walk

A walk, there and back, along the disused railway from Elgin to Lossiemouth.

father

I've just returned from a fleeting visit to Elgin, Moray, a wonderful part of Scotland. Almost 6 years ago I met my cousin Shelia at my cousin Krysia's funeral in Elgin, and yesterday I visited Shelia's home and the hours flew as we chatted and discovered a shared interest in family history. Out came a tin of old photographs and amongst them were these of my father as a young man before WWII. I've seen the first one before, a dapper chap who earned his nickname 'the cock of the North' but the other two are new to me and it gladdened my heart to see my dad as a smiling teenager, tanned and strong, surrounded by friends and his brother Alexander, Shelia's father. 

These photos date from the 1930's and show the young people potato picking.

diary

From age 16 I kept a diary, this continued until I was 42. How easily I could rediscover the boy obsessed teenager, the social life of my university years and be surprised at how memory plays tricks. Convinced by a recollection, I’d read back and see it was false, not how I’d recorded it at all. Could my recording also be false? What is truth?

For years I moved with these diaries into a series of house shares. Pages and pages of the past, biro bio, I developed a love hate relationship and fantasised about destroying them. In Nottingham in the mid nineties I had ripped one up, immediately feeling horrified that I no longer had the ‘complete’ set of my life! Could I free myself from the compulsion to write every night? After 26 years it is a challenging question. Too much self reflection, yuk, and its physical bulk grew and grew. It was HEAVY. I felt chained. 

There seems to be a universal belief that we SHOULD keep our diaries, that they may be useful to others in the future. A compulsion that every moment must be recorded, every moment could be commodified. What about having a private thought? Not one ounce of me wants anyone to read my diary. 

I shared on Facebook that I was considering destroying my diaries, testing the idea, making it solid. The response was surprising, people were genuinely horrified and couldn't relate to the idea of 'freeing myself'', they warned of regret. Something powerful was bringing peoples ‘stuff’ to the surface. I fantasised about making a ritual out of burning them, but in the end tore them into pieces and recycled them. It took a couple of evenings and I destroyed in year order, following some internal logic. Before ripping them I read through, copying out some pages: most movingly the days around my fathers death when I was 19. It was emotional reading about this and my past loves, past hopes.

It felt naughty to stop writing and I did so for over a year, but on the 30th of December, 2014 I began again. Not writing helped me to recognise the benefit this activity holds for me and as the first day in my new diary approached I felt excited. In the first week of this year I attended a local writers group, and this notion that we should keep our diaries came up, that they are a mine of information for the writer. I understand this position but have not felt regret for my actions. It was necessary to help me look forward, to be who I am now and to recycle a long winded keepsake which held a lot of negativity. It let me endlessly repeat the old stories and old hurts, time to move on.

jim

Last weekend I went to Sunday Assembly, a godless congregation who's motto is live better, help often, wonder more. It's a heart lifting, soul connecting, life affirming hour, belting out songs in the name of good, we celebrate being alive. If you get the chance go, just go.

Smiley faced volunteers greet everyone at the door of Conway Hall and I immediately feel part of something. The hall was filling up fast and I found a seat next to an older gentleman and got settled in. Jim was his name, originally from the north of Ireland but in London for many years. He was lean, poorly dressed for the cold weather with a genteel face and enviable bone structure. He reminded me of my father who had ancestors in the north of Ireland. I told Jim this, and though we struggled in hearing each other with the bustle of the filling hall, I saw he was pleased and he patted my back lightly.

At the end of the assembly we turned to each other to say goodbye. He shook my hand and said, 'You think I am like your father?', and after a short pause, 'I would have liked a daughter like you.' We clasped each others hands, I was deeply moved and my eyes filled. We pushed our chairs to the side of the room and became separated in the crowd. I joined the mass of people heading for a cup of tea, blinking back tears and wondered if I'd see him again, also feeling that that was our moment, what had to be said was said. Where on earth do you go from there?

My own father has been dead for almost 25 years and his alcoholism meant we never got to know each other. He was rarely kind to me and never expressed pleasure in having me for a daughter and that's why Jim's words touched a nerve. It was amazing to hear a father figure say these words. Something to hold onto.

I've done a lot of work and have forgiven my father, he did his best. I keep the brave child me close and she still feels ouchy, the fact she feels is a miracle in itself.

fun

FUN - my word for 2015. Thats all I have to say. Happy new year x

pennies from heaven

Recently I've had the frightening experience of waiting for results from biopsies taken at the end of November. All is benign and I am deeply grateful for my good health. During my hospital appointment on christmas eve the nurse said to me, 'good health is the best christmas present ever' and every cell in my body said YES! Nothing else really matters, I had all I'd hoped and prayed for.

During the days waiting for an appointment at the clinic and then waiting for results I felt very alone and my heart sank every time I remembered what was going on. Many a deep breath was taken to centre myself and continue activities. Throughout this period I notice pennies everywhere, when putting out my bin bags there was one on the pavement, while walking I'd spot them twinkling on the street, there was even one in the doorway of a classroom I was teaching in. Mostly, I left them where they were, but two are sitting on my shelf as a reminder. There were so many I began to wonder what it could mean, how could I interpret this?

My findings gave me hope and something to hold onto:

Finding pennies is often a message from spirit to think positively, you're creating with your thoughts and beliefs, so stay positive!

Pennies can be seen as a call to release your fear and uncertainty into the light, and to focus on your hearts desire and what you would like to see in your life.

When you see a penny, it can be a loving reminder that you are at one with your loved ones and guides... You are connected, protected and all is well.

All is well.

jam tarts

As I age I am aware that alongside the current me are my younger selves, the eight year old, the sixteen year old, the twenty eight year old. I often catch her younger eyes peering out of my face, and welcome the hopeful girl, the girl with the sensitive and compassionate heart. The younger me could run barefoot and whippet fast on the grass of the school field, winning all races. When she springs into action now she is confused that this body doesn't move with such ease.

With good fortune, I am at the midpoint of my life, my awareness continues to develop and deepen. I stand on this road looking back at my past and turning my head towards the future, how will I view 'here' in the coming years? Working with children of all ages I am reminded of my own childhood, the things that were mysterious and unknowable that I couldn't share with an adult, one of these things was BREASTS. As a girl of eight I knew they were my destiny, but how?

It was a summer day and I was standing in the front bedroom wearing a flowery sleeveless dress of some 1970's synthetic material. Studying my reflection in the full length mirror I focused upon my chest, maybe running my hands over it, knowing 'it' would change. Having prepared for this moment I popped two empty silver jam tart cases up my dress to create neat little mounds, not pleased, not happy with the results. Puzzled, I wondered were breasts like camels humps? Did they hang? I didn't have a scooby do! Time solved this particular mystery, it didn't take many more years as I was one of those unfortunate primary school girls who develop early, too early.

Sadly, my childhood was unsafe, with adults who were out of control with addiction, depression and their own deep wounds that made them unavailable. The girl and young woman within me is still hurting, still heartbroken, but also cheeky and bright and hopeful. The girl who pushed jam tart cases up her dress, the girl who took her fathers bottles from their hiding places around the house and lined them up along the garden path, the innocent girl who spoke the truth and suffered for it, she is here.