Ah, the first day of British summertime...and the sun is actually shining. Not only that - it is shining in Scotland! I know because I've been studying the forecast - on my way, as I am, for a 4 day visit to my homeland tomorrow. I can't wait to see Max, and my darling Grandma, as well as all my favourite friends & relations. Therapy indeed.
But it is Therapy that has kept me from them since my last trip in early December. For while I may have been trying to hibernate (and indeed feel as if my brain has atrophied) I've actually been hard at work making sure that our wee shop is in tip top shape for the year.
If you didn't know me & read my blog you'd be forgiven for thinking that all I do is sit around & contemplate my navel. In reality I'm a shopkeeper, a fashion buyer, a "Company Director" no less! But I still feel like a wee lassie playing at shops. Which is probably why I never mention what I do for a living. Well, can you blame me for not dwelling on my full time job? Choosing pretty things; making our wee shop look inviting; selling clothes to lovely customers - it hardly counts as work.
Therapy is what it is - for me, and hopefully for the ladies who visit our little emporium. Eight years ago when Chris & I were planning our new business in Petworth, we couldn't decide on a name for the shop. So Chris asked me what I wanted it to be. "Somewhere relaxing & inviting, where ladies can browse, with nice music & a warm welcome, where they can have a good time whether they spend money or not - a bit of therapy". And so our business was born.
And it was therapy for me too. To be in a new place, far from home & family, knowing only a handful of people, my mum recently dead after a long illness, could have been stressful. And instead the shop healed me. I was in my element. I poured my energies into creating a haven for myself as much as for my customers. And the wonderful women who have shared their time & life stories (and money - thank you very much!) have enriched my life.
Fashion is fun, shopkeeping isn't brain surgery. Doing what I do, I have no reason to be stressed. Not that that's stopped me. But now I realise that any stress I've had has been self inflicted. Not content with our one perfect shop, we tried expanding - a shoe shop, a children's shop, a frock shop - spreading ourselves and our finances too thin. I see now that I was driven by my inner demons - a desire to escape the pain and turmoil that still existed in my personal life, a need to prove myself, to drown out the critics in my head.
Having come full circle, back to our one original shop, I am once again able to focus on the elements that inspired me all those years ago. Through my navel gazing I have come to understand that we all have our dharma - a path that we must follow in order to uphold good and find our individual salvation. For most of my life I'd imagined that my dharma would be something noble, something more...oh Laura...
But now I have come to understand that shopkeeping is what I do best. While I might still harbour dreams of being Mother Theresa, or berate myself for not being Michelangelo, I can accept that my small contribution to a happier life (for me & for my lovely customers) is good enough. Selecting beautiful colours & fabrics, finding the perfect linen skirt or yummy cashmere sweater - making my customers smile - is good enough. And I have a nice time too.
Today is Good Friday. The weather has reverted to winter (not so good for business, but nothing I can do about that). I will sit in my little shop & smile and chat to anyone who ventures in - offering chocolate eggs & words of advice, making sure that everyone leaves with a smile, if not with a carrier bag, hopeful that they will return.
My trip to Scotland was a triumph. The weather continued warm & sunny, allowing me to sit outside with Max and with my darling Grandma. Despite her failing memory, we sat in peace together and I told her over and over how much I love her. Not knowing who I was made no difference - she smiled and thanked me for my love. And I in turn found peace and acceptance in her aged situation. At one point, thinking her asleep, I touched her arm. Without moving she spoke:
"I'm not sleeping - just being still."
A lesson indeed.
More lessons followed as Max & I sat in the sunshine and shared our individual demons. As we watched the sun set over Edinburgh from Holyrood Park, we agreed to let go of past pain and allowed room for the good memories to surface. I felt healed.
It has taken a long time - a decade - but time is a great healer - or at least it can be if we are willing to learn, to understand, to forgive - ourselves as well as each other.
It is now more than 8 years since we found the old butchers shop that is now our Therapy emporium, nearly 9 years since mum died. My last meal in Scotland was with my Step Dad, Tom. We met in my favourite restaurant, on the shores of the River Forth, with views of my favourite edifice - the Forth Rail Bridge. As the sun glinted on red, we laughed and reminisced in the company of his delightful companion Violet (aka Morag). To see him happy and relaxed after the pain we had shared after Mum's death, filled me with joy. Time is indeed a great healer.
Amen.
Right, that's it! I am fed up with being miserable & ill for no reason whatsoever! Still recovering from the flu, I came down with a cold. You know the kind - a thick head, oceans of phlegm, talking like a teenager with an adenoid problem - nice.
Chris says he still loves me. "What, even though I'm a snotty troll?" "Yes, even though you're a snotty trollop." Okay, it's close enough.
