The Autumn soul.

For someone who is never at home, lacing her life between jobs, commutes and contacts, today was a gift.  A nothing day, and an everything day.  A day, now darkening beneath the first of the true grey days, that I have not spoken a word to anyone.

The beginning of Autumn.  Light hides now, the sun weak and rain draws patterns on glass. On waking, with a day to myself, the urge to turn into the duvet was tempting, but for me, the first, true Autumn day, is the soul day.  For cleaning of life, of space and spirit.  Inward time.

Preparing for the winter, and myself to get through it.  Most know I take little responsibility for my misery dans the London Winter, Lord knows that I struggle with it still – but for the first time, I choose to stay this year.  Much has happened with little choice of my own, so I am sort of surprising myself on this one, and may I take the opportunity now, to yet be held unaccountable when the grey monotone smallness of post Christmas slithers beneath my heart. 

I do love Autumn though.  Always have, its my birthday season, as nature sheds her clothes and stands naked, without fear, as one does when the lover loves regardless and still finds the beauty.  Land becomes carpets of jewels, the fox blends and rosé turns to red. To bed and fire and books and stories of closeness – and family.  Of memories and the world can wait a little – the pace can slow a little – the questions are left unanswered and the messiness of life matters not – for in Autumn I refrain from questions and trying to prove.  Resolve to linger a little longer, love a little deeper and bring the threads home.

In Autumn I still have the faith that though things have changed, beauty remains.  In Winter I grieve for the things that have changed.  Autumn is soft, voluptuous, rounded with berries, scented with earth and passion.  Winter is a grave yard of buried hope. Unless it snows, unless it’s Christmas, unless love still lives there.  Autumn is falling, yet landing softly.  

The Autumn soul is a kind one.  And I hope above all, I can still be that.  So, in this quiet day of preparing for Autumn, the things of others are packed to take out another day, to reminisce about with care and affection.  The candles are lit, the wine is poured, the lack of hearth is not yet lamented but the soul is calm.

‘Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness …’  Keats

Mellow we shall be.  Mellow and still moved by the magic that lingers.

Autumn brings the heart to a quiet mindfulness.  And it remains the same.

Painting by Madison de Villiers

Image: Wow247

 

Working harder than I ever had before, and others are thinking of retirement at this stage … what gives?

If I must start somewhere, right here and now is the best place imaginable.   

Richelle. E. Goodrich

Tell you what gives.  I just added to the CV list. Right now I can claim to have at least four different jobs. That’s what gives.  And more so … I’m telling you it’s possible.

To the little bit of backtracking.  Life did not work out the way I planned. But perhaps … in hindsight … ah well, it didn’t and is that bad thing, a good thing or just a life happens thing?  I don’t regret it, am sorry it changed, wish it better and making it so.

Finding myself, at this Silver Street stage, on my own and beginning again, and in this transformation, getting out there again, working harder than I ever thought I would have to, hustling and loving it/hating it and just doing it. A year or so ago, I was almost homeless, aloneness, desperate and wallowing. Unable to see the future or even make the first move in dealing with it.  And then I thought, it really is up to me, which for someone who had, well, almost it all .. was a very scary situation to be in.  I had a sort of career which I still love but it was always a hobby and not a full time earning situation.  Worked from home, and those walls began to close, tight and claustrophobic at times. I needed to engage, outside of the walls.

Then something interesting happened.

I took a chance.

Seeing an ad in the window of a local coffee shop, I offered my services.  At first they thought I was enquiring for someone else … no … me, and of course the job was open so they had to take the chance on me, and me on becoming a, do they still call it a waitress, or waitron, not sure, but I had committed to a job in a cafe.  The first few months was me, at this age, trying to keep up.  Broken body, tired feet, forgetting orders, but what I did have was experience in engaging.  Being more than just behind the counter, but chatting, remembering tastes, names and conversations.  So what if I messed up the order, we at this age, well, we just say sorry and how is your new puppy? A year and half later, this job, though menial to some has given me a new community and I welcome each morning I enter to fresh croissants and fabulous coffee. Love it, despite the odd ‘what is this poor old woman doing working in a coffee shop? sort of staring. I have found another family, work hard and earn little but gain much.

