Soon it will be a year since I started writing this blog. I look back now and I can hardly remember what originally prompted me to begin on this most interesting journey. I am not and have never been a writer - an artist, sure, but writing, never. The most I've written in the past forty years are shopping lists. I never try to capture my thoughts on cyber-paper. And yet, here I am, almost 300 entries later, having written thousands of words.
I think it may be time to look back over the year and see where I am now. Is it a different place to where I was a year back? Have I learned anything about myself or my world in the last twelve months? Have I dispensed any wisdom at all? I am totally not sure. I never went into this because I had any particular message to deliver or wisdom to impart. I never thought to set myself apart from others because I have a particular knowledge of the world that needs sharing. I would never presume such arrogance. I'm not even sure I embarked on this blogging journey to learn anything. It just seemed a simple place to release some of the emotional madness that tends to overtake me in winter. Has it helped?
Actually, it has helped, or rather I've helped. In writing I have found a voice with a different tone. I am more objective about who I am and what I need. I have been able to observe the fleeting nature of my emergencies and maybe even felt less subject to melodrama. I am nothing if not an incredible drama queen. I can embroider and enlarge a small issue into a world war. I am able to see the dark side of anything and for me I guess, the bread always lands butter side down. Don't get me wrong, I also love and indulge this side of myself. It is endlessly entertaining. It keeps me busy for far longer than you can imagine, but it also creates and feeds my inner anxiety. Writing things down helps me to develop some perspective on reality instead of blowing things up into something more than they are.
This time last year I was busy obsessing about the cracks in my walls and the state of my house. Even earlier this summer I was completely caught up in the recurring subsidence problems. Now I seem to have relaxed with it. My house has some cracks. My house is about 120 years old. I would crack if I was that old, but I am no longer convinced that the walls are falling down or that every little hairline crack is the portent of something far more ominous. I am quite pleased to say that I seem to have been able to let go of a little bit of that worry. Maybe in future I won't have to go into such a tailspin before I am able to stop and calm down.
In re-reading old blog entries, I am not surprised to notice how much weight I gained last winter. For weeks all my blog entries were about the various foods I was baking, cooking and eating. This winter I am moderating the urge to stock up on the stodge and hibernate, though I acknowledge how much I enjoy cooking.
In looking back over the past year I have also tried to look with the eyes of others. I was told recently that my blog is a version of Schindler's List, or somehow obsessed with Holocaust horrors. I read through many old entries to see how obsessed I have been and actually, I can see that yes, this is a thread running through some of my entries, but only about 20% of my blog. About 80% is about other 'mishigas', other forms of madness with which I indulge myself. It is an inescapable fact that my history is my history. If I don't look at it, it will not change. It does not disappear. Looking back over the blog entries I see that rather than being obsessed with the awfulness of my parents' past, I have been able to distill a genuine amount of strength from it. I am really pleased that I have been able to transform the genetic trauma I inherited into real spirit inside me that has stood me in good stead for many years. We all take our strength from somewhere and my Jewish heritage is one of the places that feeds the positive side of me.
Over the past year I have renewed my old friendships with my friends in Holland. I have visited the Humaniversity in Egmond three or four times and totally enjoyed working and spending time with friends. It has become a home from home. I have visited my dad three times in eleven months and watched him slide into dementia. This has been a source of sadness for me, but touched with such great love. I have met and made some new friends and at my age this is fantastic. My health has been surprisingly good (I can even say this out loud without feeling that the heavens are going to fall in) and my life is going well.
I will continue over the next couple of weeks to look back over the year and reflect on my present. I am not depressed. This is a revelation. It's deepest winter here. The temperature is way below zero, the days are incredibly short and I'm snuggled up at home with a hot cup of tea. I'm enjoying the sense of safety that I've been able to acknowledge this year. I'm enjoying the fact that I'm getting older and better. Life is giving me a lot of gifts right now and at this very moment in time, I'm more ready to accept them.
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