Several sleepless nights, woken from dreams by a torrential left nostril, have left me crotchety and tired with a cough like an eighty year old chain smoker - yuck. I can't sing, I haven't been laughing nearly enough - time for action.
Since the sun is shining, I decide to focus my attention outwards - a bit of mindful meditation on nature - that should get me out of this introverted grump.
As morning steals across Petworth town centre, the birds come out to play. Our town stalwarts the Jackdaws flap & parp from rooftop to chimney, gossiping together before taking off in search of sustenance. (They reconvene in the evening, I swear to settle down with a cuppa in front of Coronation Street.)
Starlings, oily, shimmering, march stiffly up and down the church roof, like Private Jones from Dads Army. Pied Wagtails hop with furious staccato movements - monochromatic clockwork toys which never wind down. Wood Pigeons cuddle & coo - united, united, united (listen out for them). I don't have to look far for inspiration.
Three days ago we were treated to a spectacular sight. Hovering directly above the town centre were two pairs of Buzzards. About 500 feet above the ground, they wheeled & swooped, riding the thermals. Suddenly one of them dived. Folding it's wings tight into it's sides, it plunged towards the earth & into the trees below. Who knows which poor rodent was forced to meet his maker, the Buzzard didn't reappear.
The remaining three Buzzards continued to circle directly over our heads. Suddenly a squadron of Jackdaws hove into view, swiping, diving, driving them off course. It was like an avian version of The Battle Of Britain, the similarity accentuated as Chris loudly hummed the theme tune. Spectacular.
As we sat for the first time this Spring, revelling in the warmth of the sun & delighting in the views from our roof terrace, the Buzzards returned. I gazed skyward, trying to spot these graceful birds of prey.
"I can't see them."
"They're definitely up there. I can hear their cries, they're very distinctive."
"Oh, what do they sound like?"
Chris paused, frowned in thought... "Urrgg-uurrr-urgh, but higher pitched." The noises accompanied by a special beak face (of course).
"Sorry, can you do the noise again."
"Urgh-uuurrr-urgh." This time with Owl-like facial movements that suggest he is about to regurgitate a pellet of bones & fur.
By this time I'm convulsed with laughter. I swear, living with Chris is akin to spending all day in a surround sound cinema. The fact that his hair was standing on end, forming a birdlike quiff, just added to the Buzzard impression.
Sure enough though, above us soared a pair of fine birds of prey - drawn, no doubt, by Chris's uncanny impression.
When the sun ceased to shine on the roof terrace, I retreated indoors to fiddle about with my wee clay torso. Let me tell you what I'm up to: This sculpture was created with the help of a book. The author shows step by step how to form the foundation of a figure by using blocks & balls to create the main skeletal areas such as the pelvis & ribcage. It looks simple, but I was behaving like a stroppy school girl when I started it. My ego was a bit put out at the prospect of what it saw as "sculpting by numbers". "
"Och, I've got an MA in Fine Art - I know what I'm doing. I won't bother getting my proportions right or angling my blocks, getting the dimensions correct. Nah, I'll just slap the clay about & see what happens". Well I'll tell you what happens - you spend hours trying to correct the basics when you've already spent an age working on the surface detail. Pants.
Serves me right. But I'll tell you, I learnt a lot from that. I learnt a lot from the book, however grudgingly. Working with the basic building blocks is helping me to understand the anatomy of the human body. The more I know, the less work it is to arrive at a good foundation from which to express myself. Simples.
So I'm happily sculpting, trying out my new tools, and I see a flickering black blob in my peripheral vision. Impatiently I brush it away - a fly enjoying the sunshine, just like me.
Later that evening Heidi came to call. As we chatted on the sofa she paused. "There's something moving in your hair." Reaching out she plucked a small spider from my head. The same intruder that had distracted me from my sculpting. This arachnid tourist had been seeing the sights from the top of my head for the last five hours! I reckon he had hitched a lift while I was rootling around behind the television earlier (don't ask).
Now I'm a bit of a wimp when it comes to spiders, or any creepy crawlies. I don't wish them any harm - just don't do your crawling on me. But, as my mum always said, what you don't know can't hurt you. A spider living in my hair? I didn't know it was, so I didn't care. Mind you, it was a little one. I can't say I'd have been so sanguine if it had been a Tarantula.
Not satisfied with being removed, my new best friend proceeded to work his way back up the sofa and attempt once more to cadge a lift on my head. What is so attractive about my hair? Heidi reckoned that he was trying to get back behind the telly.
The next day Chris & I were in our turret. Craning his neck to peer into a hole in the window frame, Chris started to exclaim. "Oh, it's gone. He got it!" What is he talking about? "The fly, it's gone. There was a wee spider in his web earlier & a humungous fly flew into it. It was wrestling to escape but the spider started circling it with his fangs out, waiting to paralyse it with poison. It must have got it & dragged it down into his hole."
