11 Things
What are 11 things your life doesn’t need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life?
(Prompt Author: Sam Davidson)
~
Oh wow! 11 things on December 11th for 2011. How neat!
Ok that’s enough of that. It sounded wrong, didn’t it? You see, being all twinkly and jolly just doesn’t suit me. The funny thing is, if I’d been doing this last year I probably would’ve been responding in the way that the prompt authors intend. I’ve been a goody two-shoes for most of my life, doing what I’m told or what I think people expect of me in order to get that pat on the back/head and be accepted into the fold and then promptly forgotten for being so obedient. Apparently it was all in a desperate and futile attempt to gain my mother’s approval. A habit I have only been able to let go of this year. So really, it’s a breakthrough for me to write in the way that I have been – saying what I really mean and not being afraid to do so. (I know, I know, that almost sounded like the kind of emotional confession one might have heard on a talk show but fear not, I am still very much here.)
So, this project is not what I expected it to be, but it has certainly got me thinking. And just because I’m not writing in the rose-tinted style that the reverb10 team seem to prefer, it doesn’t mean that I am not also baring my heart. (I write this in response to Gwen Bell’s comment on my Party post.) I’m just not being quite so obvious about it.
Ok, so on with the prompt. The first thing I thought of that I wanted to eliminate, not in 2011, but in the moment that I received the email with the prompt (along with a photo of the author) was this: your face. Not YOUR face, but Sam Davidson’s face. I just don’t like it. Maybe that isn’t fair, but it was my honest first response.
Then I clicked on the link provided that inevitably took me to a book on Amazon. At first I was hopeful. (And I still live in hope that the prompt authors we were told we would be surprised by might include "real authors" with names like Dave Eggers or Barbara Kingsolver...it's my shiny dream, please don't take it away from me.) Anyway, I clicked and was hopeful. Maybe it’s not a self-help book, I thought. After all, it’s got a grey cover and has a picture of a trash can on it. This appeals to the wanna-be minimalist in me. I’ve never been able to rid my life of clutter. Maybe this prompt wasn’t going to be so bad after all…
So I clicked to look inside the book (because I like to know where the authors are really coming from), and I was not vomiting. One of the chapters in his book even talks about getting rid of extra cheese. And another even suggests getting rid of his very book. I almost started to feel cheerful. Then I saw the title of his concluding chapter. He has three words for you. “Find your passion.” That's when I let go of the straws. I should have known really, because of the three words he mentions in the prompt: “change your life.” I have three words too. Oh not again. I’m now adding passion to the list of swear words I try never to use (the first one was fashion – hey look, they rhyme!)
Oooooh, I feel a list coming on.
11 things I will not be saying in 2011
1. I have to have this, it’s so fashionable / hot / NOW.
2. I am not dossing about, I’m trying to find my passion.
3. I’m giving it my all.
4. I’m giving it 110, or even, 111%
5. Doing ______ has changed my life.
6. You should try _______ , it will change your life.
7. The mileage on this is amazing.
8. I just found the most wonderful insurance policy.
9. I think I’ll take up running.
10. Let’s start saving so we can send Jake to an exclusive private school.
11. Aren’t the LibDems doing a wonderful job? It’s such a shame I didn’t vote for them in the last election.
~
On a more “serious” note, I did consider making a list of 11 “things”* to eliminate from my life (see footnote for the dizzying array of “things” I could select), but 1) the word eliminate makes me think of taking a crap and 2) I find it too calculating and premature to try to name 11 “things” to get rid of during the whole of next year, not least because the number 11 has been picked out in such a nauseating way, but also because it will feel too much like “things” I must force myself to get rid of, so I’m not going to do it. If and when it feels right, I’ll do it for my own reasons and not because some stranger who knows nothing about me or my “passion” tells me to. (It’s ok, it’s still 2010, I have another 20 days to bandy these words about).
As for my life, I'm perplexed as to why it's referred to as if it is something independent of me (see prompt, above and replace the words your life with your pet, for example...now that could be an interesting exercise). I’m also utterly sick and tired of hearing about all the wonderful things I can do to change it. I’m 38 years old, the past is gone, the future is yet to come, and presently, I’m sitting in my pajamas, typing. The present is all any of us have to work with and life itself constantly changes in its flux and flow. So, to me, taking a breath – that is “life changing.” Answering “yes” to my son when he asks me, “Mummy, are you happy?” that is “life changing.” Tasting every sip of my Earl Grey tea, that is “life changing.” Going to the bathroom to take care of my bodily functions – yep, you guessed it, that’s “life changing” too. Speaking of which, off I now go, to change my life. I predict that it’s gonna smell great.
* thing (from Dictionary.com)
[thing]
–noun
1. a material object without life or consciousness; an inanimate object.
2. some entity, object, or creature that is not or cannot be specifically designated or precisely described: The stick had a brass thing on it.
3. anything that is or may become an object of thought: things of the spirit.
4. things, matters; affairs: Things are going well now.
5. a fact, circumstance, or state of affairs: It is a curious thing.
6. an action, deed, event, or performance: to do great things; His death was a horrible thing.
7. a particular, respect, or detail: perfect in all things.
8. aim; objective: The thing is to reach this line with the ball.
9. an article of clothing: I don't have a thing to wear.
10. things,
a. implements, utensils, or other articles for service: I'll wash the breakfast things.
b. personal possessions or belongings: Pack your things and go!
11. a task; chore: I've got a lot of things to do today.
12. a living being or creature: His baby's a cute little thing.
13. a thought or statement: I have just one thing to say to you.
14. Informal . a peculiar attitude or feeling, either positive or negative, toward something; mental quirk: She has a thing about cats.
15. something signified or represented, as distinguished from a word, symbol, or idea representing it.
16. Law . anything that may be the subject of a property right.
17. new thing, Jazz . free jazz.
18. the thing,
a. something that is correct or fashionable: That café is the thing now.
b. that which is expedient or necessary: The thing to do is to tell them the truth.
—Idioms
19. do / find one's own thing, Informal . to pursue a lifestyle that expresses one's self. Also, do / find one's thing.
20. make a good thing of, Informal . to turn (a situation, experience, etc.) to one's own profit; benefit by: She made a good thing of her spare-time hobbies.
21. not to get a thing out of,
a. to be unable to obtain information or news from: The police couldn't get a thing out of him.
b. to fail to appreciate, understand, or derive aesthetic pleasure from: My wife likes opera, but I don't get a thing out of it.
22. see / hearthings, Informal . to have hallucinations.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Moon Lotus winners...
Since there were only three commenters on my giveaway post, I'm gonna send postcards to all of you.
Thanks for entering. I'll be contacting you for your snail mail addresses soon!
Thanks for entering. I'll be contacting you for your snail mail addresses soon!
reverb10: wisdom (give me strength...)
Wisdom.
What was the wisest decision you made this year, and how did it play out?
(Prompt Author: Susannah Conway)
~
Anyone else feeling the urge to self-harm in the face of such relentless urging to self-help? Only when I was going through the worst relationship of my life did I want to gouge my eyes out as much as I do now. And that’s what this is starting to feel like – getting into a relationship that seemed like a good idea at the time, but, with every passing day, feeling more like I unwittingly accepted an invitation to join a cult.
I went through a period in my 20’s when I’d just abandoned religion and was looking for something to replace it, something less damning, less blind and rigid, more truthful, joyful, real. I spent a few months reading new age and self-help books on numerous subjects which I have since blocked from consciousness. Thankfully I didn’t find what I was looking for and am much happier for it. But now I am having disturbing flashbacks. I’ve since guarded my suspicion of self-help gurus rather fiercely and I haven’t yet found any evidence not to.
If I’d known that reverb10 would turn out to be SUCH a schmaltzy lovefest of self-appointed self-help gurus, I would have run the other way. I had such high hopes of being challenged as a writer and a person. And in some ways I have been, but it remains to be seen whether those challenges will ultimately be enriching.
So I am wavering. There’s a fine line between sticking it out to see what’s still to come and wasting my time. I do, after all, have other writing I want to do. For the moment though, I’m still on the sticking it out side of the line (though the perusal of the websites of the prompt authors to come do not give me any hope), if only because I hate to be a quitter but also because I feel the need to dig my heels in and rebel (or throw a tantrum) against the all the cheese that is oozing out all over the shop. If I’d had any doubts about the extent of the oozing, reading the reverb10 team’s three favourite posts from the project so far (links were emailed to us this week) completely extinguished them. All three posts were full of gushing admiration for the reverb10 team and how wonderful the whole project is. If they are going to continue in this vein, they really ought to be providing us with sick bags.
And now to today’s prompt. I find it, in a word, facile. First because, if anybody knew they were making a wise decision when they were making it, then it follows that they can only have believed that it panned out for the best.
Second, I don’t believe anyone but the grossest narcissist makes decisions thinking that they are wise. (And I am not talking about the use of the word wise to describe a thrifty purchase or some such act.) You can delude yourself into thinking that your choices are full of wisdom, or you can desperately hope that they are, but that’s not the same thing. I’m inclined to believe that you can only see wisdom in retrospect, and furthermore that you can only hope to call it wisdom after a lifetime of dedicated, true and mindful inquiry and practice. And even then, you would probably not be rushing to label yourself or your decisions as such, though others might. Do you think any of the people that have been held up as wise over the years have done so – Confucius, the Buddha, the Dalai Lama, to name a few?
I also don’t believe decisions or the decision making process is that black and white. Even if you sit down and make a list of all the things you must decide, there is a backdrop of angst-ridden uncertainty and grey thorny emotion (or at least there is for me), behind all the ones that really matter. Also, every act, thought, desire, decision is interlinked with ones that have gone before (as well as all the might-have-been's and weren't-meant-to-be's) and once actions or decisions are carried out, they go on to affect and be affected by the countless acts and decisions of others. How can you single one out and name it wise? And why would you want to? Whatever you describe your actions to be, they remain what they are. You aren't the only judge. Can you truly see and know the full repercussions of your actions?
Finally, if it were possible at all, I don’t see how reflecting on a wise decision is supposed to be helpful, except as an exercise in public self-congratulation. Wouldn’t it be a better learning experience to reflect on an unwise one instead?
So here’s one of mine – the decision to continue to participate in this project. Will I end up regretting it? Or can I reverse it from an apparently unwise decision to at least a not-as-bad-as-it-could’ve-been experience? Perhaps I can. But there's only so much schmaltz a person can take. And at xmas time to boot. Please oh please let me be proved wrong about my gut-wrenching suspicion that the 25th day prompt will be about how Santa Claus really does exist and how he’s there every day of our lives and not just for xmas.
I'm clearly going to have to fortify myself with large doses of darkness and depravity. Fassbinder or Lars von Trier movie marathon anyone?
What was the wisest decision you made this year, and how did it play out?
(Prompt Author: Susannah Conway)
~
Anyone else feeling the urge to self-harm in the face of such relentless urging to self-help? Only when I was going through the worst relationship of my life did I want to gouge my eyes out as much as I do now. And that’s what this is starting to feel like – getting into a relationship that seemed like a good idea at the time, but, with every passing day, feeling more like I unwittingly accepted an invitation to join a cult.
