Early morning wake-up call...

After a fantastic few hours of sleep, I am awake!  With a jolt and sudden alertness that I don't want and didn't order.  It takes me a moment and I realise that I'm awake obsessing about some work I promised to do and have sent off by Monday.  I have no desire or inclination to do this work and certainly have no desire to get up at 5am to do it.

I continue to lie in my warm bed, it's dark outside and the heating hasn't come on yet so the room is decidedly chilly.  The work I have to do is whirling round and round in my head.  I plan the changes I need to make to documents, the case studies I need to write and the information I need to compile.  I go through this plan at least twice and hope that I will fall asleep again for a few more hours. I also remember that today is the day my internet provider changes.  This means that there will be (I have been promised!) a seamless change from one company to another with perhaps a few hours of interrupted service.

I am out of bed like a shot.  I cannot rely on having the internet ever again and this work needs to be sent off to my client as soon as possible. 

So, here I am, at 7 am, work finished, internet supposedly working for another few hours and I have a profound sense of relief that this long-promised work is finally done.  How easy was that?  I have spent a couple of weeks obsessing about this work.  I put it off and put it off because I really didn't feel excited by doing this and now - simple as that - it's done!

Being a responsible adult is easy.  It involves doing the things you promise.  This is not so easy for me.  My default position in life is one of excuses and delay. 'I'll clean my clothes up tomorrow, I'll return my library books tomorrow, I'll phone to renew my insurance tomorrow', etc., etc. I am a procrastinator par excellence. 

For over 61 years this has worked fine for me.  I give the impression to the outside world of being capable and responsible, but in reality I want to do absolutely and totally nothing.  I manage to get by by doing as little as possible.  When I was a student I would always adopt the position of doing what was needed to get reasonably good grades.  I was never willing to put in the hard slog or even a bit more work to get the best grades.  Good was always fine, great was not needed. Especially if there was any effort involved.

How would my life look if I stopped being so lazy?  Would I be extraordinary instead of pretty good?  Would I 'fulfill my potential' finally?  Would I be any happier?  I think I might be.  the more thought I put into this the more I believe that I frustrate myself by not being the best I can be.  It's not about doing more.  I do a lot, it's about being a more committed person. Commitment to myself is what I mean, not to others.  I let myself down a lot.  I leave things to the last minute and then only do the minimum.  I coast along through life by being  good  enough, fit for purpose.

I also suddenly see the down side to changing this.  If I really try, if I put myself out there and work hard or commit myself totally to something, I might fail. I might not be able to achieve the things I imagine.  If I never try hard, I never risk much and I don't fail in such a big way.  No risk, no humiliation. This fear has been with me for as long as I can remember.  Even as a little kid I hated failure and I think somewhere along the way I decided to never be seen to care that much.  Being fine was fine, being spectacular was much more frightening. Maybe it's time to let that go?
 
I know have the possibility of greatness.  This sounds awfully grandiose and I don't mean it in that way.  I mean greatness of heart, greatness of spirit and generosity of self. This is exciting.  It conjures up images of creativity and spirituality in a more complete way than I normally allow. 

This morning I feel  inspired by being responsible - responding to myself and the person I am deep down under the TV watching lazy person I also am.  Now if I could only resist the urge to go back to sleep for the next four months of so I might be able to begin.

Moody Cow!

I was just called a moody cow by my beloved husband.  I am not a moody cow. I am a woman who has been on her feet working, having  left the house at 6.45 am and arrived home at 6 pm in no mood to talk, communicate, cook, relate or do anything other than watch bad TV. I do not even want to watch any highbrow, worthy culture programmes,  just crap.  Don't talk to me, don't look at me and above all, don't ask me for anything!  Does that quality as being moody? Does it qualify in any shape or form as cow-like?

The day went well. My course felt better. I tightened up the structure of the day and was very happy with how it panned out.  Right now I am tired.  So tired that this moody cow is not going to write anymore today.  I am not at all a moody cow, but I am a bit of a raging  bull tonight, so watch out!

