.  I feel 10 years old, pathetic and totally demotivated.  Maybe this is my body's way of telling me that I have been on emotional roller coaster for the past week, plus three days of airplane journeys and I should just stop and take a break.  Whatever the message, I feel awful and if not left alone, I will actively complain.So just stay out of my way. (Did I also mention that when I get sick I am very, very tetchy?)

I will emerge and write more when I feel better, but for now, tea and toast beckons.

Afraid of the dark...

Last week I was basking in the sunshine of Pier 39 on Fisherman's wharf in San Francisco. I felt a bit like the lazy sea lions enjoying the rays of vitamin D and sun.  This morning I left my house at 6.45am to go to work.  I am jet-lagged and sun deprived and as I left  my house this morning, it was still dark.

Ahhhhh! Winter is coming.  In a few weeks we move our clocks back and it will officially be dark for all the hours in which I like to be awake.  I realised this morning, as I put on my car headlights, that this actually scares me.  Not the dark, though there are all kinds of things that go bump in the night in the dark, but the onset of short days and little sunlight.  Will I go into my winter depressions?  Will I get SAD (seasonal affected disorder)? I actually like it that my mood swings have an official name, rather than just 'Cynthia is nuts', but I still have trepidation about the approaching gloom.

Last year in December I started writing this blog, as a self-therapeutic tool to deal with my moods.  Was it successful?  I think so, since I didn't have recourse to go to my GP for a prescription for useless anti-depressants.  I also went to Florida for a week during the darkest, shortest days of winter and this must have helped.  This year I am not sure that my meager purse will extend to a trip to the sun.  We'll see.

I am actually looking forward to autumnal evenings, curled up with my blanket and old movies.  This is a new sensation and I will have to give it more attention.  Rather than concentrating on my fear of the dark and the madness it brings, I think I will focus on the benefits of having an excuse to stay home and have early nights and hot soups. If that doesn't work, I can always turn to drink.  That's a solution I have never entertained!

Right now I am almost totally overcome by exhaustion.  I stupidly accepted a work assignment today and at some point, I was so jet-lagged and tired, I almost fell over as I turned round.  I will try to remember this for the next time I travel.  Don't undertake too much, too soon.  Give yourself a chance to recover a bit.  You are not super-human, are you?  Still, I survived today.  My work was fine and most importantly, it's still daylight.

You can go home again...

Thomas Wolfe wrote a novel called 'You Can't Go Home Again' in which the main character writes a novel based on his home town, family and friends.  When they read the book they are enraged at their portrayal and don't welcome George, the protaganist, back home with open arms.  Hence the title, but the title also refers to different ideas about our pasts and memories and the desire to go nostalgically back to those years and those times when we viewed our lives through rose-coloured glasses and childhood was idyllic.

"You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."

This quote ffrom the Wolfe book resonates strongly with me today.  I am back from the US.  I accomplished exactly the things I wanted and saw all the family members on my list. I enjoyed the warmth and closeness with my children and with my brother and sister-in-law.  I felt loved and cared for, despite my feeling somewhat disconnected at times.  And yet, I realised with quite some sadness, that I can never recapture those early days of innocence and wonder that I had as a child.  I bought all my old childhood sweets, ate foods that I associate with being a street kid in the Bronx and even spent a lot of time laughing with my brother about the oddness of our Eastern European upbringing in the North Bronx.  We both agreed that the 1950's that other American kids experienced were not the same for us in our house.

This week I kept looking at my father and trying to see beyond his frailty and dementia.  I tried to peel away the layers of blindness, disease and madness in order to conjure up my 'Pop' coming home from work every evening with the newspaper under his arm and my brother and I falling over each other to get to the newspaper first.  My dad would take off his coat and as often as not, would still have his leather tailor's apron on. 'Oy', he would say, 'I forgot again'.  There were always odd bits of thread and cloth caught up in his clothing and sometimes he even brought some of the cloth home so we could see what he was planning to make for us.We all sat down for a rushed dinner that just about lasted as long as it took to quickly swallow whatever my mum cooked.  Then my dad usually dozed on the couch.

As my brother and I shared this memory I could feel a kind of sweetness mixed with sadness for both of us.  We can never go back to those days, but we are both incredibly grateful for having had them and for still being able to share the memory of them.

I said goodbye to my father yesterday.  I'm not sure if I will 'go home again' and find him there.  Even the shadow of himself as he is now is fading and kissing his round, bald head and putting my cheek to his lips as he kissed me back with the kind of automatic response babies have, even that is 'home' in some way. I am so sad and also so accepting that this is the way it is.  Time and memory that's all I have now with him.

I am so pleased to be back in wet, grey England.  Familiarity does not breed contempt. In my case it breeds love, and happiness and warmth.  I want to see Ralph.  He'll be home any minute and we'll hug and laugh and soon enough we'll start bickering.  Wonderful.  Right now I am happy I can come home again.