The job gave me my self confidence back from a broken road.

The people I meet have seen more in me than just the apron.

I am a master of the latte.

I find customers have become friends.

It’s a very long way from my past life but my children are proud of me.

So, I was now travel consultant, event planner and latte thrower.

Last week, I added to my CV once again.  Contacted by a friend, who had a client who was seeking just the right person to join her company.  Thought of me, a lovely meeting and I am now a tour guide in London. Fits in perfectly with the cafe, the early morning and late evening at home travel business and best of all, gives me flexibility in my working life to enhance my personal life.  Having so many different jobs, is possible. I love the different schedules, the challenges they bring, the people I meet and the diary that is mine.  Working harder than ever before … at this age!  When others are thinking of retirement.  Interesting not so? Am willing to put in the hours, do the research, compartmentalise each job and give each true dedication.

How long will it last?  Who knows.  The body is not what it used to be, the future is still vague to say the least, but what I am trying to say is … if you are at that sticky point, that Oh my, I don’t know what is to become of me, I have no confidence or doubt my ability to grow … this random fifty year old something is getting up and out there.

And you can too.  The job may not be what you thought you would do, it may not be the life you had, or wished you still have, but if the lemons came at you big time, at any stage of your life, starting small, doing the small stuff and making your days busy, filled and purposeful, you will find a new kind of empowerment. Just enough to get you planning again, out there with people again, knowing you worked harder than you ever have before and you are doing it for yourself this time.

Pride.  Interesting thought. In the mistakes, the losses, the loving and the losing, it’s not about pride … it’s about working hard to get that back.  The you back. And it is possible. That’s when pride comes … when you take the fall and stand up again, in any way you can.

We all struggle, at any age. This one, just a little more taxing.

Gosh, starting again at this age is tough, but it is possible. Believe me.

Images Pintrest, Greenorc

 

Dance like everyone is watching you …

‘Tripped and fell, stood up again … and I am dancing still.’

Consider myself a dancer.  In the early years, nothing greater than the new pair of ballet shoes, and waiting in the wings for the day I could finally graduate to the beloved tutu. Oh, to be given a tutu, that stiff, gorgeous bit of Swan Lake. Most of the time, being the tallest in the class, I was rather the sailor, or the tree, or the mountain top, but the tutu escaped me until my mother had one made, just because she loved me, and I have the picture to prove it.  Years of ballet classes in the hope of point shoes … oh the hope, and when I finally got them, black satin I wanted, just to be different, the ankles said no – not a chance you were going to be on point, forever.  Ugh.

Shattered dreams.  Giselle was still out there, but rather than give up, I changed to contemporary dance.  The satin, black, beautiful point shoes are still in a box somewhere.  The changing led to an Honours degree in dance, and my love for Martha Graham, for Isadora Duncan – doyennes of the different dance. Danced until they dropped, the one getting old but still dancing, the other, killed by a gorgeous scarf trapped in the wheels of a car. Ah, the drama was my intoxication.  And their differentness became my life dance.

I learnt that the dance need not be the traditional.  It may not be the classical, the formal, the stylised acceptance – it was the free form of dancing, of moving to music, to rhythm and even now, at this age, when the music comes, the dancing comes. Not on a stage, but on the stage that is my life, in the any place where dance makes me happy.

But it is more than that.  Dancing is a metaphor.  The way you live your life.  Times we feel awkward and exposed, incapable, clumsy.  We fall and trip and crash to the ground. Life does that.  But as we lie there, there is always the beginnings of the tapping, the notes that begin to play and it ignites us to doing again, to get up again, and move again.  How we move, matters not, we move, and we shimmy, and we shake, and then we rise above and lose ourselves, find ourselves and rather than dance like no-one is watching, we dance like we were born to do it. On the open stage of life. Our own style.

The perfect dance, like a play, like true theatre, always has the scene of … well, all fall down. It’s a classic. The betrayal, the broken heart, the what do I do now moment.  The suspended pause. Will we fail? Will we rise? Will we get up again … of course we will! Life dance always builds to the great ending and we do the same, only we do not wait in the wings, or stay in the chorus of our own lives, we adapt, we find the scarf in the derelict box, the talisman and change our perspective. And we dance, in the open, unafraid, for everyone to see.