Fading away

In 1947 it was calculated that there were about 900,000 Holocaust survivors living.  Now there are fewer than 190,000.  The numbers are reducing fast as the survivors themselves age.  We are losing their living history.  There are a number of survivor witnessing groups that are attempting to record the testimony of this dwindling number as quickly as possible and I fully understand the urgency around this. The clock is ticking.

This morning I watching a video clip of a woman named Alice Herz-Sommer, she is 106 years old and is the world's oldest survivor of the Holocaust.  Remarkably her mind is completely clear and even more remarkably, so is her heart.  I took real inspiration from watching the film of this little old lady, who in her heavily accented English, described her time in the concentration camp, Theresienstadt.  Alice reckoned that one of the things that kept her alive was music and she still sits at the piano and plays with great skill today.  I was particularly touched by the complete absence of resentment or hatred in this little woman.  She seems to have completely understood the concept of forgiveness and the idea that hatred that lives in your heart only poisons you.

I used to believe that forgiveness, true, genuine forgiveness was invented by the new age movement, having co-opted it from religious belief.  As I get older I experience the letting go and freedom that forgiveness brings, absent of religion or organised thought or any promise of release offered by so many new age teachers.  I am learning to trust my internal wise woman and also learning to listen to her.  When, as I did today, I experience a wave of sentimentality or sadness, I can hear it now.  I can begin to look at what is underneath those feelings.

Today, watching Alice talk about her past and reminisce about the role of music in her life, I very much missed my dad.  Th last time I saw him there was no real interaction between us, but now I see that that wasn't true.  As long as I could touch him and see him and remember in my mind and heart  who he was, there was interaction.  True that I can no longer ask him about his life, or even try to record his childhood pre-war history, but so what.  I have years of history with my father.  I have a wealth of wonderful, funny, touching times that I can recall. It's also true that I don't know where or when my dad went to school, or learned his trade.  I don't even really know the full story of how he met my mum, though I have a mythologised version that I carry around.  It's as if his life started for me when I started for him and maybe that's the only way it can be for any of us.

Last week I thought about how my life with Ralph seems to have been my whole life, that there was hardly anything before him and I guess that's how it has to be with my father.  He was never one to look back, to remember his life before the war.  He survived the war not  because of a passion for music, as Alice did, but because of a fiery burning passion for life.  My dad was always smiling. He never had to work at forgiving  because I believe he never spent time hating, it wasn't his way.

Yesterday my brother told me my father was a bit more responsive and seemed to be chattering away to himself in Polish.  He also laughed to himself.  When my brother asked him why he was laughing, he answered, 'it's funny'.  I liked hearing that.  Now that my father can't really relate to the world outside at all, he can still relate to himself.  The self that sustained him for so many years apparently still has the ability to amuse him.

These survivors, every last one of them, are extraordinary people. L'chaim.

In the wee small hours of the morning...

Lying in bed, at about 5 am, spooned next to Ralph, I started to remember him.  This wasn't as strange as it sounds. I thought about all the years we've been together and all the many adventures we've had.  The memories could not have been sweeter.  I was warm and sleepy and thinking about how I knew all of him, his lumps and bumps and body and just all of him. I thought about how absolutely safe I felt lying next to him  knowing that we are so much there for each other. I snuggled in and dozed off for another hour or two just plain happy.

How wonderful it is to have allowed myself to love someone so completely and for so long. How lucky I am to be with someone who allows himself to be loved in such an open way.  I never imagined this.  As a little girl I never had white wedding fantasies.  I was a pretty rejecting, aggressive little kid.  I never really let people get very close to me and I was so very suspicious of those who tried.  I had boyfriends, not that many really since I met Ralph when I was only 19, but I never really had any intimacy.  I always felt as if I had one eye open all the time scanning the horizon for any threats.  I know that I was hard to get close to and I am even more in awe of Ralph for traversing that minefield.