OH MY GOD!
What if it was my travelling companion? He must have been starving after his round-the-house trip. Yes, but he wouldn't eat me...would he? I pondered the gory scenario. Eugh!
Ah but he didn't - a prescient reminder to me of this eternal moment of Now. And so I'd say my mindfulness meditation was a success and a failure.
Focusing my attention outward on the world around me made me forget my introspective imaginings and left space for creativity.
But I had a spider in my hair for five hours and I didn't even notice it.
Not very bloody mindful!
Greetings & apologies to my loyal and patient viewing several. It has been six weeks since you last heard from me. This time I have no excuses. I have been hiding in a hole, waiting for February to pass. I confess to being rubbish at winter. I think I'm doing really well because I love December and all the festivities. By January I'm busy with the Sale and planning my year ahead. Then just as I'm congratulating myself on negotiating the dark months - splat - flat on my face as February extends a sneaky leg.
For some reason I was particularly struck down this year. I accept that a severe bout of flu didn't help (proper flu, not Man Flu). You know - when you feel so exhausted that your brain doesn't work & positivity is a distant memory? God help me if I ever have worse - I'm a rubbish patient!
Ah, but which came first - the chicken or the egg? Being ill made me feel depressed. But in reality, I'm sure it was my low mood that left me susceptible to the flu. I'll tell you what happened. I tried three times last week to explain myself here. I remembered what my dear friend Cara said about writing it down, however I was feeling. But when I'm slithering around at the bottom of a black pit, forming sentences is a struggle. How do you describe abject despair and the total paralysis that fear brings?
I know what started it off, and to be honest, I'm a bit embarrassed. Kind of thought I'd brought it on myself. Well, you know me and my constant search for The Answer - reading my improving books, meditating, communing with God. I'd been persevering with A Course In Miracles. It's my toilet-side reading now. I pick it up whenever I sit down, and have a random glance. I reckon it's better than nothing, and I just can't yet face starting at the beginning & reading it all the way through - too taxing.
But the trouble with dipping in and out of a serious tome like this is that you can swallow a huge piece of knowledge out of context. And it can choke you.
Now all my searching & reading & experience so far has taught me that we humans are far greater than the limited individuals we see ourselves as on this planet Earth. The ancient sages and the quantum physicists are all pointing to a supreme intelligence, a source, from which everything stems and of which we are all an indivisible part. Cool.
Much of my reading and contemplating revolves around the struggle between my Ego and my true self. I'm more than happy with the concept of being an eternal, limitless being - not bound by my body or by the restrictions of this holodeck we call reality. I'm with the scientists and their psychedelic space-time continuum. Perfectly comfortable with birth & death being just different aspects of a timeless existence.
But how do I reconcile this with the day to day nonsense that my Ego fills my head with? Now, by way of explanation, my understanding of things is thus: My Ego is the identity that I have - formed of DNA and a lifetime of influences and limitations. It is the thinking, breathing part of me that wants me to believe that I am somehow separate from everyone else out there.
"So what?" you may well ask. Well the thing is, separation leads to fear. How else can it be if we are convinced that our mortal flesh & a few trillion neurones is all that protects us from the endless dangers 'out there'. That is scary. And the problem is that this fear and isolation leads to all the suffering that we have already and will ever experience. Hate, jealousy, judgement, violence - you name it, its source is fear.
Fear leads to suffering, while actions stemming from love lead to peace. Simples. This is my sole reason for my quest - to give up pain and to live a peaceful life.
Now before you all die of boredom - this is no idle, theoretical concern of mine. You see my Ego isn't going to give up without a fight. Every time it gets a thump because I've made a move towards my true self, it comes back twice as hard.
So I'm on the loo, and I pick up Miracles and there it is: "This world is an illusion. It makes no difference what we achieve in our lives, it is how we live. Do we live with love? Nothing remains the same." Oh. Yes. It must've got me thinking - and got my Ego worried - because that night it got ready for a major attack. Lying in bed and meditating on this idea, my Ego caught me off guard. "So, it doesn't matter what you achieve then?" No. "Then what was the point of it all? What was the point of leaving Max? Here you are, ten years on, and for what? It was all for nothing."
Wham.
Ugh.
Right in the solar plexus. Winded me, it did. I felt myself crumple and a dense weight of despair engulfed me.
Knock out. Match over. Ego is the new world champion.
I wandered around in a black cloud of despair for weeks, wondering what the point of my life was, crippled with thoughts of death and old age. No amount of reading & meditating & talking to myself could shake my deep depression. On and on the voices in my head shouted - worthless, useless, limited, pointless - a never ending cacophony that echoed round and round. Exhausting.
