Friday, 9 June 2017

Toe Dipping and Red Geraniums

I miss writing.

 I miss writing this blog. I miss you witnessing my life as I write it.  I never find it easy to write. I notice that watching TV late at night to escape - currently Law and Order Uk -  instead of writing this blog, is good escapism but the next day I have no words to mark my hours spent. All those thoughts and feelings I had are lost and un-remembered. Which may not be a bad thing -  like the washing up, thoughts and feelings can be never-ending. And demanding. And in constant flux. 

Tthere is also a bit of So what? in the mix. Maybe there are already too many words in the  world.
 The art is to choose which ones say it best.

But when you ask me,

How are you? How are you doing?

and you seem to want to know -  which makes me feel so very loved -  I don't know what to say. 

Because I feel different every moment of every hour of every day and night - a clashing pendulum of  misery, hope, despair, pleasure. And making decisions has never been my strong suit. So to help me to answer your question -  and to tell it to myself -  and practice choosing - I thought the best place would be here - in this blog.

Choosing today to dip my toes back in the writing water, tentatively,  to test my courage temperature.

This morning I planted geraniums -  their scarlet ball heads holding hot memories of early summer in this garden, memories of a different variety - pink starlets -  cascading over balconies in every small French town we ever drove through - during all those late summer holidays. And I felt nostalgic.

 I thought about what does it mean for us - the confusion of this hung parliament?  Of course I voted yesterday - for the Suffragettes -  but I feel distant, disconnected  from the whole mechanism of government and politics. Which don't represent me. Although I'm grateful someone is doing the impossible job of PM. If it was mine I would pour all the money into parenting  classes - fierce loving and guidance and support for parents and children....teaching self love from the first breath.

 I thought about the terrible fires, claiming lives and livelihoods, in South Africa in the Knysna area where my grandparents lived. Knysna which holds all my childhood holiday memories of sizzling heat and giant curling waves and white sand beaches. And sweet watermelon and yellow peaches. And I felt sad for all those peoples' loss and pain.

And I thought about Robin  - which I do nearly all the time. Wearing his old blue gardening T-shirt. He would have dug out the wormy compost from the bin and filled the wheelbarrow for me so that I could plant my red geraniums in their terracotta pots on the patio. So that I wouldn't strain my back I did today.

Then I remember that senario was a long a time ago. In the last year he couldn't lift a spoon let alone a spade full of compost. And then I feel bereft all over again. Digging and planting the garden without him. Even when he couldn't do it he would look at all my hard work and say,

You're wonderful.

I didn't believe him then. I wish I had. I could believe him now.... but the pendulum has swung again and I only feel the cold wind of his absence pulling me away from the sunlight of his smile and dropping me into the dungeon of my own shame and regret....where self love is hard to find me.

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