So many anniversaries, so many parties, gifts and dinners out.  They all add up to some good memories, but they are not the most memorable things we have together.  The depth of our relationship is what counts and I still feel that though I know this man I am with, there is always more.  I love that he still has the power to surprise me.

When I stand  back and reflect on these 41 years I am astounded, astounded that I lasted this long, that I didn't run at any point when I felt frightened of where things were going between us, astounded that Ralph stayed, that I could be such a harridan and mostly he laughs and just sighs a lot and waits me out.  Eventually the Cynthia that we both know is in there returns and reciprocates his love.  Astounded that in today's world I have a marriage that is so strong.  Even as I write this, I get a bit scared that I'll jinx it by saying it out loud, but I think the marriage gods have long stopped focussing on us old folks and are busy elsewhere.

I'm just going to cook a heimish dinner for the two of us - roast chicken, potatoes, roast veg and apple crumble.  Nothing fancy, no Masterchef today, just a down-to-earth good meal that we can share.

I am once again aware of how blessed I am.

Time flies when you're having fun...

The first day of November – the first weekday when the clocks are back and the sun sets at 16.30.  The days will continue to get shorter now for the next two months.  Two months. That used to sound so long to me.  Two months was the length of my summer vacation when I was a kid.  School ended at the end of June and we went back at the beginning of September.  When I was young this seemed like forever.  Certainly it was long enough to get bored and wish the summer away. Two months, eight weeks, over 56 days, wow, what an endless length of time and now, well now two months seem to fly by.

As I get older I see that time compresses. Everything goes faster. Days are gone before I have even thought about what to do with them.  Months disappear in the wintry dusk and years, well years pass so effortlessly that I am stunned when I catch my reflection in a mirror and I seem to have aged overnight.  When did my kids grow so old, when did I grow so old?  When did my marriage get so mature? Like old cheese my marriage has reached an incredible point of ripeness.  Like wine, it has aged well and is still sparkling and packs quite a punch.  Forty-one years tomorrow since I left my parents’ apartment in the Bronx to marry this English semi-stranger.  Forty-one years since I walked down the aisle of the synagogue in a super-cool white mini-dress that my dad made for me. Forty-one years since we ran through the streets of Manhattan drunk on someone else’s champagne and the joy of being young, in love and in New York.  Forty-one years since I discovered that the man I had married had a wonderful sense of humour and fun.  Forty-one years since we stole a lifetime’s worth of art supplies from the prestigious architects Ralph worked for. Forty-one years since we both said ‘I do’ and obviously really meant it. It almost seems impossible to contemplate and also feels like just yesterday when I looked into Ralph’s eyes and knew deep in my bones that he was ‘the one’.

Occasionally I have entertained the idea of renewing our vows.  This has become fashionable lately and is often a way of having a great party that perhaps you missed first time round and an excuse to stand up in front of friends and family and re-affirm mutual commitments. My brief fantasies about doing this are not so I can re-commit to the meshuganah I married, that’s guaranteed, but so I can orchestrate another party.  I have fantasies that include enormous cakes, great music, starlight, beautiful surroundings and general Gatsby-ish romantic dreams.  Feh! Not at all what I want to do.

I think the cake fantasy is especially strong today since daylight seemed at such a premium.  I was drawn to my bed and indeed, today I spent only about six hours on my feet.  I slept and slept as if infected by the tse-tse fly of darkness.  And like the tse-tse fly mosquito, my mind refused to settle on anything.  I could not decide what to do and when I looked at the list of things I had to do, I realised I had no motivation to do any of it.  Like a mosquito I flitted from one thing to another and eventually landed in bed.  I slept for three hours this afternoon and vow that in future I’ll find more exciting things to do with my few hours of daylight.

So for tomorrow, my wedding anniversary, I think I’ll go and buy myself some new clothes, make a nice dinner, light some candles and try to stay awake.  Only two more months before the days start getting longer.  It’ll go in the blink of an eye.

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.