Finally my true self fought back. A number of things happened to loose me from the throes of my despair. Max called me. Appreciative of the help I'd given him with his application, he wanted me to be the first to hear about his offer from Edinburgh University. Oh heaven to an absent mother's ears. A poignant reminder that nothing stays the same.
Buoyed by our conversation, I decided to make the most of my advantage. That night I meditated on my crippling fear. Safe in my alpha state I focused: "There is no such thing as time. All we have is Now". No point worrying about a future that doesn't exist then, is there?!
Not bad.
I awoke with a smile, relieved that there were chinks in my cloud. Determined to continue the good work (you can't say I don't try - part of the problem, I fear), I practised a new visualisation. You see, up until now I'd pictured my limitless self encased in my body - like some minute galaxy trying to shine its light through my flesh. Every time I felt a twinge in my solar plexus I imagined that it was my true self trying to communicate - reminding me of how I'd failed to find peace.
Nah. All wrong.
Try this on for size instead! My Ego is contained in my solar plexus, and every time it knots up it's no more than my Ego griping about something (like one of those toilet gremlins in the TV advert). Ooh yes, my limitless true self is actually on the outside - extending in every direction - bigger and more powerful than any petty Ego. Nice! Then I added some big flappy wings. Cool. Every time my gremlin gripes, I'll just ruffle my wings knowing that it's not real.
Getting there.
But still a bit of residual cloud, catching me off guard when I wasn't looking. Then along came Heidi. Heidi is a glorious soul - feisty, honest, loving, giving - a joy to be with, and always a surprise. We were having a Friday chat about life and she was talking about always knowing who she was, despite life's setbacks. I caught myself nodding in agreement, while my gremlin griped gently.
It was now or never.
"Actually, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Keep going Laura.
"I have never, as an adult, felt comfortable with who I am. I am never without the voices in my head telling me I'm wrong, criticising my every move. I don't love myself."
There, said it.
Heidi listened. "Why don't you let others judge you?"
What?
"Instead of judging yourself, why don't you just love yourself & let others judge you?"
Oh, now that's an idea - instead of fretting about having done the right thing, why don't I do my best and then let others respond as they choose to? Mm, I like it. Less work for me to do.
As if one piece of wisdom wasn't enough, Heidi then presented me with another:
"Remember," she said, "actions speak louder than words."
I considered this from all angles. Okay, so my gremlins may berate me for not always being the perfect, loving person I could be. They can attack me for my thoughts - but how often do I actually act on these negative thoughts? Not often. My initial response may come from my griping Ego, but I still choose to respond with love. Okay.
And what of others' actions? What if I look outwards, at how other people respond to me?
On Sunday it was my birthday. I awoke to a call from my step son in Australia. Cards & presents and more calls followed - all wishing me love. My darling hubby threw me a surprise party. And when my dear friend Dorothy appeared from London, I savoured the pleasure and decided to appreciate all of these gestures of love - no questions, no argument. Who am I to know better than these loving & generous friends?
Now I know what Chris will say when he reads this. He'll say: "You've got too much time on your hands." And he'd be right! On the recommendation of my son I have been practising doing less, trying just to be. And I sure need the practice - I'm rubbish at it! But I will persevere, because in the quiet nothingness there is room to grow. Max said that it would be hard, especially for an antsy creature like me.
But he is right. If I hadn't made time & space, I wouldn't have started to create things again. Not as a means to an end, not for any public recognition, but just for the sheer joy of it. So many years filled with action and drama left no time for creativity. I tried to drown out the noise in my head and ended up drowning myself.
And so I may still dip beneath the waves now and again. But the rest of the time I can look around me and make choices that are right - for me and for others. I'll always think too much. I'll always be searching for answers. But I'm learning to try less and be more.
PS: This is for Frances x
PPS: No I can't get it round the right way!
Following on from my last Blog about...stuff. You know - relativity and doing small things with great love, and stuff. I want to tell you about a visit to my friend Katrina. Katrina & I have been friends since we were kids. 37 years of friendship. That's nice. We met when I was 9 and Kat was 8. We grew up together, know each other's history, family, friends. Lovely.
Before you think I've gone all The Waltons on you, I must point out that we haven't been the most attentive of friends over the last 2 decades. You know how it goes - we live only 40 miles apart but are lucky to organise a meeting once a year. But no matter, we pick up as we left off, with all the accumulated history forming an indestructible link between us, despite our lack of contact.
The last time I saw Kat she was planning some huge changes in her personal life. We discussed it, I gave her my encouragement, and left her to it. Nearly a year later I sent her a "how are you?" text and we arranged to meet. "Come and stay." said Kat. "That way we can catch up properly." "I have a buying appointment in London. I'll come up the night before." said I. And so our date was set.
