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.

Early morning in Connecticut

The house is still quiet. I'm all packed, ready to fly out tonight and resume normal service back in London tomorrow morning. It's been a fine visit.  My father is still hanging in there and is rapidly descending into a world that I can't access with him anymore.  This is no different to my expectations, so feels alright.

Yesterday I had an interesting day having a new experience of New England. Driving into Massachusetts, where the trees are beginning to change colours and the churches look like something out of a Hollywood film set, was delightful.  We (my brother, sister-in-law and I) went to someplace called the Yankee Candle Factory which advertises itself as the 'Scenter of the Universe'.An interesting place to visit for someone with allergies.

After walking through a giant sales floor selling thousands of candles in varieties like popcorn, mango and passion fruit and clean linen, amongst hundreds of other scents, my olfactory sense had luckily just about closed down.  We then went on to a candy shoppe(!) where they sold gigantic apples dipped in caramel, coated in chocolate and then covered in mini-sweets.  People seemed to be queuing up to buy this stuff.  I resisted all this chocolate temptation and felt quite righteous.

After a good meal and a walk and wander round Amherst I could see the appeal of the small town life, but it's not for me.  I'm a city dweller and the buzz, dirt, mixed ethnicity and diversity of London is where I am most comfortable.  I do feel different here.  I understand the word 'alien' as it applies to new immigrants or visitors.  I do feel out of this world and a bit odd.  I also have to admit to a certain amount of smug superiority, of which I am only slightly ashamed. I am uninvolved in the American way of life and happy to leave it.

If not for my family here, I don't think I would visit anymore. I know there are beautiful places in the US, but the rest of the world is so much more interesting.  Walking through this candle place yesterday I watched people buying dozens of expensive scented candles, tchotchkis for their homes and assorted unnecessary crap, whilst the country bemoans a deficient health service, rising unemployment and the alienation of the younger generation.  Something is not right somewhere.

Today I will visit my dad before setting off for the airport.  For the past year I have wondered if this time will be the last time I see him.  I know he's no longer really my dad.  His spirit and vitality left him this year, but in there somewhere is the man who gave me so much love and cared so strongly and faithfully for my brother and me, that I can't really see this wheelchair-bound, little old man in any other way. I know that his life has little quality left.  His mind has gone and his survivor-infused body refuses to follow.  My wish is that we both go gently in our travels.

Living in limbo

I travel alot.  My family lives in America, my friends all over the world and i also like travelling and seeing new places.  Yesterday I was in Denver airport, watching people in cowboy hats, women in bizarrely bright coloured clothing and lots of huge fat bellied men (and women).  I realised that I could stop and look at whoever and whatever I wanted.  I was alone and had no one I needed to turn to for permission, or turn to in conversation. 

I suddenly had an overwhelming sense of aloneness and an unreal sense of non-existence.  If I spoke to no one, interacted with people as little as possible, I realised I felt as if I wasn't really there.  Odd feeling, that.  It extends into today. 

Suddenly I feel like none of this matters.  All the travel, seeing family, shopping - it all feels a bit empty.  I feel suffused with feelings that I have no real outlet for.  When I'm home with Ralph I can really talk with him.  I get feedback from him and get to clarify a lot through our conversations.  For the past weeks I have felt like I've spoken a lot of words but said very little.  This is unsettling.

I saw my father this morning and I found that so, so sad.  He looks more frail than he did a few months ago and he really is not reachable anymore.  He either stares expresssionlessly out into the distance or he babbles in a mixture of Yiddish and English.  I didn't expect that he would knw me and he didn't.  I don't think he even knew I was there at all.  Even though I told myself I was prepared for that, it still made me unbearably sad.  I just kept looking at this frail, old man in a wheelchair and remembered the strong, vital dad he used to be.  For my own sake I need to let go of the old image for the next few days.  It gets me nowhere.

I'll go back and see him again this afternoon.  I told him I loved him and I did get a response. He said 'Me too", that was enough.