I went through a period in my 20’s when I’d just abandoned religion and was looking for something to replace it, something less damning, less blind and rigid, more truthful, joyful, real. I spent a few months reading new age and self-help books on numerous subjects which I have since blocked from consciousness. Thankfully I didn’t find what I was looking for and am much happier for it. But now I am having disturbing flashbacks. I’ve since guarded my suspicion of self-help gurus rather fiercely and I haven’t yet found any evidence not to.
If I’d known that reverb10 would turn out to be SUCH a schmaltzy lovefest of self-appointed self-help gurus, I would have run the other way. I had such high hopes of being challenged as a writer and a person. And in some ways I have been, but it remains to be seen whether those challenges will ultimately be enriching.
So I am wavering. There’s a fine line between sticking it out to see what’s still to come and wasting my time. I do, after all, have other writing I want to do. For the moment though, I’m still on the sticking it out side of the line (though the perusal of the websites of the prompt authors to come do not give me any hope), if only because I hate to be a quitter but also because I feel the need to dig my heels in and rebel (or throw a tantrum) against the all the cheese that is oozing out all over the shop. If I’d had any doubts about the extent of the oozing, reading the reverb10 team’s three favourite posts from the project so far (links were emailed to us this week) completely extinguished them. All three posts were full of gushing admiration for the reverb10 team and how wonderful the whole project is. If they are going to continue in this vein, they really ought to be providing us with sick bags.
And now to today’s prompt. I find it, in a word, facile. First because, if anybody knew they were making a wise decision when they were making it, then it follows that they can only have believed that it panned out for the best.
Second, I don’t believe anyone but the grossest narcissist makes decisions thinking that they are wise. (And I am not talking about the use of the word wise to describe a thrifty purchase or some such act.) You can delude yourself into thinking that your choices are full of wisdom, or you can desperately hope that they are, but that’s not the same thing. I’m inclined to believe that you can only see wisdom in retrospect, and furthermore that you can only hope to call it wisdom after a lifetime of dedicated, true and mindful inquiry and practice. And even then, you would probably not be rushing to label yourself or your decisions as such, though others might. Do you think any of the people that have been held up as wise over the years have done so – Confucius, the Buddha, the Dalai Lama, to name a few?
I also don’t believe decisions or the decision making process is that black and white. Even if you sit down and make a list of all the things you must decide, there is a backdrop of angst-ridden uncertainty and grey thorny emotion (or at least there is for me), behind all the ones that really matter. Also, every act, thought, desire, decision is interlinked with ones that have gone before (as well as all the might-have-been's and weren't-meant-to-be's) and once actions or decisions are carried out, they go on to affect and be affected by the countless acts and decisions of others. How can you single one out and name it wise? And why would you want to? Whatever you describe your actions to be, they remain what they are. You aren't the only judge. Can you truly see and know the full repercussions of your actions?
Finally, if it were possible at all, I don’t see how reflecting on a wise decision is supposed to be helpful, except as an exercise in public self-congratulation. Wouldn’t it be a better learning experience to reflect on an unwise one instead?
So here’s one of mine – the decision to continue to participate in this project. Will I end up regretting it? Or can I reverse it from an apparently unwise decision to at least a not-as-bad-as-it-could’ve-been experience? Perhaps I can. But there's only so much schmaltz a person can take. And at xmas time to boot. Please oh please let me be proved wrong about my gut-wrenching suspicion that the 25th day prompt will be about how Santa Claus really does exist and how he’s there every day of our lives and not just for xmas.
I'm clearly going to have to fortify myself with large doses of darkness and depravity. Fassbinder or Lars von Trier movie marathon anyone?
Thursday, December 09, 2010
What's this?
Later, pushing him on the swings in the playground, I thought about what to say to him about Santa when he inevitably pops up again. “He brings you presents on xmas day if you are good,” just doesn’t sit well with me, not least because the one thing I don’t ever want to do to Jake is lie to him, not even about the small things. But I didn’t come up with anything better and pushed the worry aside for another day.
Then, some friends on facebook posted a link to this post on the blog Parenting beyond belief.
I like his point of view but I still can’t imagine myself pretending that Santa is real. I can, however, present it as a story that a lot of people tell. I would do that about religious beliefs anyway, so why not Santa. And when he’s older, he can decide for himself whether to believe it or not. Is it so farfetched an approach anyway, given the many characters and stories, not least in advertising, that children are bombarded with these days? Why should Santa be any more real than Shrek?
Taken by Jake
I really love this photo taken by my 2 year old. I see in it his firm stance in the world, little feet and all, and I'm so proud.
reverb10: Party (oh good grief...)
Party.
What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans.
(Prompt Author: Shauna Reid)
~
Disclaimer: Due to the continuing cheesy self-helpness and/or annoying inaneness of the prompts that have been emerging of late, I'm being forced to respond in the only way that I know how short of abandoning this project altogether. If things don't change soon, I will be renaming it Things That Make My Arse Twitch. If you are averse to cynicism, bitterness or bad language, don't bother reading any further. Go read something dull and inoffensive instead.
~
I think it’s fair to say that, for much of British & North American society, the word ‘Party’ necessarily and automatically means alcohol, bad music, more alcohol and acts of idiocy fuelled by as much alcohol as possible. Calling them shenanigans, I suppose, is a way to make them appear more charming than they actually are. This is all in the name of “fun”, and anybody who does not partake in such activities is viewed with great suspicion and cast out with mocking more fervent than that shown for any religious or political cause. For there seems to be no religion more feverishly practiced than the religion of “fun”, except of course Consumerism.
I don’t drink and the gene for small talk skipped me over. According to some, I'm a (GASP...wait for it...GULP) Party Pooper. It's true. I don’t do parties and I wear my badge of social outcast with a touch of pride. There is little worse than being the only sober person amongst a hoard of drunk party goers, convinced of their own charm, sex appeal, intelligence, talent for singing, sense of humour, happiness, love of all mankind and invincibility while under the influence of alcohol. Perfectly likeable people with whom I’d normally be able to hold a cogent, interesting, thought-provoking conversation become babbling strangers. Also, herd mentalities scare me. People behave differently when they are gathered in groups. Even without the inclusion of alcohol the word group makes me shudder.
I prefer to be with lucid people on a one-to-one basis. I prefer to enjoy music of my own choosing at a reasonable decibel. I prefer not to have to clean vomit or red wine out of the carpets of the flat I’m renting. Even these days, now that I’m older and the parties I may get invited to no longer involve vomit or shenanigans, I find it hard to be polite when faced with inanity. When I don’t like someone or something, it’s very clear. I’m no good at fake-smiling and pretend-liking and faux-flattery. I cannot talk about the property market or mortgages or designer furniture like it’s the be all and end all of my existence. Honestly, I find farts more amusing. So I have a tendency to be silent – which is the worst possible thing you could be at a Partaaaayyyyy. Because everyone suddenly feels the need to draw you in or ask you if you’re okay with a look that confirms their suspicion of your mental illness. Not that I’ve had a great deal of experience of this because, thankfully, I haven’t been to a Partaaayyyyy in a long time.
It’s a “nice” attempt at inclusivity for the prompt author to also word it as a “social gathering” and to write drink instead of booze, but I know what she really means, not least because it’s not a glass of Ribena she’s holding in her photo. (And let's not even get started on the phrase "rock your socks off". Even my arse is cringing at that.)
But even if I'd been fooled by that, I could not be fooled by the instruction to write about the clothes. In my mind, this cannot be justified in any way (fashion is the only swear word I try never to use) unless it refers to fancy dress – and anyone that I would want to socialise with knows that the only fancy dress that really counts is one that involves a small child and a costume made out of cardboard, string, toilet paper and cut-up pairs of old pants.
So I’m betting Shauna's definition does not include any of the “social gatherings” that I have attended this year, all of which included children (GASP!), yes, NUMEROUS children UNDER THE AGE OF 3, complete with sticky digits, mucky chops and loud voices, running around with gleeful abandon, some of them barefoot, many of them also naked or clad in nappies, OUTDOORS, in a PARK, being allowed to be themselves and feed themselves (the food was laid out on the ground and later demolished by pigeons) and climb into slimy fountains and splash each other and then fall over in sand and come running to embrace the nearest adult they belonged to for comfort kisses and cuggles. Which is a shame, because I actually enjoyed one or two of those this year. In fact, they are probably the best “parties” I’ve ever been to. And not a glass of booze or designer frock in sight.
What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans.
(Prompt Author: Shauna Reid)
~
Disclaimer: Due to the continuing cheesy self-helpness and/or annoying inaneness of the prompts that have been emerging of late, I'm being forced to respond in the only way that I know how short of abandoning this project altogether. If things don't change soon, I will be renaming it Things That Make My Arse Twitch. If you are averse to cynicism, bitterness or bad language, don't bother reading any further. Go read something dull and inoffensive instead.
~
I think it’s fair to say that, for much of British & North American society, the word ‘Party’ necessarily and automatically means alcohol, bad music, more alcohol and acts of idiocy fuelled by as much alcohol as possible. Calling them shenanigans, I suppose, is a way to make them appear more charming than they actually are. This is all in the name of “fun”, and anybody who does not partake in such activities is viewed with great suspicion and cast out with mocking more fervent than that shown for any religious or political cause. For there seems to be no religion more feverishly practiced than the religion of “fun”, except of course Consumerism.
I don’t drink and the gene for small talk skipped me over. According to some, I'm a (GASP...wait for it...GULP) Party Pooper. It's true. I don’t do parties and I wear my badge of social outcast with a touch of pride. There is little worse than being the only sober person amongst a hoard of drunk party goers, convinced of their own charm, sex appeal, intelligence, talent for singing, sense of humour, happiness, love of all mankind and invincibility while under the influence of alcohol. Perfectly likeable people with whom I’d normally be able to hold a cogent, interesting, thought-provoking conversation become babbling strangers. Also, herd mentalities scare me. People behave differently when they are gathered in groups. Even without the inclusion of alcohol the word group makes me shudder.
I prefer to be with lucid people on a one-to-one basis. I prefer to enjoy music of my own choosing at a reasonable decibel. I prefer not to have to clean vomit or red wine out of the carpets of the flat I’m renting. Even these days, now that I’m older and the parties I may get invited to no longer involve vomit or shenanigans, I find it hard to be polite when faced with inanity. When I don’t like someone or something, it’s very clear. I’m no good at fake-smiling and pretend-liking and faux-flattery. I cannot talk about the property market or mortgages or designer furniture like it’s the be all and end all of my existence. Honestly, I find farts more amusing. So I have a tendency to be silent – which is the worst possible thing you could be at a Partaaaayyyyy. Because everyone suddenly feels the need to draw you in or ask you if you’re okay with a look that confirms their suspicion of your mental illness. Not that I’ve had a great deal of experience of this because, thankfully, I haven’t been to a Partaaayyyyy in a long time.
It’s a “nice” attempt at inclusivity for the prompt author to also word it as a “social gathering” and to write drink instead of booze, but I know what she really means, not least because it’s not a glass of Ribena she’s holding in her photo. (And let's not even get started on the phrase "rock your socks off". Even my arse is cringing at that.)
But even if I'd been fooled by that, I could not be fooled by the instruction to write about the clothes. In my mind, this cannot be justified in any way (fashion is the only swear word I try never to use) unless it refers to fancy dress – and anyone that I would want to socialise with knows that the only fancy dress that really counts is one that involves a small child and a costume made out of cardboard, string, toilet paper and cut-up pairs of old pants.