Kat has a beautiful daughter Umi. If I were visiting two such special women then gifts were required. What to take for such an occasion? What could I offer that would express my care at this difficult time? I know - jewellery to adorn, exotic candles to scent, silk & jewels to please the eye, The King & I to bring back memories of childhood, gin & tonic to relax & celebrate, Amaretti biscuit papers to light, iced buns for breakfast. A Care Parcel, my mum used to call it. Gifts given with love and thought that would express emotions that my words could not. There was something beautiful & profound in sharing Kat & my traditions with her daughter. The thought that our history was influencing a new generation made my heart swell.
And in return I was welcomed like a long lost friend. Not lost - just laid to one side temporarily. Beautiful, affectionate Umi greeted me with hugs & smiles, just as happy as her mum to pick up where we left off. Gin was drunk, presents were appreciated and cottage pie was prepared, as we settled down to share the year that had just been. In the warmth of Kat's beautiful home we talked - of partners & lovers, careers & family, dreams & regrets.
I'm happy to say that the regrets were few. What's this? Have the young girls we once were finally grown up? I hope not. Older and wiser and more experienced? Yes. Grown up? No. Crying with laughter over her brother's swimming trunks & pronouncing her love of peas, Kat is still the scatty, quirky, creative spirit she always was. And I am still playing about with fashion.
As if dusted with a touch of Hollywood magic, Kat announced the arrival of her sister Fiona - staying that week on business. When she finally appeared it was like being transported in a time capsule. Rewind 30 years and listen as the two sisters dissect parents and attempt one upmanship - Fiona winning as usual. As Kat's older sister & I discussed old friends & past history, Kat and Umi planned the next school day & watched Friends.
I had envisaged an evening of deep conversation into the wee small hours - dissecting failed relationships - and instead I got old times & domestic bliss - perfect. Perhaps I hadn't fulfilled my duties as a friend? Perhaps I should be questioning & pronouncing? But Kat had shown me, in a few words & expressions, that she was coping just fine with this latest situation. Just as she's always coped - with love & honesty & humour & understanding. There was nothing to add.
And as we stood in her kitchen late that night I told her how proud I was of her and gave her a hug. So many words I'd imagined saying, and none were necessary. 37 years of friendship & laughter & love - no need for words.
Amen,
Laura
The sun is shining here in Petworth & 2012 is upon us. After the battering winds of the last few days it's a blessed relief to see a cloudless sky.
It always strikes me that New Year should start in April or May - a bit of warmth, a burst of buds - that would feel like a renewal. Instead I am inclined to hibernate. But perhaps that is the way it should be. Time to recover from the excesses of Christmas, time to consider where we have been and where we want to go. Or perhaps the chance to just be.
I'm not one for New Year's resolutions. I much prefer to spread my plans across the coming year, to ease in gently and take my time. December is spent in contemplation of the year just gone. Being an antsy, overactive creature, my years are always crammed with action. My goal of just "being" always seems to be just beyond my reach - too many things to do, people to see.
I am never at a loss for achievements to catalogue, positives and negatives to weigh up. But the real successes for me come not from action but from internal growth.
It is Sunday and I have been sitting in our 'turret' (that's Chris's name for our bay window that overlooks the town square, from where we can watch the world go by). It is on the second floor and affords a bird's eye view. Nothing like getting off the ground for giving a wider perspective on life.
I like my morning routine to be thus: lights on, fire on, cup of tea, sit in turret in quiet contemplation. I try to get up as early as possible, knowing that once the world gets going my precious solitude will be surrendered to the needs of those around me. And that's okay. That's the way I like it.
I am a social creature. We are all social creatures, whether we accept it or not. We are here on earth to relate to one another. It is a universal truth that we are all connected. The theologists know it, the quantum physicists know it. It is only we individuals who try to deny it.
Old Einstein was spot on with his theory of relativity. It is through our relationship with others that we grow. I know, we all know, what it is to learn this the hard way. Difficult situations, uncomfortable conversations - that's where the lessons lie. Which is why I am so protective of my quiet time.
If I am to give to those around me then I need to remind myself of what those gifts should be. As Mother Theresa so perfectly put it: "There are no great deeds - just small deeds done with great love."
Love, forgiveness (of ourselves as well as others), understanding, acceptance, kindness - all tools with which we can enrich our lives and find peace. Lovely. Yeah, and easier said than done.
I'd say my own search for peace began consciously some 15 years ago. There's nothing like being on your knees to make you focus on what's really important. My desire to feel at peace was sparked by the knowledge that my choices so far had caused immeasurable pain to myself and those around me. You see what I mean? It's all relative.
15 years ago. Blimey. I would like to say that this epiphany led to a dramatic change in my behaviour and that I have spent the last decade and a half atoning for my mistakes. Hah! The very idea. Too funny. No. I continued on my wayward path, stumbling from one catastrophe to another. If my life were a Soap Opera you'd be shouting at the television in frustration at my misguided attempts to improve my life and relationships.