As we are this dancer of our lives, when we get dropped by the lead or fall back into the shadows for a while, we are also being watched – we baby boomers are exposed in our glory, or defeat, by others, younger than us.  Times it is not a pretty sight to see the principal loose her footing, but the important thing, when things go wrong, is to show those who follow us, that the dance is not yet over.  We do fall, we do succumb to doubt and awful disappointments and lie there for a while.  But we do get up again, and we can show that change may be required but the dance will go on.

And it does.  Without the perfect leg rise, the perfect pirouette or the handsome catcher who was absent as we crashed.  For still, there is the grand jeté, the leap of faith … the can can.

When we dance, as if everyone is watching, we dance in truth. We spin, we turn, we stumble at times and we get up to dance again. Technique in dance, and life, may have escaped us, but style, oh yes, style will be the climax of the dance.  We will fall, and we may just fly, trying and dancing is all.

Live with your own sense of style, and you are dancing in the light.

Images: google, motivationalreads,pintrest

Culling the killing kind.

It is a strange thing.  For those of you going through a tough time, particularly at this stage of our lives, kindness is sometimes all we ask.  Just for others to be kind.

Read the other day, that true grief does not want platitudes, or clichés of how time will heal, how sunny dispositions are all – we have mastered the art of sunny disposition, but what one truly wants is acknowledgment of the pain one is going through at this time, and yes, time will heal, but time related to your own situation, at your own pace.

So two interesting things happened of late.  The first was a woman who, how can I say it, assumed and conducted a hate campaign against myself, and friends with no knowledge of the situation, or care that she may have deeply hurt innocent people.  Even got her daughter involved, whom none of us had ever met, to throw the proverbial acid in faces of individuals who only loved, and they in turn, accepted no blame.  Until recently.  After four years, that is how long it was, a flood of emails arrived, asking for forgiveness.  Mmmm … may I add, without any true acknowledgement of what was done.

As you know, I hate those who ghost.  And insidious practice. To act as if  someone never existed and it happens so often nowadays.  What is wrong with these people, I ask.  If someone has hurt you, tell them, talk, get through it and move on, but to ghost them forever … just bad manners and small.

In this instance however, I decided not to reply. Oh, I had volumes to say, but with this person, nothing I would have said would have resonated and been a change for the good. Nothing would have helped and so I decided not to respond. It was time to cull the little I knew of her, and her daughter, though the words sting still, but to move on, knowing they know what they did to people I love. I have no words for hatred.

The same goes for those who are ‘friends’ on Facebook. Many from way back, who now, know little or care to assume things about us.  Friends for sure, over a distance, but in truth little knowledge of the truth. It’s funny, when I go on Facebook (will I ever learn but still do so for many of my friends live far away and it is the only medium of connection at times) some comments hurt,  it really hurts – and that hurt whips one back to difficult times.  Times, as I said earlier, takes a long time to heal from, to move on from, so why would I want to put myself in that position of seeing it on such a beautiful evening?

Bless them, for they know not what they do.  And I do bless them, and wish them well.  But for those of us who are beginning again, trying to make sense of being, well, older and sorting out our worlds, they cannot be part of it. If they mean well, or not.  They have not bothered to be kind. I only want kind people around me, don’t you?

It pains me, it really does, to have to go and ‘unfriend’ people I have known for years – we share a history, a bond, but they are not in the present of the struggle to regain life, to build a new home, new relationships, new jobs, new connections, new environments and new faith in ourselves.

Oh, hello Fox.  Yup, Fox is roaming in the garden below.  More of a friend sometimes I think.

So what am I saying?  Apart from the daily struggle, and joy for there is much of that, I am finding, against my everything, that I need to cull the killing kind who constantly remind me of the pain of the past few years. If we are to make a life, post divorce, struggling with illness, post parents passing, post losing community and self confidence, we need to sometimes say … just give me a break.  But that does not mean we will cut them forever – just for now when the stakes are high and the doing is important.  They will always be a tap away from friends again .. and I hope they know that for we never give up on others, do we?  We just sort of put them in the holding stack until they realise that sometimes, saying nothing is better than saying something that will hurt.