So I’m betting Shauna's definition does not include any of the “social gatherings” that I have attended this year, all of which included children (GASP!), yes, NUMEROUS children UNDER THE AGE OF 3, complete with sticky digits, mucky chops and loud voices, running around with gleeful abandon, some of them barefoot, many of them also naked or clad in nappies, OUTDOORS, in a PARK, being allowed to be themselves and feed themselves (the food was laid out on the ground and later demolished by pigeons) and climb into slimy fountains and splash each other and then fall over in sand and come running to embrace the nearest adult they belonged to for comfort kisses and cuggles. Which is a shame, because I actually enjoyed one or two of those this year. In fact, they are probably the best “parties” I’ve ever been to. And not a glass of booze or designer frock in sight.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Eeeeeek!!!
I've signed up for another project! No need to panic though, I have until May to complete it.
I came across this website via Geninne's blog. The Sketchbook Project is no longer open for participation, but The Fiction Project is.
The Art house Co-op is based in New York, but for most of the projects, anyone from anywhere in the world can take part. Once you sign up and pick a theme or have one assigned at random for you, they send you a notebook to fill based on the theme (the fiction one combines writing & art) by the deadline. You then send it back, all the books go on tour and are then entered into the Brooklyn Art Library for the public to look at. You do have to pay an entry fee but it isn't much, the project is entirely run by two people and solely funded by these fees, they receive no other funding, and what a fantastic opportunity to get your work out there.
You have until the 31st March 2011 to sign up for The Fiction Project. Anyone care to join me? Let me know if you do!!
I came across this website via Geninne's blog. The Sketchbook Project is no longer open for participation, but The Fiction Project is.
The Art house Co-op is based in New York, but for most of the projects, anyone from anywhere in the world can take part. Once you sign up and pick a theme or have one assigned at random for you, they send you a notebook to fill based on the theme (the fiction one combines writing & art) by the deadline. You then send it back, all the books go on tour and are then entered into the Brooklyn Art Library for the public to look at. You do have to pay an entry fee but it isn't much, the project is entirely run by two people and solely funded by these fees, they receive no other funding, and what a fantastic opportunity to get your work out there.
You have until the 31st March 2011 to sign up for The Fiction Project. Anyone care to join me? Let me know if you do!!
reverb10: Beautifully Different (or things that make me want to puke)
Beautifully Different.
Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.
(Prompt Author: Karen Walrond)
~
I do not like this prompt. In fact, I posted a response to it earlier that was a tad cynical and defensive. Then I decided to check Karen Walrond out, to see where she was coming from, and I felt sheepish about my first post (which I originally deleted but have decided to add to the bottom of this post.) Because she seems genuine and I'm grown up enough to admit that the defensiveness is possibly because thinking in the way that the prompt asks brings up all kinds of difficulty for me. Things I could probably fill a book with. So I'm going to sit with this difficulty for a while and see what it has to say to me.
I don't know if I will necessarily find or try to find what Karen asks us to. I'd prefer it to find me. Who can say what makes a person beautiful anyway. Eye of the beholder and all that. Also, I like not knowing what it is that "lights people up". Knowing might alter it somehow, or make it disappear. And I'm inclined to believe that the not knowing is the magic of it, the best part of it.
Also, some things that light some people up can make others scowl. Friends have told me they love my laugh (raucous) but my mother hates it. Some people like my twisted sense of humour, others not so much.
In the meantime, in an attempt to get into the spirit intended by the prompt, I leave you with this photo of me as a buck-toothed 10 year old with my cheeky 7 year old brother.
1: Oh Puke. Fingers down my throat GAG. Sphincter muscles working overtime in extreme ARSE TWITCHERY, second only to hearing James Blunt croaking out THAT friggin “tune”.
2: Seriously? Even my therapist wouldn’t ask me to do this.
3: Paul’s just gonna LOVE this one.
4: What else have they got in store? Surely there can't be much more of this. Are all the prompt authors going to be people with books to sell?
5: Ok, cynicism aside…what do I really think?
a) This feels just like an exercise to make unconventional / sidelined / overlooked people feel accepted.
b) As one of those people, my urge is to stick two fingers up and say Bog off, please don't patronise me.
c) I’m not fond of blowing my own trumpet. Doesn't mean I don't have one. So there.
d) What makes a person beautiful really. Eye of the beholder and all that. Sometimes, it’s something you’re not even aware of that “lights people up”. I'm inclined to believe that the not knowing is the magic of it, the best part of it.
e) If you look hard enough, you will find whatever it is you’re looking for, whether it’s there or not.
f) Maybe I’ll post a photo of myself as a bright and sparkly child. I had a most unique overbite.
g) True beauty speaks for itself. It doesn’t need an ad campaign or a PR consultant.
At heart, this prompt seems to be about self-esteem. But self-esteem comes from a place of unconditional acceptance and love, not from a list of things you can name that make you beautiful. To me, making such a list only serves to solidify superficial social prejudices. No matter who you are, whether you are or feel unique or different or ordinary or plain, you deserve happiness and you deserve love. Okay. Enough now. If I don’t stop, I shall disintegrate shrieking like the much maligned and terribly misunderstood Wicked Witch of The West.
Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.
(Prompt Author: Karen Walrond)
~
I do not like this prompt. In fact, I posted a response to it earlier that was a tad cynical and defensive. Then I decided to check Karen Walrond out, to see where she was coming from, and I felt sheepish about my first post (which I originally deleted but have decided to add to the bottom of this post.) Because she seems genuine and I'm grown up enough to admit that the defensiveness is possibly because thinking in the way that the prompt asks brings up all kinds of difficulty for me. Things I could probably fill a book with. So I'm going to sit with this difficulty for a while and see what it has to say to me.
I don't know if I will necessarily find or try to find what Karen asks us to. I'd prefer it to find me. Who can say what makes a person beautiful anyway. Eye of the beholder and all that. Also, I like not knowing what it is that "lights people up". Knowing might alter it somehow, or make it disappear. And I'm inclined to believe that the not knowing is the magic of it, the best part of it.
Also, some things that light some people up can make others scowl. Friends have told me they love my laugh (raucous) but my mother hates it. Some people like my twisted sense of humour, others not so much.
In the meantime, in an attempt to get into the spirit intended by the prompt, I leave you with this photo of me as a buck-toothed 10 year old with my cheeky 7 year old brother.
~
On second thought, I've decided to add my previously deleted post to this one. Whatever it is, it's what I felt at the time and do still feel. Here it is:
Here are my reactions to this prompt, as they occurred:
1: Oh Puke. Fingers down my throat GAG. Sphincter muscles working overtime in extreme ARSE TWITCHERY, second only to hearing James Blunt croaking out THAT friggin “tune”.
2: Seriously? Even my therapist wouldn’t ask me to do this.
3: Paul’s just gonna LOVE this one.
4: What else have they got in store? Surely there can't be much more of this. Are all the prompt authors going to be people with books to sell?
5: Ok, cynicism aside…what do I really think?
a) This feels just like an exercise to make unconventional / sidelined / overlooked people feel accepted.
b) As one of those people, my urge is to stick two fingers up and say Bog off, please don't patronise me.
c) I’m not fond of blowing my own trumpet. Doesn't mean I don't have one. So there.
d) What makes a person beautiful really. Eye of the beholder and all that. Sometimes, it’s something you’re not even aware of that “lights people up”. I'm inclined to believe that the not knowing is the magic of it, the best part of it.
e) If you look hard enough, you will find whatever it is you’re looking for, whether it’s there or not.
f) Maybe I’ll post a photo of myself as a bright and sparkly child. I had a most unique overbite.
g) True beauty speaks for itself. It doesn’t need an ad campaign or a PR consultant.
At heart, this prompt seems to be about self-esteem. But self-esteem comes from a place of unconditional acceptance and love, not from a list of things you can name that make you beautiful. To me, making such a list only serves to solidify superficial social prejudices. No matter who you are, whether you are or feel unique or different or ordinary or plain, you deserve happiness and you deserve love. Okay. Enough now. If I don’t stop, I shall disintegrate shrieking like the much maligned and terribly misunderstood Wicked Witch of The West.
reverb10: Community
Community.
Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011?
(Prompt Author: Cali Harris)
~
Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011?
(Prompt Author: Cali Harris)
~
 |
| The warm colours are areas of existing community the blues & greens are areas I'd like to develop or break into. |
Monday, December 06, 2010
reverb10 ~ Prompt six: Make (and a giveaway)
Make.
What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
(Prompt Author: Gretchen Rubin)
~
Apart from the drawing I made for yesterday’s prompt, the last thing I completed was a piece of embroidery, my first, based on a drawing I did of Jake’s first pair of shoes. I stitched it on a linen napkin square (bought cheap from Sainsbury’s), using black 6-strand embroidery floss.
Since then, I have been occupied with making lotuses. I’m currently working on two, a piece of lotus stitchery and a commissioned A3 drawing, a larger version of the Tangerine Moon Lotus listed in my etsy shop.
In the run up to xmas, now that we have decided to follow the “Giving not Buying” spirit of xmas partly inspired by this post at Zen Habits, I will need to clear some time to make some gifts which I naturally can’t write about here.
The great thing is, I’m always making something or wanting to make something. The ideas are always there. In fact, the less time I seem to have, the more I want to make!
In the spirit of giving and to celebrate the joy of making, I’d like to give away 2 sets of 2 of my Moon Lotus postcards (image below). If you’d like to win them, just leave me a comment by 5pm on Friday 10th December, UK time. I will then select two names at random and aim to post the cards out on Monday 13th December, all being well. If the winners are not in the UK, I cannot guarantee that they will reach you in time for Christmas. Good luck!
(Please comment & enter the draw or I will be forced to send these postcards to myself ;-)
What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
(Prompt Author: Gretchen Rubin)
~
Apart from the drawing I made for yesterday’s prompt, the last thing I completed was a piece of embroidery, my first, based on a drawing I did of Jake’s first pair of shoes. I stitched it on a linen napkin square (bought cheap from Sainsbury’s), using black 6-strand embroidery floss.
Since then, I have been occupied with making lotuses. I’m currently working on two, a piece of lotus stitchery and a commissioned A3 drawing, a larger version of the Tangerine Moon Lotus listed in my etsy shop.
 |
| In progress... |
In the run up to xmas, now that we have decided to follow the “Giving not Buying” spirit of xmas partly inspired by this post at Zen Habits, I will need to clear some time to make some gifts which I naturally can’t write about here.
The great thing is, I’m always making something or wanting to make something. The ideas are always there. In fact, the less time I seem to have, the more I want to make!
In the spirit of giving and to celebrate the joy of making, I’d like to give away 2 sets of 2 of my Moon Lotus postcards (image below). If you’d like to win them, just leave me a comment by 5pm on Friday 10th December, UK time. I will then select two names at random and aim to post the cards out on Monday 13th December, all being well. If the winners are not in the UK, I cannot guarantee that they will reach you in time for Christmas. Good luck!
(Please comment & enter the draw or I will be forced to send these postcards to myself ;-)
Sunday, December 05, 2010
reverb10 ~ Prompt 5: Letting Go
Let Go.
What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?