But that's the point, isn't it? We grow not by knowing what is right in the first place, but by learning from our mistakes. Remember The Prophet? It is only when we have gouged out deep wells of suffering that we have the capacity to fill them with joy. Yeah, well, most of us have some experience of that.
Now I'm going to give in to my addiction to saving others and tell you about a beautiful book: A Return To Love by Marianne Williamson. I'm not suggesting you read it (see - I'm trying to learn) but I can't resist sharing some of it's contents with you. The subtitle is Reflections On The Principles Of A Course In Miracles. Oops, I just can't help myself!
A Course In Miracles I think I have mentioned before. A weighty tome with pages like tissue paper and writing too small for me to read now without my glasses, it lives next to my toilet and, in turn, inspires and torments me.
A Return To Love, on the other hand, is like a soothing balm - accessible, easily understood - a bridge between the metaphysical and the material world. The message? Love is the only reality. Anything else is simply the ego's way of enforcing our idea of separation. In practising our surrender to love & by accepting our true identity as spiritual beings rather than corporeal individuals, we can truly shine - as one.
Heavy.
No. A blessed relief.
A Course In Miracles has my Ego panicking about the need to surrender my material self in order to attain peace (ooh, noo, can't do that! Can't give up parties & new shoes & cosy conversations with friends!)
A Return To Love reminds me that our purpose is not to relinquish this material world, but to embrace it as the spiritual beings that we are. To live with love, to act with forgiveness, to accept forgiveness ourselves, and to be of service in whatever way we can - knowing that every little helps.
Haven't we all dreamt of grand schemes & brilliant ways that we can contribute to this earthly life? (Or is that just me?!) Many of us know the saying "A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step". But it's true. A smile, a willingness to listen, a loving thought, all tiny contributions to a greater goal.
It's 7.20am now and I have just turned my radio on - then off again. As I listened momentarily to the news reader pronounce upon the alleged cruelty of Allied troops in Iraq, I imagined a world where fear, anger, hatred were replaced with the only thing that is real -
Love.
My own motives began as selfish. In seeking peace for myself I have come to understand that Love cannot be selfish. In giving love I am finding peace. The bumper sticker that proclaims "Smile and the world smiles with you" is a cliche because it is true.
Try it. It works.
Amen.
P.S: Having awoken at 5.15am to practice my emanations of love, by midday I was tired and getting a bit crabbit. My good intentions were being thwarted by my frequent descent into pettiness. Oh well, back to the drawing board. And since this seems to be a blog of sayings, here's another one - God loves a trier!
Those of you who have read my Blog regularly (thank you faithful friends) will know that my mum is no longer alive. It is now 8 years since she died of breast cancer. I have written about many members of my family, but not her. Not yet.
Mum was 67 when she died - only 2 years older than my darling hubby. Too young. Too soon for someone so youthful and full of energy and life. Perhaps she used it all up too quickly. Perhaps she had had enough.
The daughter of my centenarian Grandma, she was every bit as lively and eccentric in her way. I remember her when I was a child - always baking, always a spoon to lick and something delicious to eat afterwards. Meringues were a speciality - every kind from mint to haselnut. As were peanut cookies & chocolate shortbread & apple pie. No wonder I had no interest in eating normal food. Although she was equally good at cooking that.
She was a cross between Mrs Beaton and Raquel Welch - tall and tanned and toned from endless yoga and dog walking. All done in impossibly short shorts (to make the most of the sunshine) and oblivious to the accompanying wolf whistles. She had beautifully long legs, finished off with equally beautiful long, slender feet. Her size 9s defined her - at once the bane of her life (especially as a War Baby) and her abiding passion. Rayne, Ferragamo, Manolo Blahnik - she is the reason I now stock big shoes.
I was a good child - apart from my refusal to eat. My older brother was a different matter. On becoming a mother I discovered for myself the benefits of embarrassment as a way to control errant children. He and his friends will testify, I'm sure, to the times she burst through the kitchen door in nothing but a leotard - screaming like a banshee because their incessant cacophony was disturbing her yoga session. Then there were the occasions (numerous) when she carried out her threats to disgorge the untidy contents of my brother's bedroom out of the window. Often we would return from school to find the garden strewn with clothes and teenage paraphernalia.
Her love of language inspired all of us. The dictionary was a staple part of our lives. Not only English, but Scottish and French words would be banded about. If we didn't understand what she was saying we looked it up. It was mum who taught us to swear - words, all words, were of value to her.
As her precious only daughter I was loved and cherished, encouraged and showered with affection. A decision to give me all that she had been denied by her own mother, I later learnt. Why I should grow into the insecure, over-achieving woman I did, God (and my therapist) only knows.