Culling time for the killing kind, but kindness will out.  For those of us who feel misunderstood, dealing with our own dilemmas and getting there … we hope you will come back to the journey of being our friends, on Facebook, but more importantly, in life.  We are there for you, when you realise it.

We are happy with our lives, but times the struggle is real, and we don’t need reminding of it.

And I did it.  Sorry, but I had to ghost (and hated doing it) but sometimes we need to sort our lives out, hoping some will understand … and when you do, we will be there for you.

Images: Jessica Rose Williams and Pintrest

Gone too soon: Michael Jackson on your 60th birthday.

I grew up with Micheal Jackson. I remember with such clarity the day he died.  Was in Paris in 2009, beginning a lovely trip through the continent and heard the news, and something in me died too that day.

Not sure what it was, but it haunted me. Despite the tabloids and drama that became his life, I suddenly felt bereft that some of the music that measured my life here on earth, was going to be silent.  Another case of a sad death in my time. From the Jackson Five, the ‘Puppy love’ to ‘Thriller’ it was the background to, well me. The loss seemed a wasted life of another icon at the time.

Tend to measure my life in music.  Songs that take me back, take me high, strutting to, songs to be sad to.  The personification of the 70″s, 80’s and so on.  From the LP days to the streaming that is now, I cannot imagine my life without music, the theme song to my own small existence. And he would have turned 60 today, a milestone birthday that looms before me.

Just wanted to say, miss him.  Heartfelt him and thank you, up there, wherever you are, safe I guess from it all – you were a teacher to me.

Gone too soon.

We are the world
We are the children
We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving
There’s a choice we’re making
We’re saving our own lives
It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me.

Gone too soon and Happy Birthday.

Image Evening Standard

 

To childhood friends. Bless them and keep them.

And Fox is saying hello this evening. ‘Hello’ I whisper.

I have written before about my true blessing of having childhood friends still with me at this time. For over fifty years of life, a pocket full of friends who shared the early times, the grazed knees and bicycle jaunts, still remain, and it is to them I return for validation when life gets just a little too much.

To find more are spilling into my life. Thank you Facebook for today, whilst planning my trip home, a message from a friend I grew up with, wanting to say ‘hi’ again. The swimming forever friend who, and I did not know, has been through much, and meeting up with her again when I go ‘home’.

What was interesting was her message.  She is happy, fulfilled, and yet longs too for the connections of those who knew, not only her, but her family.  Parents passed. I have not seen her for nearly thirty years and the connection is as strong as ever.  And I am keen to hear it all … the journey.  Like mine.  Those days of whispering about who we will marry (had to be dreamy) , how many children we will have, how successful we shall be – and now, bless us, how much we just want to return to the roots.

Believe me, it is not about missing.  Not about being disappointed in how things turned out, how life has handed us love and lemons.  About the halcyon days of wonder is what we reach for.  The clean slate days. We want to connect for we remember the parents, the childhood homes, schooldays and all that.  We want to be close to purity. Our purity in childhood. And talk about life in-between. Be proud of what we have become, the children we have raised, relationships we had, the paths followed, to in a sense, bring us together again to say ‘ we did ok’ and have someone else say ‘wow’ you did ALL that and good on you.

To talk of our parents.  Of Sunday afternoons in a small town. Of sports days and how terrible we were at hurdles. First crushes and surfboard necklaces that meant we were going steady. Of nuns on bicycles and those awful matric dance dresses. We want to remember stealing peaches from the neighbours, swimming in rivers and Gatsy themed birthday parties. Television crush idols. When just breathing was enough. Just being was enough.

I did not know she had lost a sister. One I remember and life let me forget.

Did the ballet lessons pay off?

Did the education pay off?

Did love happen?

Did we become the people we thought we would?

Doesn’t matter.  We lived.  We loved. We are still the same, deep down and we want to know.  We want to connect.  We are blessed if we can.

Growing up in a small town does this.  We had nothing else but each other and when life and times move us into different places, into other avenues, it is really good to go back and just say ‘you knew me’ and perhaps, just perhaps, those are the friends we have to be with at this stage. Friends who sang the songs, danced in the living room, wrote in the diaries and went to the drive in. To dream of better.