(Prompt Author: Alice Bradley)
~
Ok, this is starting to feel like therapy. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I’m already in therapy once a week and it’s hard work and even though I also want to dig deep to reflect and reverb, I also want to enjoy it. So at first I was resistant. But then I let go (see what I did there) and gave in to my need for play…
Upon further reflection, this ended up being a rather joyful exercise. In addition to making the above drawing, I also made a list of things I’d let go of, things I no longer needed. Because they’d been weighing me down. But I don’t want to share the list. Except for one item. One thing I let go of this year, even if means having to let go of it every day, several times a day. The notion that I cannot…
What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?
(Prompt Author: Alice Bradley)
~
Ok, this is starting to feel like therapy. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I’m already in therapy once a week and it’s hard work and even though I also want to dig deep to reflect and reverb, I also want to enjoy it. So at first I was resistant. But then I let go (see what I did there) and gave in to my need for play…
 |
| ~ Letting go, my "enigmatic" semi-blind contour self-portrait, (Pen, ink & picnik) |
Saturday, December 04, 2010
reverb10 ~ Prompt Four: Wonder
Wonder.
How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year?
(Prompt Author: Jeffrey Davis)
~
Phew, an easy one. I needed this after yesterday’s prompt.
I’ve been blessed enough never to have lost my childlike sense of wonder and curiosity about the world. It’s such an innate part of my nature, the question of cultivating it is like being asked – so how did you remember to keep breathing this year?
This doesn’t make me a perfect or even perfectly happy human being. For one, I’m absolutely crap at small talk, and inept at social gatherings. My attempts at conversation come out like uncontrollable barks. And I either come across as aloof or high, depending on whether I’ve gone blank from desperately trying to think of something appropriate to say or have a false grin plastered across my face. I’m much happier sitting on the sidelines watching people, or looking out the window, or staring at the light or the colour of the sky. I just can’t help myself. As soon as I step out the door, my gaze is up and out. I notice how the air smells and feels, the patterns the scattered leaves make on the sidewalk, how a stray petal has become suspended in a spider web on a wall. I also trip over my feet a lot and wear glasses. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been endlessly peering at everything, getting as close as I can.
Which makes Jake my ideal companion. No matter how hard our days can be, it is also utterly fitting that I should spend them with him. He won’t think it at all odd if Mummy suddenly drops to her knees in the playground to look at a leaf, and to notice that it has been undisturbed, with droplets of dew still on it. (I wrote about that here: http://theheartfulblogger.blogspot.com/2010/11/wonder.html) He will never think that a little walk to the shops is dull. A little walk anywhere is never dull. And I will always stop to think about the questions he asks me, and take them seriously and answer him as well as I can. Anything from, “Where do bubbles come from?” to “What’s that?” when he points to certain parts of my anatomy in the shower.
Yesterday, he set up a “TV” (using one of my tote bags hung off a clothes dryer), used some wooden blocks as remote controls and switched his “TV” on and declared, “Look Mummy, Picky Pickle’s on TV.” (I have no idea who Picky Pickle is, but that’s besides the point.)
The other day, he suddenly said, Grandpa makes pockets all day.
And when he heard me say comatose, he said, “Not time for toast. Wake up its morning, then have toast.” Coma Toast.
And at any moment, he is liable to burst into his cheesy grin, start giggling for no reason (the best reason to giggle I think) and spin himself around in circles. My own little whirling dervish. The simple joy of spinning and dizziness.
So I could be dutiful and give you a list of things I did to “cultivate” wonder, and it might read something like this: this year, I started the 365 Photography Project, kept a daily diary to capture those small details I’d otherwise forget, taught myself a new craft (embroidery), took up drawing again and kept up this blog.
But, all I’ve really done is get up each day, open my eyes and kept them open. And experience each moment with my toddler. (Seriously, he even follows me into the loo.) There’s infinite wonder in him alone.
How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year?
(Prompt Author: Jeffrey Davis)
~
Phew, an easy one. I needed this after yesterday’s prompt.
I’ve been blessed enough never to have lost my childlike sense of wonder and curiosity about the world. It’s such an innate part of my nature, the question of cultivating it is like being asked – so how did you remember to keep breathing this year?
This doesn’t make me a perfect or even perfectly happy human being. For one, I’m absolutely crap at small talk, and inept at social gatherings. My attempts at conversation come out like uncontrollable barks. And I either come across as aloof or high, depending on whether I’ve gone blank from desperately trying to think of something appropriate to say or have a false grin plastered across my face. I’m much happier sitting on the sidelines watching people, or looking out the window, or staring at the light or the colour of the sky. I just can’t help myself. As soon as I step out the door, my gaze is up and out. I notice how the air smells and feels, the patterns the scattered leaves make on the sidewalk, how a stray petal has become suspended in a spider web on a wall. I also trip over my feet a lot and wear glasses. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been endlessly peering at everything, getting as close as I can.
Which makes Jake my ideal companion. No matter how hard our days can be, it is also utterly fitting that I should spend them with him. He won’t think it at all odd if Mummy suddenly drops to her knees in the playground to look at a leaf, and to notice that it has been undisturbed, with droplets of dew still on it. (I wrote about that here: http://theheartfulblogger.blogspot.com/2010/11/wonder.html) He will never think that a little walk to the shops is dull. A little walk anywhere is never dull. And I will always stop to think about the questions he asks me, and take them seriously and answer him as well as I can. Anything from, “Where do bubbles come from?” to “What’s that?” when he points to certain parts of my anatomy in the shower.
Yesterday, he set up a “TV” (using one of my tote bags hung off a clothes dryer), used some wooden blocks as remote controls and switched his “TV” on and declared, “Look Mummy, Picky Pickle’s on TV.” (I have no idea who Picky Pickle is, but that’s besides the point.)
The other day, he suddenly said, Grandpa makes pockets all day.
And when he heard me say comatose, he said, “Not time for toast. Wake up its morning, then have toast.” Coma Toast.
And at any moment, he is liable to burst into his cheesy grin, start giggling for no reason (the best reason to giggle I think) and spin himself around in circles. My own little whirling dervish. The simple joy of spinning and dizziness.
So I could be dutiful and give you a list of things I did to “cultivate” wonder, and it might read something like this: this year, I started the 365 Photography Project, kept a daily diary to capture those small details I’d otherwise forget, taught myself a new craft (embroidery), took up drawing again and kept up this blog.
But, all I’ve really done is get up each day, open my eyes and kept them open. And experience each moment with my toddler. (Seriously, he even follows me into the loo.) There’s infinite wonder in him alone.
Friday, December 03, 2010
reverb10 ~ Prompt three: Moment
Moment.
Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).
(Prompt Author: Ali Edwards)
~
My first response to this is GROAN. I hate describing. I hate it even more when I’m told what to describe. Probably because I know it's one of my weaknesses as a writer. But also because it makes me feel like I’m back at school, being told how to write rather than just being allowed to find my own way. (For this reason I’ve also always hated hearing that old chestnut – Show Don’t Tell.) And, to top it all off, there’s the ubiquitous admonition to share a moment, or rather THE moment, when you felt MOST alive. OH GOD NOT AGAIN. (Insert tantrum here)
Why the strong reaction? Well, I could be wrong, but here’s what irks me: the implication that THAT moment is probably a positive moment, a special moment, one of ecstasy or exhilaration. A witnessing the birth of your child or jumping out of a plane moment. {And beneath all that is the further implication that you only really feel alive in those moments, and that during all the other moments, the ones where nothing ecstatic happens, you are not really living.}
So here’s my problem. The moments that are most memorable to me, the ones where I was most acutely aware of being alive and the ones where I can recall the details most vividly, are painful ones. I don’t know if I’m just peculiarly bent towards the melancholic or if I just don’t have enough of a good time, but there isn’t anything like being acutely aware of how much something hurts to remind you how very alive you are - having to live it, inhale it, bear the sharp blade of it on your skin and somehow keep going. Time loses its fluidity and the moments become separate, crystallized units because you have suddenly acquired the ability to feel them ticking by and accumulating like pebbles in your shoes.
I have been trying all day to remember a specific happy moment from this year. There have been a lot of them. Countless times my son opened his mouth – to sing or talk or call for me. I’ve had hundreds of wonderful moments at bedtime, when, singing songs with Jake, I’ve felt my heart swell in my chest and be so grateful to be alive. When I’ve held him close to me, or watched him sleeping. But the exact details of those moments escape me.
And yet, my mind keeps going back to one moment that I can remember. One long vivid moment, or rather, a collection of hard, sharp moments.
It was a few days after Jake had had surgery to reverse his stoma. We were on one of the children’s wards at the Royal London and it was the weekend. I know this because the ward was short-staffed and there was only one familiar and friendly face amongst the agency nurses called in to cover. Ironically it was her familiarity to us, and her kindness that actually triggered me off.
Jake had been doing well, and we had been on the verge of being discharged when he started vomiting and having diarrhea. My partner Paul had just come down with such a bug and they suspected that he’d passed it on to Jake. Because of this, he was asked not to stay on the ward. He had been due to relieve me and take over the “night shift” when he was told he could not. So I had to stay another night at least. I was already exhausted from having been up the night before, having to change Jake’s runny nappies, which had also leaked onto his clothes and bed sheets. And I had to spend another night doing the same. I somehow made it through that night and Paul relieved me for a few hours in the morning. While I was having a break, Jake vomited all over Paul. He was then told he could not come back on to the ward until he was 24 hours clear of his symptoms and that he shouldn’t have been back so soon in the first place. So I had to spend the rest of the day there on my own.
For the rest of the day, Jake was unsettled. He rarely stopped crying. It’s hard to describe what this is like, especially to people who’ve never had to look after a baby for any length of time. There’s nothing like the piercing sound of a distressed child crying. The language of parenthood is like a foreign language. One which can’t be taught but can only be learned ‘on the job’. The worst part was, we were told not to move around the ward incase he was infectious. Can you guess what it was that he wanted so desperately, the one and only thing that calmed him down? To be held and walked around the ward.
We’d been doing it for days. As soon as we were able to pick him up after his surgery, Paul and I had been taking turns walking him round the ward, looking at the fish tank, taking him to the play room and sensory room, saying hello to the other patients, letting him stand at the lego station by the Parents’ break room. No more. After hours of pacing in our tiny cubicle and standing up and rocking him and trying to console him, unable to explain to him why we couldn’t go see fish or go walking, I sat down in utter despair. What made it more acute was that everyone on the ward could see what was happening, everyone could hear him cry. And yet, no one could or would do anything for us. It was like we'd suddenly become invisible.
I remember feeling absolutely enraged that the play specialist on the ward was spending hours of her time sitting by the bedside of the 8 year old girl in the bed next to ours, bringing her books and toys to occupy her and talking to her mother as if they were the best of friends, but did not once speak to me or offer to fetch a single toy for Jake who was wailing his heart out. And the nurses were either too busy or too wary to come near us except to perform their tasks as quickly and perfunctorily as possible. By the afternoon, I also knew that he was overdue a nap and was overtired so I tried everything I could to settle him to sleep. But every time he started to drift off, something would happen. A nurse needed to come in and “do his obs” during which he wailed. Then the girl in the bed next to ours threw a tantrum and Jake wailed. Then the surgeons came on the ward to do their rounds and Jake wailed, just like he always did whenever he saw the swarm of white coated people approach. Then his monitors would start beeping or his IV line would need changing, or I had to give him his next dose of medication and he’d struggle and wail at every interruption. And then, after hours of interrupted sleep and exhaustion, Jake vomited. It smelled of regurgitated peanut butter mixed with sick and looked like shit. It had spattered all over him, me and the floor. He was scared and filthy and had sick on his chin and down his neck and I started shaking from the stress of it all, and from hunger, as I hadn't been able to have a break for anything to eat. I couldn’t move from our cubicle to get help so I had to shout across the ward to the nurses’ station to get someone’s attention. I was using all my powers of restraint when I shouted, “Excuse me,” over and over again. If it had been anywhere else but a hospital, very foul language would have been flung about like monkey shit.