I took her nurturing, loving ways for granted until she left home when I was 16. I still have the letter she wrote to me, explaining her feelings for my soon to be Step-Dad and her need to be with this man she loved. I remember being both devastated (for myself) and elated (for her) that this glorious woman was strong enough to follow her heart.
She spent 25 years with Tom and loved him passionately - something that was hard to understand for my brothers and me. Hadn't our parents been happy? No arguing, no raised voices? No voice at all. My brilliant, scientific father with his fierce intellect was (by his own admission) somewhat lacking in social skills, and refused to behave in any way that was not reasoned. Mum, by contrast, was ruled by her heart and led by her passions.
Despite the disapproving tongues & slighting comments of small minded neighbours & family, she created a home that brought together us mismatched crowd of siblings and friends. Always a meal, a shoulder, a wise, comforting word and much laughter. Again I wonder at my own inability to recreate her sense of family in my younger life. I do better now as I grow older. But sadly too late for my own child.
A lioness in a fur coat and high heels, she brought glamour to my student years (however inappropriate her attire to my vegetarian friends). I remember her marching into the bleak hospital room where Max and I had been abandoned on the morning of his birth. Clutching a giant teddy bear and a bottle of champagne, her fur coat billowing, she swept us along in her joy and reminded me of who I was. She even allowed Max to puke on her brand new Ferragamos.
A lioness who would fight to the death for her child. At the end of her first lunch with Chris she smiled and said: "It's been lovely to meet you...and if you ever do anything to hurt my daughter, I will come after you." The following day I remonstrated with her. Hurt, she said defiantly: "I thought I was very restrained. What I really wanted to say is that I will come after you and rip your bollocks off."!
Thankfully, by the time of her death he had gained her approval. I knew he had won her over when he danced down her stairs wearing nothing but a towel and one of her hats, singing along to "You Can Keep Your Hat On". Her laughter told me that she knew I had found my soul mate.
After battling her illness for four years with her usual grace, aplomb and humour, I was called back from a disastrous holiday in Greece to her death bed. On my arrival she roused herself enough to hear that Chris had saved my life in a horrific motorbike accident. All she needed to know in order to move on.
I am honoured to have been with her in the wee small hours when she left this world. I had made the decision to sit with her through the night - not wanting her to be alone if she awoke. Desperate to find some comforting words, I had turned to a book that she'd first given me as a teenager - The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.
I'm sure many of you will know this famous work. And if you don't, then I reccomend you look out for it. I knew that there was a chapter on death and I hoped that the words would offer some comfort to us both. But on the night it seemed too bold a passage to contemplate in isolation. And so I started at the beginning and read the book whole: Read to her of life and love, of children and marriage, of loss and joy, while she laboured to breathe beside me.
As I finished the last sentence of the chapter on death, her breathing changed - slowing and becoming more shallow. I continued to read until the book was finished (and, yes, I was freaking out inside!) My teeth were chattering so hard I'm not sure how I got the words out. But once I'd finished The Prophet I called the doctor who told me that her death was imminent.
There wasn't time for for my family to be with her. It was just mum and me. I stood holding her hand in that darkened room and told her to let go, leave her addled body behind, dance her new dance. And she did.
I had prepared myself many times for her death, grieved for her as she'd struggled to live. But nothing prepared me for the power of that moment. I'm sitting here, once more in the wee small hours, trying desperately to think of the words to describe it. But I have none. It was beautiful, truly beautiful. And I am grateful, so grateful to have been given that precious experience.
The knowledge that we had shared her end, just as we had shared my beginning, gave me a profound sense of peace that has never left me. Her death changed me - as you would expect it to. But for the better. As The Prophet spoke of joy and sorrow:
"Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain."
Now you'd think that this would be the end of my mum. Yes she lives on in my heart and my DNA, in my values and views. But my mum has done a little better than that. Always a strong spirit and sensitive to other souls, she was not to be defeated in death. No, it seems that a little thing like not having a body was no barrier to my communicative mother.
About a week after her death, as I lay in bed one night, she whispered in my ear. I kid you not - I nearly shit myself! "I love you" is what she said. She met me soon after in my dreams. She stood, clear as day, on the steps of the Rodin Museum in Paris - a place I'd always promised to take her. I must admit I reacted badly, screaming out in confusion.
And now she is still with me, influencing my life and coming to me when I need her. My doubting Thomas of a step father took more convincing of her continued presence. Every time she contacted him he rationalised it away. Not one to be put off, she left him a phone message.
My step brother found Tom rooted to the spot one night. On asking what was the matter, my step dad played back a message. White noise - and in the midst of it the words: "I love you Thomas Davidson." Too spooky!
Ah, but still not enough proof for my desolated step father. And so she left him a gift, something to remember her by. Twenty years previously she had given him a Tigerseye signet ring. The ring had been lost for two decades. One night Tom opened his much used bedside drawer and found the ring.