And perhaps we did get ‘the better’.  We did live the dream.  And old friends, childhood friends are the validation that we came from that to this, and make us proud.

Childhood friends have a bond that transcends to lifetime friends.  And I am so blessed to still be able to say .. you knew me well, and you are still here.

Images: smartgirlsgroup, relationsmatters

The fox in my life and planning for good.

How did Sunday come around so fast!  Here I am at the end of another week and on my little balcony having a good think about it all.  The week, the month, the year is seriously flying by too fast – and I think it may be because I am making plans.  Could this be?

In the past, when life was the perfect storm and me the one with the tiger in the boat, plans were something I was totally incapable of making.  Existing was hard enough, breathing something I had to remind myself to do and getting out of bed, my daily gym.  Especially when that black dog was sitting right beside it, looking at me early morn and late at night as an ever constant, incarnated witch.  But not now.  Now its, all about making plans, and in particular wedding plans with my daughter early next year. Nothing like a wedding, and in particular a family wedding to get the creative juices flowing.

Oh, ‘hi’ fox. I have to tell you about fox. Habitual specimen Fox is.  Seems as if every time I step out to my ‘office’ – at some point Fox makes his/her appearance. Till I came to London, foxes were mythical creatures that belonged in the English Countryside: to be hunted, or in children’s books. The fox of Beatrix Potter and Farthingwood friends. Remember ‘Fox and the Hound’?  Cute little critters. In London, foxes are common place and urban scavengers. Always looking a little mangey and thin. Furtive and wild eyed, but I have come to like Fox, my pet of sorts, and we greet one another every evening.

Back to the planning.  So much to do!  In the wine lands of wonderful South Africa, but it is the planning that is the motivator of spirit.  This is a BIG plan, but the little ones are just as important.  We have to make plans, always, to get the juices going, bring the future close or we are simply humdrumming the day away. And that gets tedious.  Planning a trip, a lunch date, they matter but I am talking BIG plans – we are just in making them. Even when all seems small, this is the lesson of the day – I feel amazing in the making of BIG plans, for me, for my family, for whatever, I cannot sit any longer with a what to do today, tomorrow, maybe next week?  I need to make HUGE plans from now on – it’s plan play time. Frigging tsunami plans to be made.

They always say, think big.  Easier said, but not so easy to put into action at times when the ego is wilted and the future seems as empty as the last glass of wine, so let me just say, Fox is motivation.  Simply lives to survive – I aim for higher things.

What about you?

Image: essencialife

All fine travelling alone, but bloody frustrating at times.

Am all good with the travelling solo thing, really I am.  I do it all the time.

The thing is, I do it to familiar places, places I know well.  Get on the train, or the plane and find myself in surroundings of before.  Got it down pat.

The problem is, and you may find this, is when I want to go somewhere and have never been before. If it is in a city, that’s fine, can just Google and deal with the itinerary – cities are friendly places.  Today I thought, maybe I should go to Lisbon and I have no problem with this.  There are many itineraries and bits of advice about Lisbon.

About to go to South Africa again.  Really have my heart set on a few days in the Cederberg mountains, a place I have never been before.  Turns out, this was no easy feat in the planning of it.  No-one seems to have any idea of a woman travelling alone to the area.  The hotels, the hikes, the road maps – nothing seemed conducive to a woman travelling alone.

For sure, if I had won the Lotto, would go straight to Bushmanskloof.  This amazing, five star haven would solve it all.  Game drives, gorgeous accommodation, luxury spa – who would want for more?  But expensive. A little too much for me, so what else I thought was on offer?

There are a few places in the accommodation field, but I know nothing of them.  Would I be safe?  Would I be able to travel on my own? Would my little hired car get me around to the wonderful sights?  I just could not work it out. There are tours, a guided tour with a guide for three days, just me and the guide in a chalet which did not, quite appeal. Oh dear. Am I just being a softy, scaredy cat or should I blow caution to the wind on this one?  If I had someone else, somehow it seemed a better deal.  But I don’t.

So what am I saying here?  Travelling solo is possible.  It’s invigorating and life changing and I have seen the most incredible places, I knew, would be ok to do on my own.  But the unknown destinations still worry me a bit. Am I seeking for another sole traveller’s notes on this? Should I just go and do it? I don’t know.