A harassed junior nurse came over and actually asked me what was wrong. Obviously the smell or sight of sick wasn’t enough to clue her in. I had to spell it out for her. She sighed and said she would fetch some paper towels like I’d just asked her to donate a kidney. When she came back with them, I had to tell her that I didn’t have any clothes to change into and that I couldn’t leave the ward to get any. She wandered off to find me some scrubs and I was left to clean Jake up and change his clothing. When she returned, I knew that I would have to leave Jake alone while I got cleaned up. And I knew that he wouldn’t like it. I was right. Nobody was available to sit with him so I had to leave him wailing in his cot by himself. When I came back, all I could do was try to settle him to sleep again, but I had a very strong urge to pick him up and run.
I finally managed to calm him and got in a comfortable position with him, sitting in a chair with his head resting on my chest. He had just drifted off when a gaggle of doctors came to examine the girl in the bed next to ours. As there was so little space between our cubicles, the chair I was sitting in had to be moved to make way. I knew this, and had been planning on doing so quietly, but when an evil nurse barked at me to do so, I lost it, and did so kicking and screaming. That is, I scraped the fucking chair across the floor and swore not so quietly under my breath as I did so. It woke Jake up. He started screaming. Again. Evil nurse glared at us then ignored us. At that point, the kind and familiar nurse I mentioned earlier entered the ward. She immediately came over and asked me if I was okay. To my embarrassment, I burst into tears. I cried so hard I couldn’t even explain what had happened or what was wrong. When she put an arm around me and said, “It’s gonna be okay, I’ve seen you and Jake go through much much worse,” I cried even harder. Because she was right. We had been through much worse the year before, and I’d been a hell of a lot stronger. She seemed to understand that her kindness was setting off a geyser so she went to check Jake’s notes and find out what had been happening that morning.
Eventually, because of all the vomit, but possibly also because of the swearing and Jake’s screaming, we were moved into a closed room on the ward and discharged the next day.
~
Ok, so this post was even longer than the last one. It’s unedited because I’m short of time and know that we’ll have a new prompt to respond to tomorrow. I didn’t even came close to describing it like we were prompted to. If I were to go into it more fully, I think I’d have a novella’s worth of words here.
Many many thanks if you’ve made it this far. (It was my 900th blog post!)
Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).
(Prompt Author: Ali Edwards)
~
My first response to this is GROAN. I hate describing. I hate it even more when I’m told what to describe. Probably because I know it's one of my weaknesses as a writer. But also because it makes me feel like I’m back at school, being told how to write rather than just being allowed to find my own way. (For this reason I’ve also always hated hearing that old chestnut – Show Don’t Tell.) And, to top it all off, there’s the ubiquitous admonition to share a moment, or rather THE moment, when you felt MOST alive. OH GOD NOT AGAIN. (Insert tantrum here)
Why the strong reaction? Well, I could be wrong, but here’s what irks me: the implication that THAT moment is probably a positive moment, a special moment, one of ecstasy or exhilaration. A witnessing the birth of your child or jumping out of a plane moment. {And beneath all that is the further implication that you only really feel alive in those moments, and that during all the other moments, the ones where nothing ecstatic happens, you are not really living.}
So here’s my problem. The moments that are most memorable to me, the ones where I was most acutely aware of being alive and the ones where I can recall the details most vividly, are painful ones. I don’t know if I’m just peculiarly bent towards the melancholic or if I just don’t have enough of a good time, but there isn’t anything like being acutely aware of how much something hurts to remind you how very alive you are - having to live it, inhale it, bear the sharp blade of it on your skin and somehow keep going. Time loses its fluidity and the moments become separate, crystallized units because you have suddenly acquired the ability to feel them ticking by and accumulating like pebbles in your shoes.
I have been trying all day to remember a specific happy moment from this year. There have been a lot of them. Countless times my son opened his mouth – to sing or talk or call for me. I’ve had hundreds of wonderful moments at bedtime, when, singing songs with Jake, I’ve felt my heart swell in my chest and be so grateful to be alive. When I’ve held him close to me, or watched him sleeping. But the exact details of those moments escape me.
And yet, my mind keeps going back to one moment that I can remember. One long vivid moment, or rather, a collection of hard, sharp moments.
It was a few days after Jake had had surgery to reverse his stoma. We were on one of the children’s wards at the Royal London and it was the weekend. I know this because the ward was short-staffed and there was only one familiar and friendly face amongst the agency nurses called in to cover. Ironically it was her familiarity to us, and her kindness that actually triggered me off.
Jake had been doing well, and we had been on the verge of being discharged when he started vomiting and having diarrhea. My partner Paul had just come down with such a bug and they suspected that he’d passed it on to Jake. Because of this, he was asked not to stay on the ward. He had been due to relieve me and take over the “night shift” when he was told he could not. So I had to stay another night at least. I was already exhausted from having been up the night before, having to change Jake’s runny nappies, which had also leaked onto his clothes and bed sheets. And I had to spend another night doing the same. I somehow made it through that night and Paul relieved me for a few hours in the morning. While I was having a break, Jake vomited all over Paul. He was then told he could not come back on to the ward until he was 24 hours clear of his symptoms and that he shouldn’t have been back so soon in the first place. So I had to spend the rest of the day there on my own.
For the rest of the day, Jake was unsettled. He rarely stopped crying. It’s hard to describe what this is like, especially to people who’ve never had to look after a baby for any length of time. There’s nothing like the piercing sound of a distressed child crying. The language of parenthood is like a foreign language. One which can’t be taught but can only be learned ‘on the job’. The worst part was, we were told not to move around the ward incase he was infectious. Can you guess what it was that he wanted so desperately, the one and only thing that calmed him down? To be held and walked around the ward.
We’d been doing it for days. As soon as we were able to pick him up after his surgery, Paul and I had been taking turns walking him round the ward, looking at the fish tank, taking him to the play room and sensory room, saying hello to the other patients, letting him stand at the lego station by the Parents’ break room. No more. After hours of pacing in our tiny cubicle and standing up and rocking him and trying to console him, unable to explain to him why we couldn’t go see fish or go walking, I sat down in utter despair. What made it more acute was that everyone on the ward could see what was happening, everyone could hear him cry. And yet, no one could or would do anything for us. It was like we'd suddenly become invisible.
I remember feeling absolutely enraged that the play specialist on the ward was spending hours of her time sitting by the bedside of the 8 year old girl in the bed next to ours, bringing her books and toys to occupy her and talking to her mother as if they were the best of friends, but did not once speak to me or offer to fetch a single toy for Jake who was wailing his heart out. And the nurses were either too busy or too wary to come near us except to perform their tasks as quickly and perfunctorily as possible. By the afternoon, I also knew that he was overdue a nap and was overtired so I tried everything I could to settle him to sleep. But every time he started to drift off, something would happen. A nurse needed to come in and “do his obs” during which he wailed. Then the girl in the bed next to ours threw a tantrum and Jake wailed. Then the surgeons came on the ward to do their rounds and Jake wailed, just like he always did whenever he saw the swarm of white coated people approach. Then his monitors would start beeping or his IV line would need changing, or I had to give him his next dose of medication and he’d struggle and wail at every interruption. And then, after hours of interrupted sleep and exhaustion, Jake vomited. It smelled of regurgitated peanut butter mixed with sick and looked like shit. It had spattered all over him, me and the floor. He was scared and filthy and had sick on his chin and down his neck and I started shaking from the stress of it all, and from hunger, as I hadn't been able to have a break for anything to eat. I couldn’t move from our cubicle to get help so I had to shout across the ward to the nurses’ station to get someone’s attention. I was using all my powers of restraint when I shouted, “Excuse me,” over and over again. If it had been anywhere else but a hospital, very foul language would have been flung about like monkey shit.
A harassed junior nurse came over and actually asked me what was wrong. Obviously the smell or sight of sick wasn’t enough to clue her in. I had to spell it out for her. She sighed and said she would fetch some paper towels like I’d just asked her to donate a kidney. When she came back with them, I had to tell her that I didn’t have any clothes to change into and that I couldn’t leave the ward to get any. She wandered off to find me some scrubs and I was left to clean Jake up and change his clothing. When she returned, I knew that I would have to leave Jake alone while I got cleaned up. And I knew that he wouldn’t like it. I was right. Nobody was available to sit with him so I had to leave him wailing in his cot by himself. When I came back, all I could do was try to settle him to sleep again, but I had a very strong urge to pick him up and run.
I finally managed to calm him and got in a comfortable position with him, sitting in a chair with his head resting on my chest. He had just drifted off when a gaggle of doctors came to examine the girl in the bed next to ours. As there was so little space between our cubicles, the chair I was sitting in had to be moved to make way. I knew this, and had been planning on doing so quietly, but when an evil nurse barked at me to do so, I lost it, and did so kicking and screaming. That is, I scraped the fucking chair across the floor and swore not so quietly under my breath as I did so. It woke Jake up. He started screaming. Again. Evil nurse glared at us then ignored us. At that point, the kind and familiar nurse I mentioned earlier entered the ward. She immediately came over and asked me if I was okay. To my embarrassment, I burst into tears. I cried so hard I couldn’t even explain what had happened or what was wrong. When she put an arm around me and said, “It’s gonna be okay, I’ve seen you and Jake go through much much worse,” I cried even harder. Because she was right. We had been through much worse the year before, and I’d been a hell of a lot stronger. She seemed to understand that her kindness was setting off a geyser so she went to check Jake’s notes and find out what had been happening that morning.
Eventually, because of all the vomit, but possibly also because of the swearing and Jake’s screaming, we were moved into a closed room on the ward and discharged the next day.
~
Ok, so this post was even longer than the last one. It’s unedited because I’m short of time and know that we’ll have a new prompt to respond to tomorrow. I didn’t even came close to describing it like we were prompted to. If I were to go into it more fully, I think I’d have a novella’s worth of words here.
Many many thanks if you’ve made it this far. (It was my 900th blog post!)
Thursday, December 02, 2010
reverb10 ~ Prompt two: Writing
Writing.
What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?
(Prompt Author: Leo Babauta)
~
My first thought when I read this was infanticide. After all, eliminate is rather a strong word. But Jake is the sweet fruit of my loins and without him, well, I wouldn’t have a little pixie to make me laugh every day and shout things at me like “Gubbins!” and “It’s NOT funny Mummy”. I am a full-time stay at home mother by choice after all. He has two short mornings a week at nursery but otherwise, being a mother is what I do each day. I want to be a mother, but I am also a writer – in the sense that I not only want to write but need to write or else.
And I am actually writing more now, as a full-time mother, than I ever have at any time in my life. Unexpectedly, having the added pressure of a real lack of time (it was only after becoming a parent that I realised how much time I actually used to have which I effectively squandered) has been the push I’ve needed to make me realise how essential writing is to me and to becreative bloodyminded about how I find the time to do it. It isn’t easy. Apart from Jake’s brief time at nursery, and my partner’s help evenings and weekends, I’m on my own. I don’t have family or friends close by who can readily babysit. In the 28 months of Jake’s life, my partner and I have only managed to go out alone together three times. Plus, Jake is not one of those children who obligingly goes to sleep at 7pm, leaving us with our evenings free. So finding time is a challenge I face every day. And for the first year of Jake’s life, I hardly wrote at all.