And as my darling mother continues to influence and entertain, I am reminded once more of the wise words of The Prophet. On Death:
"Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then shall you begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."
Amen
Last week I spent 4 days on a sculpture course. Its title was: "Sculpting the Essence of the Figure - Abstraction." Yes, quite. I booked it months ago and was looking forward to spending a week focused on being creative - a nice change from concentrating on the shop. It all sounded very relaxing and great fun.
Yeah right.
West Dean College is a perfect place to study. The courses aren't outrageously priced, the buildings & grounds are breathtaking, the facilities (including the restaurant) are of a high standard and the staff are wonderfully helpful. No, the problem wasn't with the course. The problem was with my head.
Picture the scene: Ten students, one charismatic young tutor and an idea. What would happen if we used the life model as a starting point and then abstracted our sculpture in whatever way takes our fancy? The idea? That in this way we could tap into the creative energy and sculpt something more than just a representation.
Heavy.
Actually I really liked the idea.
In theory.
Which is of course the whole point. It's one thing having a good idea and another turning it into a three dimensional image. Remember, it's been more than twenty years since I last stood in a sculpture studio. I was terrified! There's nothing like fear for shrivelling the creative impulse. Still, I'm a cerebral creature and not one to be put off easily.
"Think of the things you like. Go with your instincts. Shake off your self-talk and really get into the zone. That's where the creative connection lies."
Okay. So I've got an idea: A figure - half man, half woman. The woman has roots and symbolises Mother Earth. The Man has wings and symbolises God made flesh. Sounds like a plan? Ah but now I've got to make it. And that's a whole other ball of wax (or rather, clay).
First the armature. That's the metal skeleton that supports the clay as you build up the sculpture. Brilliant! I love a bit of DIY. Nothing like a bit of banging on wood and metal for destressing. Having the model in front of me helped to clarify how my sculpture should look - the pose, the musculature - if I wanted to be accurate. Accurate is hard work though, and I am inherently lazy. So I quickly moved away from the model and slapped on the clay any old how.
So my creation began life as a man-woman. No more. That's when the idea for the roots came in. I'd scored some lines of movement on the woman and my tutor gouged out great swathes of flesh, making her more tree-like. I was a bit shocked, but I thought I'd persevere.
The thing is, I was struggling with the idea that we should do what we like. Isn't that just staying in our comfort zone, since we like what is familiar? And where is the creativity if we carry on doing what we've always done?
So I thought I'd give the tree lady a go.
But still, I can't escape from who I am. I can't deny what I know. And my roots are in Classical art. So while my classmates gave their sculptures tongues for heads and lips in the middle of their bellies, I referred to photos of The Nike of Samothrace. Have you seen it? Oh it's amazing. It's a 2nd Century BC marble sculpture of the Greek Goddess of Victory. She stands at the top of the main stairway in the Louvre - a symbol of power and triumph. Fab!
She has no head, old Nike. She's all swirling drapery and crowning wings. I'm not a fan of heads. In my sculpture, that is. They sort of get in the way. Interfere with the flow of lines and planes. And since my figurative sculpture usually symbolises something, then it suits me to have no head - more of an Everyman than an individual.
Bollocks.
It's just that I'm too lazy to sculpt the head. Most of the time. In this instance it doesn't need a head - it's got wings. Want to see it?
What do you think?
I can't tell you how relieved I was to get it home. The course was a nightmare! No, I was a nightmare. Midway through the week I was all set to jack it in. The body of the sculpture was going okay. I was fiddling about with the surface but I wasn't happy with the shape of it. It just wasn't right.
That night our tutor told us to go away and find some more references. Anything we liked. Sculptures, textures, written text, anything that would inspire us. That's when I remembered old Nike. The next day I was in there chopping up my sculpture.
Oh, only so I could take the metal armature out. I reckoned that if I was going to change it radically then I wasn't wasting time making the changes if it was going to fall to pieces when we removed its spine.
So I learnt a lesson in pushing through the dark hours in order to get to something better. And about taking risks and seeing where they would lead. Oh but that didn't matter. Within an hour of my big Eureka moment I was back in despair. That's me that is. One minute I'm up, the next I'm down. Like a yoyo. Gives me a headache.
Self Talk. That's what we're doing every time we have a thought. No wonder I have a headache. That critical voice in your head that tells you that you're rubbish, you'll fail - that's Self Talk. Tell yourself you can't do something & you'll probably prove it. But our tutor reminded us that sculpture is 1 part idea and 9 parts hard graft. And he was right.
My next move is to hollow it out. Scary again! Then I'll let it dry out and take it back to the college. I'm booking a day's glazing course so that I can attempt to colour it as I can picture it in my mind. Wish me luck!
Laura x