For some, and I know many women who have travelled to India, Australia, America and the more unknown places, I salute them. Europe has been my solo travelling space to date. I know her well, she is friendly and accessible.  I could go to Croatia, Lisbon, Rome, Paris and anywhere else with total abandon, but when it comes to Africa … my birthplace … my desire to have a road trip of note … is a little worrying. Have I read too many stories, am I just being paranoid? And it not Africa, or South Africa, would I do it to other destinations I have not travelled before? Does it make me feel whatever? Have not done these trips before on my own, now recently on my own.

So I google forever for advice on travelling solo to places I have not been before.  I am the master of European travel and can advise you on most of it – but I want to do something else now, and find myself questioning the solo travel thing.  Like Namibia – would love to go there but on my own? Help me if you know.

In the meantime I am still going to South Africa. I still want to do a road trip to the Cederberg Mountains, through the Karoo and down to Durban – am I going to do it, who knows?  Why do I hesitate to travel, on my own to places unknown?

It is not about being alone. And travelling.  And spending nights in different places.  It is about my safety, and who will help me along the way. New territory for me – and then again, if I have to wait for someone to travel with, it could be me with cobwebs growing from my scalp – so let’s just say, scary or not, I am up for it, maybe I am the one to be the pioneer in this.

If you are a solo traveller, tell me about it. When you plan a trip – do you go for it, or plan it carefully, being alone, being a solo traveller? And if so, how brave are you in doing this? Would love to know.

Image Pintrest

The power of ‘pause’.

‘A woman who cuts her hair, is about to change her life.’

Coco Chanel

Thought about it. Many times.  The long tresses (wild as they are at times) must go. The new me, the different me … the going to look like a Daisy de Melker, me. For those who don’t know Daisy de Melker, she poisoned her husbands (no comment) and died for doing so, but the hairdo was way more scarier than the act. I don’t want to look like Daisy de Melker.

So I am staying with the ‘Donna’ from ‘Mama Mia/Meryl Streep look for a while. The look would be more fitting in a beach scene, but London will have to do.  Anyway, I digress.

The truth is, I have been trapezing my life since ‘La Divorce.’ Deer in the headlights syndrome. Where to, what to do, how to cope … blah, blah and all that.  Darling gone said … let’s divorce so we can get on with our lives.  Say what?  Come again ? Start again, carrying on with what, where and how, was my mantra following the leaving. You know about that, we poor souls who suffer from the famous ‘gray divorce’ syndrome.

Anyhow, in all the turmoil that ensued, I planned so much, and did so little.

Stange thing was, my home, was him … so how to find the home again?  Some do, some like me, just go awol on the world for awhile and imagine all sorts of things … and do so little in the PTSD bolthole.

Anyway, it so happens that the other night, after much coaxing to get out and meet other people, I met a bunch of incredible women who have had it far worse than me.  I mean, far, far worse.  Endling up homeless, mental breakdown and living on the smell of an oil rag, and I came home and thought … whoa, stop and just, well, stop.

Pause.

Frigging pause.

The story does not end here.  And you are the writer of this.  It may be tough but before giving up and playing Camille, just decide not to decide for a moment.  Just breathe. Pause, and breathe.

Take pen to paper.  Work out your living expenses.  If you have a roof over your head and can stay there, tick.  A job, or a career that pays the bills, stick with it for a while, even if you hate it … just cover the basics and tick the box. If you are healthy and appreciate getting up in the morning, good. Friends, sure. Plans, totally, but to get there, this is the plan.  You pause first and do the domestics.  Then you plan, like the swan who glides on the top of the water and paddles like the devil underneath. Looking good, this pausing thing because you are catching up on the chaos that is your life, but not letting it define your life.  How your life is going to be.  You are pausing to plan.

I was going to sell the little I had, run away to who knows where and become the most successful something ever.  Just wanted to cut the ties and get away.  And I was the one who was going to suffer for it. Spring chicken, not so this has to be taken into account, hate to say it. The overwhelming urge to prove I could survive, make a new start, be fabulous, was exhausting.