These days, I write blog posts, emails, diary entries, freewriting and other writing, inwardly referred to as my “real writing.” Not all in one day of course, not by a long shot. Sometimes weeks go by when I write nothing but the odd blog post or email (and facebook status updates – now that IS something I can eliminate, though I've just joined Twitter specifically for reverb10, something I've resisted for ages because I didn't need anything else from the interwebs to distract me), and I am always wishing that I could find some way to redress the balance. Participating in projects like this does help though.
So this is what I want to reflect on for this prompt.
Thinking in terms of elimination seems a bit negative. In some respects, anything can be seen as a contribution to my writing. Living contributes to it, though as someone who has been writing (and reading) for most of my life, I also know that for “living” to truly contribute to and inform my writing, I also need to actually write about it.
So here’s what I think I need to actively contribute to my writing & my writing process and how I think I can find a way of doing these things:
- Daily diary writing – capturing moments & details, reflecting on events while they are still immediate and fresh. Having a word limit helps both in terms of time and in terms of honing in on what is most essential or memorable about each day. I had been doing this in the form of daily 100 word diary entries. I only stopped fairly recently. I think it’s time to reinstate them but perhaps increase the word limit slightly to 250.
- Freewriting - I have Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down The Bones to remind me why this is important. This is also mentioned as morning pages in The Artist’s Way and by Dorothea Brande in her book On Becoming A Writer. Suffice it to say it’s a crucial part of the writing / creative process and one I have neglected for far too long.
- Collecting ideas – having a scrapbook / notebook to write ideas down, collect articles of interest, etc. I try to do this as and when I can. Sometimes, things just get forgotten.
- Reading – I do this as and when I can. Surprisingly, I’ve also managed to read a lot more than I was led to expect that parents with a toddler can.
My blog posts are written on the hoof whenever I can grab the time to do them. This usually means bits of time here and there throughout my day, when Jake will happily play by himself for a bit, or during his naps, if he actually decides to have one, or while my partner occupies him in the evenings.
I can write my daily diary entries in the same way.
But for freewriting (which I do by hand) and other writing, my “real writing”, I need alone time that I can rely on, when I know I won’t be interrupted. This is why I have done so little of this type of writing in comparison.
At the moment, I am managing to do this on the mornings that Jake’s at nursery, and sometimes at the weekend. Interruptions to this routine of sorts is difficult. If Jake misses a morning at nursery or we go away for the weekend (like we just have), I find it hard to get back on track again.
But this is a good opportunity for me to see where more time can be carved out of my day. I’ve often talked in the past of going out one evening a week specifically for writing. Recently I’ve been reluctant to do this because it gets cold and dark so early, but setting this habit up could help to alleviate a lot of the angst I feel about not writing enough.
I could also simply sleep less and stay up later than I usually would, once Jake has gone to bed. Even an hour one or two nights a week would be beneficial. I would have to work around my partner on this though, as the time after Jake goes to bed is the only time he gets to himself. It would also be the only time we’d have to spend alone together.
Another thing I can do is use my weekend time better. Most Saturdays, my partner takes Jake out for a few hours so I have a morning to myself before my afternoon yoga class. I have to admit that I squander this time. I potter about far too much, spend too much time on the internet and doing chores that can wait. This would be another opportunity to take myself out with my laptop so that I know I have a solid two hours, for example, to write before my yoga class.
Now all I need is someone to be accountable to, someone who’s gonna give me a hard time if I weasel my way out of doing it. Volunteers, anyone?
The other consideration, and it’s a big one, is my partner’s need for time too. He works full time then comes home in the evenings and takes on most of the childcare for the rest of the day. And he also does so at weekends. It is the only time he has with Jake, but he’s also doing it so I can have a break.
Since he’s also participating in reverb10, it will be interesting to see what he says.
(Yes, this is a long post. When I decided to take part in reverb10, I knew I wanted to reflect properly on each prompt, otherwise what’s the point. So there you have it. Thanks if you’ve gotten this far.)
What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?
(Prompt Author: Leo Babauta)
~
My first thought when I read this was infanticide. After all, eliminate is rather a strong word. But Jake is the sweet fruit of my loins and without him, well, I wouldn’t have a little pixie to make me laugh every day and shout things at me like “Gubbins!” and “It’s NOT funny Mummy”. I am a full-time stay at home mother by choice after all. He has two short mornings a week at nursery but otherwise, being a mother is what I do each day. I want to be a mother, but I am also a writer – in the sense that I not only want to write but need to write or else.
And I am actually writing more now, as a full-time mother, than I ever have at any time in my life. Unexpectedly, having the added pressure of a real lack of time (it was only after becoming a parent that I realised how much time I actually used to have which I effectively squandered) has been the push I’ve needed to make me realise how essential writing is to me and to be
These days, I write blog posts, emails, diary entries, freewriting and other writing, inwardly referred to as my “real writing.” Not all in one day of course, not by a long shot. Sometimes weeks go by when I write nothing but the odd blog post or email (and facebook status updates – now that IS something I can eliminate, though I've just joined Twitter specifically for reverb10, something I've resisted for ages because I didn't need anything else from the interwebs to distract me), and I am always wishing that I could find some way to redress the balance. Participating in projects like this does help though.
So this is what I want to reflect on for this prompt.
Thinking in terms of elimination seems a bit negative. In some respects, anything can be seen as a contribution to my writing. Living contributes to it, though as someone who has been writing (and reading) for most of my life, I also know that for “living” to truly contribute to and inform my writing, I also need to actually write about it.
So here’s what I think I need to actively contribute to my writing & my writing process and how I think I can find a way of doing these things:
- Daily diary writing – capturing moments & details, reflecting on events while they are still immediate and fresh. Having a word limit helps both in terms of time and in terms of honing in on what is most essential or memorable about each day. I had been doing this in the form of daily 100 word diary entries. I only stopped fairly recently. I think it’s time to reinstate them but perhaps increase the word limit slightly to 250.
- Freewriting - I have Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down The Bones to remind me why this is important. This is also mentioned as morning pages in The Artist’s Way and by Dorothea Brande in her book On Becoming A Writer. Suffice it to say it’s a crucial part of the writing / creative process and one I have neglected for far too long.
- Collecting ideas – having a scrapbook / notebook to write ideas down, collect articles of interest, etc. I try to do this as and when I can. Sometimes, things just get forgotten.
- Reading – I do this as and when I can. Surprisingly, I’ve also managed to read a lot more than I was led to expect that parents with a toddler can.
My blog posts are written on the hoof whenever I can grab the time to do them. This usually means bits of time here and there throughout my day, when Jake will happily play by himself for a bit, or during his naps, if he actually decides to have one, or while my partner occupies him in the evenings.
I can write my daily diary entries in the same way.
But for freewriting (which I do by hand) and other writing, my “real writing”, I need alone time that I can rely on, when I know I won’t be interrupted. This is why I have done so little of this type of writing in comparison.
At the moment, I am managing to do this on the mornings that Jake’s at nursery, and sometimes at the weekend. Interruptions to this routine of sorts is difficult. If Jake misses a morning at nursery or we go away for the weekend (like we just have), I find it hard to get back on track again.
But this is a good opportunity for me to see where more time can be carved out of my day. I’ve often talked in the past of going out one evening a week specifically for writing. Recently I’ve been reluctant to do this because it gets cold and dark so early, but setting this habit up could help to alleviate a lot of the angst I feel about not writing enough.
I could also simply sleep less and stay up later than I usually would, once Jake has gone to bed. Even an hour one or two nights a week would be beneficial. I would have to work around my partner on this though, as the time after Jake goes to bed is the only time he gets to himself. It would also be the only time we’d have to spend alone together.
Another thing I can do is use my weekend time better. Most Saturdays, my partner takes Jake out for a few hours so I have a morning to myself before my afternoon yoga class. I have to admit that I squander this time. I potter about far too much, spend too much time on the internet and doing chores that can wait. This would be another opportunity to take myself out with my laptop so that I know I have a solid two hours, for example, to write before my yoga class.
Now all I need is someone to be accountable to, someone who’s gonna give me a hard time if I weasel my way out of doing it. Volunteers, anyone?
The other consideration, and it’s a big one, is my partner’s need for time too. He works full time then comes home in the evenings and takes on most of the childcare for the rest of the day. And he also does so at weekends. It is the only time he has with Jake, but he’s also doing it so I can have a break.
Since he’s also participating in reverb10, it will be interesting to see what he says.
(Yes, this is a long post. When I decided to take part in reverb10, I knew I wanted to reflect properly on each prompt, otherwise what’s the point. So there you have it. Thanks if you’ve gotten this far.)
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
reverb10 ~ Prompt 1: One Word
One Word.
Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?
(Prompt author: Gwen Bell)
~
My word for this year is wrestle. Not clad in spandex and getting sweaty (though toddler wrestling comes close, especially during nappy changing these days), but the push-pull momentum of struggle and release. And since I can’t make struggle-and-release into one word, wrestle it is.
As long as I can remember, an inner struggle, a straining at tightly bound knots, real or imagined, has always been a part of my character. Sometimes the struggle makes the knots tighter, sometimes it loosens them, and sometimes it makes no difference - nothing changes and I only end up with rope burns.
This year, I didn’t go back to work as planned. I wrestled with isolation and loneliness, but I discovered greater depth in my slower paced life. I struggled at being a full-time stay at home Mum but I’ve had precious time with my son. I lost a few friends, but I regained a few others and even made some new ones. I spent a lot of time being angry or scared, but I got angry and scared enough to want things to change. I’ve also been more acutely aware of the struggle than ever before. But, I also learned to sit with it. To study it and understand it and try to get to the heart of it. I started having counselling. I got a little bit deeper into my yoga practice and more honest in my writing. I started seeing chinks of truth and slowly, breath by breath, began to let go. The flip side of struggle is release. One doesn’t exist without the other. I do believe that being alive will always entail some sort of struggle, but it doesn’t have to be negative. A bit like that phrase: Pain is inevitable but suffering is optional.
So for the coming year, I hope not for a struggle-free life, but for something I’ve been too scared to believe in – until now. I’m going to let hope go to my head and go all out. I want my word for 2011 to be joy. The kind that is deep and true and comes from authenticity, from letting go, and being present and open and tuned in – to possibilities we are not even aware of, to the truths we don’t yet know, to the sacred magic and beauty of the world, seen or unseen. For once, I don't believe it's too much to ask for.
Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?
(Prompt author: Gwen Bell)
~
My word for this year is wrestle. Not clad in spandex and getting sweaty (though toddler wrestling comes close, especially during nappy changing these days), but the push-pull momentum of struggle and release. And since I can’t make struggle-and-release into one word, wrestle it is.
As long as I can remember, an inner struggle, a straining at tightly bound knots, real or imagined, has always been a part of my character. Sometimes the struggle makes the knots tighter, sometimes it loosens them, and sometimes it makes no difference - nothing changes and I only end up with rope burns.