Not cutting the hair.  Not changing the status quo for now, but pausing.  And planning on my own terms, at my own pace, in my own world with my own dreams.  Maybe for the first time.

If you feel manic driven by the trauma of being in Silver Street, in your job, a relationship, empty nest syndrome, widowed, single all of a sudden,  grief over parents and feeling, oh so ever abandoned and fearful of the future, pause. Quiet those fears and literally stop to smell the now, the everyday.  And then you begin the planning, from a stronger point of view, with your self intact and your heart in the right place.

Truth be told, still not ‘getting on with my life’ thank you very much.  But getting on and it is my life – so watch this space.  I am in pausing mode but this panther will be ready to spring before you can blink your eyes.

Without cutting the hair.  So you will have to look for other signs … but we wil reveal when we are ready. Not so?

Images Pintrest

 

 

Where do you go to my lovely, when your’e alone in your bed …

‘Where do you go to my lovely, when your’e alone in your bed. Tell me the thoughts that surround you, I want to look into your head.’

Peter Sarstedt

You have done well my friend.  Smiled all day, laughed at the right times, demure when it needed to be.  Active and organised. Planning and dates in the diary.  And when night falls, and sleep escapes … what thoughts run through your head?

Heath Ledger said: ‘ I think the most common cause of insomnia is simple.  It’s loneliness.’ If you are alone, or not. Your are alone with your thoughts in the middle of the night. When you cannot sleep.

It matters not what your age is – being alone in the middle of the night is not exclusive to age, it just is.  Single, widowed, divorced, or lying next to someone who does not understand or fulfil your needs, or does, makes those hours of the night the time the mind will not rest.

Some take sleeping pills to fall asleep.  Some, as the stereotype goes, drink wine to help them fall asleep.  Sleep will not come. You are entirely alone with your thoughts and those keep racing through your head.  Endlessly, unceasingly, flipping back and forth like a dingy on the open sea, tossing relentlessly.

Thoughts you had not even thought of for ages.  A party in your brain. Ghosts of past, gremlins of present, plans made, plans scuppered, people come and gone, places visited, memories that are the making of you – all jumbled up and as you turn, determined to let them go, they follow you.  Insomnia is a unhappy guest.

I hear the foxes outside.  The bus going by.  Drink tea. Tired, exhausted, yes, sleep coming, not a chance. So where do you go to my lovely, when you are alone in your bed?

I go home.  To backyard peach trees and swimming in dams. To party dresses, candles and Christmas.  The mind sweeps to lovers whose faces one wants to touch again, bicycles, running without thinking, stubbing toes.  To parents gone and the aching that follows – breakfasts and fires on the farm. To road trips and business plans, to bridal gowns and interviews.  From nowhere sweeps the fear of the future, the nostalgia of the past.  Puppies and Old Year’s Eve. Birth. The Tooth fairy and picking lemons in the garden. Of dinner parties, shopping trips, beaches and mountain trails. Of blowing candles, decorating and entertaining. Of flights, of fancies, or growing up.

Making love, and losing love.

Insomnia has no timeline.

It all comes together in one, fell swoop that is your life.

It is the window, the orchestra of you in the middle of the night.

The loneliest you will ever be, is with your thoughts in the middle of the night.

It is a good thing.  Despite the knowing you are going to feel like death the next day, it is the one time you get to be with you, in your goodness, your faults, your mistakes and your acceptance that is, is.  It is what it is.  And only you can take all these myriad of thoughts and feelings and put them in perspective.  The chance to not fear the lack of sleep, but delve into the world that is you, and accept.  And make it better.

I hardly sleep. It does not worry me for I go the places that I had forgotten and loved, it reminds me of all the little things that are the making of me, the undoing and doing of me and how I, in this Silver Street time, will embrace the thoughts and go forward, for I am not done.  I am not undone.  I am taking this lack of sleep, the dark hours between dusk and dawn, and saying, so … it’s ok, I will live.  And I will gather the threads.

It is a lonely time, insomnia. It may just be the best time, really.

I will not sleep, but I will dream for more.

So where do you go to my lovely, when your’e alone in your bed.  Tell me the thoughts that surround you … they will tell you a story of you that is amazing.

I will make it happen.  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will go home.  And home, is me.

Image: Pintrest