This year, I didn’t go back to work as planned. I wrestled with isolation and loneliness, but I discovered greater depth in my slower paced life. I struggled at being a full-time stay at home Mum but I’ve had precious time with my son. I lost a few friends, but I regained a few others and even made some new ones. I spent a lot of time being angry or scared, but I got angry and scared enough to want things to change. I’ve also been more acutely aware of the struggle than ever before. But, I also learned to sit with it. To study it and understand it and try to get to the heart of it. I started having counselling. I got a little bit deeper into my yoga practice and more honest in my writing. I started seeing chinks of truth and slowly, breath by breath, began to let go. The flip side of struggle is release. One doesn’t exist without the other. I do believe that being alive will always entail some sort of struggle, but it doesn’t have to be negative. A bit like that phrase: Pain is inevitable but suffering is optional.
So for the coming year, I hope not for a struggle-free life, but for something I’ve been too scared to believe in – until now. I’m going to let hope go to my head and go all out. I want my word for 2011 to be joy. The kind that is deep and true and comes from authenticity, from letting go, and being present and open and tuned in – to possibilities we are not even aware of, to the truths we don’t yet know, to the sacred magic and beauty of the world, seen or unseen. For once, I don't believe it's too much to ask for.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Reverb10
Oh dear. My impulses to start challenges when I have the least amount of time knows no bounds. This time, I've signed up for reverb10. However, I do recall that last year, my 100 days challenge, which also began on the 1st December, turned out very well well. This one at least, is only for the month of December.
Care to join me?
Care to join me?
Just what you need right now (more images of snow & ice)
But not a lot of snow, and not very much ice either...here are some pictures from our long weekend in Cheshire.
 |
 |
| Only enough snow to draw a snowman, not to make one. (And I know it looks like Paul is drawing a knob in the snow, but he wasn't.) |
 |
| It was a snow train. |
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Oop North
A couple of months ago, our planned trip oop North was aborted due to excessive amounts of snot and illness (ours). We are hoping that all the snow and cold weather will not interfere with our plans this time.
While I am away, I leave you with this...
While I am away, I leave you with this...
Some recent Jake-isms
"Check nemos", as in "Mummy check nemos (emails) on ‘puter (computer)?"
Thank you much.
Inadvertently calling us Theo. As in, "got more food Theo." (After months of this I finally worked out he’s saying for you).
Using v instead of very…v hot that one. Is v cold now.
When he doesn’t like some food he’s just tried, he makes a face and says, “That’s v spicy that one”, even if it was just a slice of granary.
Saying need instead of want. Need cuggles bit. Or even, Need cuggles want.
Sometimes, he also combines them: nee-want cuggles, nee-want food, nee-want crisps.
Strawb = straw (Nee-want milk with strawb)
Buddy hell!
Oon = balloon (so green balloon is green ‘oon)
And the colour blue is boo, as in "red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and boooo. I can sing rainbow, sing rainbow, sing rainbow tooooo."
"Negotiating" with Mummy over food, ie, saying no to food offered, then yes, then no.
Me: Jake, if you say no again, I'm going to put this away.
J: I say no and yes and no and yes. I say yes now.
Plus, yesterday, he tried conversing with a tree...
J: Hello tree, how are you? (Pause) Doesn't talk tree. Mummy, doesn't talk tree.
Me: No darling, it doesn't.
J: Mummy talk though.
And before he goes to bed every night, he kisses the cat goodnight. Sometimes, they have daytime naps together and get v comfy indeed...
Thank you much.
Inadvertently calling us Theo. As in, "got more food Theo." (After months of this I finally worked out he’s saying for you).
Using v instead of very…v hot that one. Is v cold now.
When he doesn’t like some food he’s just tried, he makes a face and says, “That’s v spicy that one”, even if it was just a slice of granary.
Saying need instead of want. Need cuggles bit. Or even, Need cuggles want.
Sometimes, he also combines them: nee-want cuggles, nee-want food, nee-want crisps.
Strawb = straw (Nee-want milk with strawb)
Buddy hell!
Oon = balloon (so green balloon is green ‘oon)
And the colour blue is boo, as in "red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and boooo. I can sing rainbow, sing rainbow, sing rainbow tooooo."
"Negotiating" with Mummy over food, ie, saying no to food offered, then yes, then no.
Me: Jake, if you say no again, I'm going to put this away.
J: I say no and yes and no and yes. I say yes now.
Plus, yesterday, he tried conversing with a tree...
J: Hello tree, how are you? (Pause) Doesn't talk tree. Mummy, doesn't talk tree.
Me: No darling, it doesn't.
J: Mummy talk though.
And before he goes to bed every night, he kisses the cat goodnight. Sometimes, they have daytime naps together and get v comfy indeed...
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Fire light
It's my counselling day and I don't want to go. Jake is at nursery. I have the house to myself, all I can hear is the ticking of the clock and the sound of my fingers tapping the keys and that's all I want. Not the sound of my own voice, or the sound of another's, even an understanding supportive one. I just want to sit here and be.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Why I love London
This is why I love London. One day, we can see art like this...
The Wei Wei sunflower seeds at Tate Modern
(made out of porcelain and individually hand painted)
(A film on the making of the seeds can be seen here)
Even if we are no longer allowed to touch them or
frolic around on them
And the next, someone like me can rediscover a part of my heritage here...
Buddhapadipha Thai Buddhist Temple in Wimbledon
Jake's first Loi Krathong
My first Loi Krathong in about 30 years
(If you look closely, you will see something odd...
I look happy!)
Loi Krathong is the Thai Festival of Lights and for me, celebrating it in London was more fitting in many ways than celebrating it in Thailand. Not only because my parents don't really celebrate it (and they live in Thailand), but because London has been more my home than anywhere else. It was great to see half-Thai children running around and hear other Thai people speaking English the way I do, in an English and sometimes even an Anglo-American, accent. After a lifetime of living everywhere but Thailand, it was the only time I felt at home around Thai people. I wasn't sure I'd ever feel that way. It also reminded me that Jake is half-Thai and that this is part of his heritage too.
As I was putting him to bed last night and we did our usual nightly singing of songs, I started singing the Loi Krathong song. At first I was hesitant about singing it with him, I wondered if he'd be confused about the words being Thai and not English. But I needn't have worried. He simply started singing along, asking to hear it again and again and repeating the words like he repeats every other word he hears. I've always felt ambivalent about the "being Thai" part of myself, because I've had so many difficult experiences around fitting in, but it doesn't have to be that way for Jake.
At the Tate on Friday, Jake impressed me so much when he sat through the whole 15 minute film of the making of the seeds. After having seen the seeds (or the stones as he called them), he was thoroughly absorbed in watching the film. For the first few minutes, I explained here and there what was happening in the film. But when I saw how utterly absorbed he was in it, I decided to stop and let him have his own experience of it.
I worry so much about whether I am doing enough for him, I forget that more often than not, all I need to do is step back and give him the space to find his own way. I am delighted and amazed, yet again, about how much he has to teach me.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Finding my way
Sometimes I write and write and out of pages and pages of insanely boring drivel, or rather, to give it its technical term, brain fart, I maybe get one sentence that not exactly gleams but makes me sit up and think: okay, there's possibility here. I'm not just talking about fiction writing, but any other writing that I am compelled to do for myself. Because of this and because writing is such a solitary activity, it is easy to become discouraged. Which is why I stop for long periods of time. That and life getting in the way.
I'm trying to get myself started again. Starting with freewriting and seeing where it takes me. Because I'm still trying to find out what it is I actually want to write and because I get bogged down with all sorts of doubts. Good thing I came across these pearls of wisdom then...
"...the process of writing fiction is totally unconscious. It comes from what you are learning, as you live, from within. For me, all writing is a process of discovery. We are looking for the meaning of life. No matter where you are, there are conflicts and dramas everywhere. It is the process of what it means to be a human being; how you react and are reacted upon, these inward and outer pressures. If you are writing with a direct cause in mind, you are writing propaganda. It's fatal for a fiction writer." (- Nadine Gordimer being interviewed for the Guardian Saturday Review 6 Nov 2011)
"Style requires digesting who we are. It comes from the inside. It means becoming more and more present, settling deeper and deeper inside the layers of ourselves and then speaking, knowing what we write echoes all of us; all of who we are is backing our writing. That is very solid ground to stand on.
We are each a concert reverberating with our whole lives and reflecting and amplifying the world around us.
Nanao Sakaki on the poet Issa: Not gifted with genius, but honestly holding his experience deep in his heart, keeping his simplicity and humanity." (From Natalie Goldberg's Wild Mind)
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
On not taking your own advice
Jake and I haven't been out today. And we won't be going out now. It's only 3:15pm, but the light is already fading and it is very very cold. Not to mention the fog. (Excuses excuses.)
I did think about it. The sun had been shining beautifully all morning. But Jake & I had a happy couple of hours playing in the light coming in through the windows of his "ni room"...
...and then we had the business of lunch to prepare and eat, and then I couldn't face it.
He's going through that phase that makes being two so delightful. Disagreeing with everything I say. Refusing to do anything I ask. Saying no to the things I give him, especially food he's asked for. Doing things I ask him not to, over and over again. Deciding that he needs cuggles as soon as I start cooking or washing up or have my hands elbow deep in crap and then crying like he's been assaulted when I tell him I can't. Changing his nappy and getting him dressed every morning is an ordeal. Just the thought of trying to get him ready to go out was too much for me today. Which was fine. But then, there are consequences.
After burning my batch of peanut butter cookies and after an already fraught few hours, I started to swear but then stopped. “Oh f….”
Just as I was feeling proud of my restraint, Jake chimed in and finished it for me, “F**k hell!” punctuated with a big grin.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d overheard him saying, “Buddy hell” to his trains earlier and I couldn’t help laughing. So he decided to make Mummy laugh even more by using all of his colourful language in one go, but most especially Shit. (And then, when we were singing Horsey Horsey, his clippetty-clop kept coming out as kicky-cock - unintentionally I might add.)
So I did it. I descended a little bit further into the I’ll-never-turn-into-my-parents quicksand pit. (The important point about quicksand being that the more you fight it, the quicker you sink. The double doozy is that my Mum had quite a foul mouth when I was growing up too.) Anyway, I told Jake that he couldn’t say those words, only Mummy can, because she’s a hypocrite. He just nodded cheerfully and said, “Okay!” and trotted off singing swear words like a nursery rhyme. (At least b***ocks comes out as box.)
As to the word hypocrite, I can’t wait until he starts using that one. Perhaps he will even choose to debut it on the occasion of being told off by one of his grandparents for using bad language. And he hasn’t even started school yet.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Wonder
One of the first and many pieces of advice I was given when I first became a mother was this: to keep yourself sane, try and get out of the house at least once a day, even if all you do is walk around the block once. I haven't always been very good at doing this, but every time that I do, I tell myself that I should do it more often. It always helps. Even when the weather is bad. Sure you get cold or soaked or whipped about a bit by wind, but it does help. It changes your perspective, and at the very least reminds you that you are connected to a world out there, a world much bigger than you.
Jake isn't at the age anymore when I absolutely have to take him out at least once a day or he will explode. But it helps. And I've been far too much inside my own head lately. So as soon as the sun showed itself today, I took Jake out. And what a wonder it was.
One moment I was brooding about my life and the next, Jake and I were chasing bubbles and crouching over pretty leaves, ooohing and ahhhing about their colours and the tiny droplets of water still clinging to their surfaces. It's always there, unfailingly. The opportunity to change your view, if you can stand to open your eyes and see. I know we can't always stand to do that, I certainly can't. But it's good to be reminded. Especially by something as lovely as a leaf.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Mishap of the day
So yesterday went better than I expected. I didn’t bother opening the blinds, we didn’t go out and it took Jake an hour and a half to go down for his nap, but still. Jake only went manically whiny in the evening, when Paul came home from work. Paul asked him, “Are you mental?” and Jake replied, “NO! I JAKE!!” And the only mishap of the day was when I forgot to tell Jake (like I usually do), not to touch my tea because it was hot, left the room and then heard him cry a few seconds later. It was one of those sharp cries where you immediately know something’s wrong. I came into the room to find him holding his sleepsuit away from his chest and bawling. There was tea all down his front. Luckily it wasn’t hot enough to scald him, but it did scare him. Sometimes I just forget. He’s 27 months old and capable and articulate in so many ways, but I still need to remind him not to touch hot things and not to put buttons in his mouth.
And today? For some reason I woke up cheerful. I can’t think why. Perhaps it was all the garlic I ate yesterday. Fresh garlic from the ful medames I'd made. I’d been craving it since we were on holiday in Spain. A few more days there and I would’ve been reverting back to vegetarianism. The Spanish are extremely fond of their sweets and their meat. Anyway, I finally got to satisfy my craving yesterday. I had such strong garlic breath I woke up with a distilled version of it still on my tongue. Mmmmm nice. All this aside, fresh garlic is supposed to be good for your heart, so maybe it can accidentally lead to cheerfulness. Now you know. Consider yourself warned.
But before I start worrying everyone unduly, this cheerfulness mainly translated itself into singing the Show Me Show Me theme tune and meaning it, and then doing clippety-clops around the living room along with Chris & Pui. Jake was not impressed. He looked at me disapprovingly and then said very quietly, “Don’t want it.” Only 2 and he’s already embarrassed by me.
Anyway, it didn’t last, the cheeriness. Lately I’ve been wishing that I had a job to go to. A fairly interesting but not too stressful part-time job with nice people I can talk to about something other than naps, potty training and poo. About half an hour into playing trains with Jake I wanted to scream. I was able to appreciate his imagination and the fact that he just wanted my company, I didn’t even have to join in very much, but I couldn’t get away from the fact that I was bored. A few fraught demands for cuggles while I was cooking and then refusing to eat what I’d made for him, and shouting ensued. It’s only 2pm, but Jake has already asked me at least 8 times, “Mummy happy?” and offering kisses. And when he sees that I am not, he cries and I try not to feel like a shit.
Rather synchronistically, I dropped Jake’s poo on the way to flushing it down the loo. I exclaimed rather loudly and Jake came running. “What happened Mummy?”
“I dropped your poo on the floor.”
“Oh. It’s okay. Kiss it better Mummy?”
Some things you just can’t (or shouldn't) kiss better.
But at least it didn’t fall on carpet.
That was today’s mishap. I wonder what’s in store for us tomorrow.
Try not to explode with anticipation, ok?
And today? For some reason I woke up cheerful. I can’t think why. Perhaps it was all the garlic I ate yesterday. Fresh garlic from the ful medames I'd made. I’d been craving it since we were on holiday in Spain. A few more days there and I would’ve been reverting back to vegetarianism. The Spanish are extremely fond of their sweets and their meat. Anyway, I finally got to satisfy my craving yesterday. I had such strong garlic breath I woke up with a distilled version of it still on my tongue. Mmmmm nice. All this aside, fresh garlic is supposed to be good for your heart, so maybe it can accidentally lead to cheerfulness. Now you know. Consider yourself warned.
But before I start worrying everyone unduly, this cheerfulness mainly translated itself into singing the Show Me Show Me theme tune and meaning it, and then doing clippety-clops around the living room along with Chris & Pui. Jake was not impressed. He looked at me disapprovingly and then said very quietly, “Don’t want it.” Only 2 and he’s already embarrassed by me.
Anyway, it didn’t last, the cheeriness. Lately I’ve been wishing that I had a job to go to. A fairly interesting but not too stressful part-time job with nice people I can talk to about something other than naps, potty training and poo. About half an hour into playing trains with Jake I wanted to scream. I was able to appreciate his imagination and the fact that he just wanted my company, I didn’t even have to join in very much, but I couldn’t get away from the fact that I was bored. A few fraught demands for cuggles while I was cooking and then refusing to eat what I’d made for him, and shouting ensued. It’s only 2pm, but Jake has already asked me at least 8 times, “Mummy happy?” and offering kisses. And when he sees that I am not, he cries and I try not to feel like a shit.
Rather synchronistically, I dropped Jake’s poo on the way to flushing it down the loo. I exclaimed rather loudly and Jake came running. “What happened Mummy?”
“I dropped your poo on the floor.”
“Oh. It’s okay. Kiss it better Mummy?”
Some things you just can’t (or shouldn't) kiss better.
But at least it didn’t fall on carpet.
That was today’s mishap. I wonder what’s in store for us tomorrow.
Try not to explode with anticipation, ok?
Sunday, November 07, 2010
It's all a dream now...
Back from holidays (the holidays that made me realise I hadn't been truly relaxed in about...oh, 2 years and that I've been parenting without the aid of alcohol or drugs, prescription or otherwise) and back to reality. Am wondering how I'm going to do this. Deep breaths, one day at a time? Either that or an impulse buy. A hardback book (steady) or if that doesn't cut it, a pair of boots. Cos you can never have too many. And the child benefit isn't going to spend itself is it?
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Trust yourself
I'm off on holiday for a bit. Meanwhile, I leave you with this...
"Trust yourself
You can't write the wrong thing
Give yourself the gift of this writing"
~ The Therapeutic Potential of Creative Writing, Gillie Bolton
Monday, October 25, 2010
The things they say...
After another weekend of staying in and wondering if I've got some rare terminal illness that starts in the sinuses, gives you green snot for ages and makes you ridiculously tired (and annoying), I ventured out with Jake today. Just cos it's such a fun and action packed place to go, we went to Sainsbury's.
We just "needed" a few random things...12 - 18 month onesies (yup, he's only just outgrown his 9 - 12 month ones), a bottle of elderflower cordial, some granola, fish fingers and because Jake saw it on Show Me Show Me and I absentmindedly said we could get some and he didn't stop reminding me, cheesecake. And because we went past them, we also came away with Peppa Pig stickers. It didn't go too badly. Jake only cried a few times (tiredness), but that short trip absolutely exhausted me. When we got home, my attempts to get Jake down for a nap failed and he almost had a meltdown because I couldn't get the damn stickers out of their packet and unpeeled fast enough...
Want bus, bus bus!!! (Peppa & her family in a camper van) Want bus now Mummy, (WAIIIILLLLLL) bus now, now. Need bus!
Train, train, want train, need train, want train noooowwwwwwww (Peppa & her friends in a train) Need train NOW!
Star, star, star, want star, want star, need star nowwwwwwwww (tiny star too friggin' tiny for adult fingers to handle)
Peppa Pig! 'Nother Peppa Pig, 'nother Peppa Pig. Peppa Peeeeg NOOOOOOWWWWW!
Nerves were fraught, tears and snot were everywhere and I was just about ready to scream.
And then...
C'ock, c'ock, c'ock! Need c'ock, Mummy! Want c'ock! Need c'ock now!!!!!!!!!
Yup. He still can't pronounce his l's.
Lucky for him I found this utterly hilarious.
Especially when I realised it could've been worse.
He could have been shouting "Mummy need c'ock" while he was holding the stickers in Sainsbury's.
We just "needed" a few random things...12 - 18 month onesies (yup, he's only just outgrown his 9 - 12 month ones), a bottle of elderflower cordial, some granola, fish fingers and because Jake saw it on Show Me Show Me and I absentmindedly said we could get some and he didn't stop reminding me, cheesecake. And because we went past them, we also came away with Peppa Pig stickers. It didn't go too badly. Jake only cried a few times (tiredness), but that short trip absolutely exhausted me. When we got home, my attempts to get Jake down for a nap failed and he almost had a meltdown because I couldn't get the damn stickers out of their packet and unpeeled fast enough...
Want bus, bus bus!!! (Peppa & her family in a camper van) Want bus now Mummy, (WAIIIILLLLLL) bus now, now. Need bus!
Train, train, want train, need train, want train noooowwwwwwww (Peppa & her friends in a train) Need train NOW!
Star, star, star, want star, want star, need star nowwwwwwwww (tiny star too friggin' tiny for adult fingers to handle)
Peppa Pig! 'Nother Peppa Pig, 'nother Peppa Pig. Peppa Peeeeg NOOOOOOWWWWW!
Nerves were fraught, tears and snot were everywhere and I was just about ready to scream.
And then...
C'ock, c'ock, c'ock! Need c'ock, Mummy! Want c'ock! Need c'ock now!!!!!!!!!
Yup. He still can't pronounce his l's.
Lucky for him I found this utterly hilarious.
Especially when I realised it could've been worse.
He could have been shouting "Mummy need c'ock" while he was holding the stickers in Sainsbury's.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Still here...
I've been wanting to post something all week, but I'm still sick (starting to feel better but still not over it) and I've been unsure what to write about.
On the one hand, being ill indoors, forced to keep my own company and stew in my own self-pity whilst looking after arelatively demanding toddler does not a great blog post make. On the other hand, being ill indoors, forced to keep my own company and stew in own self-pity whilst looking after a relatively demanding toddler is almost like being forced to sit in prolonged meditation...if you are of a certain character and frame of mind. It can drive you crazy (it did), but it can also take you to an unexpected place. A place where you see things clearly. Never mind that those things are boggy swamps rather than mountain vistas, seeing them clearly brings its own sense of peace. At least for a few minutes.
For me, the boggy swamp things are still too complicated, raw and personal to write about here. I'm trying to tackle them in counselling, though it feels more like wrestling, or a fist fight, or worse. But it has left me with a sense of surprise. You just never know where your mind, your self is going to take you.
On a lighter note, we only have 5 sleeps till we go on holiday (!!!!!!).
And Jake continues to be on top form. For the last few weeks, his favourite game has been to demand a specific thing to eat, watch it being made and then when it's offered to him, to refuse it. This has been particularly trying while I've been ill. One morning this week, after the second time that he refused something he'd requested, I said, "If you don't want this, I'm not going to make you anything else, do you understand?"
He thought about it for a moment and then said, "Yes Mummy, I standing now," and pointed at his legs.
You just can't beat toddler logic.
On the one hand, being ill indoors, forced to keep my own company and stew in my own self-pity whilst looking after a
For me, the boggy swamp things are still too complicated, raw and personal to write about here. I'm trying to tackle them in counselling, though it feels more like wrestling, or a fist fight, or worse. But it has left me with a sense of surprise. You just never know where your mind, your self is going to take you.
On a lighter note, we only have 5 sleeps till we go on holiday (!!!!!!).
And Jake continues to be on top form. For the last few weeks, his favourite game has been to demand a specific thing to eat, watch it being made and then when it's offered to him, to refuse it. This has been particularly trying while I've been ill. One morning this week, after the second time that he refused something he'd requested, I said, "If you don't want this, I'm not going to make you anything else, do you understand?"
He thought about it for a moment and then said, "Yes Mummy, I standing now," and pointed at his legs.
You just can't beat toddler logic.
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