Today is a sad day
Today is a sad day, a little sadder than the others. I’ve become very adept at working through sadness, but not so good at expressing the anger that snaps at its heels, and it is that that I have been looking at this week. I don’t know how to express anger, and can only think of one time in my life I have been truly livid. Yet as I swallow down my grief and keep it in manageable chunks as I go about my daily life, I can feel a pressure inside that will one day need to come out – and this scares the crap out of me. I’ve always considered myself to be an emotional person, able to express how she feels at the drop of a hat, but it turns out there are things I can’t express, or perhaps won’t. It strikes me that to allow yourself to be angry you have to feel justified, to be able to honour your emotion. I don’t know why I do not think I am allowed to feel angry, as there is so much to be angry about. Anger is a very active emotion; sadness so very passive. It’s no wonder that life is a meandering path at the moment, as opposed to forging ahead like a torrent of rushing water.
I’m sure the anger will come out in its own good time. For now I am simply grateful for friendships that take me out of myself and my achy head. My weekly dates with Madeleine feel like a lighthearted version of Julia Cameron’s Artist’s Dates. We drink, eat and play, and unburden ourselves of our responsibilities and worries – something I’d recommend to all. Tonight she’s cooking me dinner, another example of a friend’s ability to look into your soul and see what’s needed. And today I need it.
Happy Birthday sweet man… beloved soul… infuriating teacher… Tonight I will drink a glass of wine for you, my love.
Without any apologies
This poem is very raw. It is an early draft, but more that that, it deals with how I feel this week, today, right now. I release it, just as I swallow my Nurofen, and hope the ache goes away…
Nineteen
The blood on my inner thigh
does not mean I am
bleeding to death, simply not
carrying your child, again; for
the nineteenth time I remember
that that is an impossibly
now. How many times
did I launder the sheets, poppies covering
the snow of our bed? Your desire
for me wasn’t squeamish like the other
lovers who chose to ignore my
woman status, wrinkling their noses
and turning their backs to me in bed. No,
you were hungry for me,
for my limbs, my skin,
for the secret places of my heart,
raw and exposed, beating in
your hand. You knew I was alive when
the shock of red painted the small space
between us in the morning
after a night of tender loving. You never
rushed to the shower – you would simply
reach for a cigarette, and holding the curlicues
of smoke away from my face
you would kiss me, laying your hand
against my empty womb.
For more poetic inspiration, go here. Image from Shutterstock.com
Compulsive poetry disorder
“In a world drowning in useless information, poetry returns us to what is meaningful. The poem acts as a pocket of air in an upturned boat.” ~ Jeanette Winterson
So if my habits of the last few weeks are anything to go by, I have developed a new addiction… to poetry. I’m reading anthologies and finding new poets, then ordering all their books and greedily devouring every word. I’m reading poetry with my morning tea and going to bed with a book of poetry in my hand. I’m currently waiting for six books of poetry to arrive from Amazon, but had to pop out today to buy yet another one from Borders. Suddenly there’s not enough time in the day – so many words to be read, so little time! I actually wrote this in my diary the other day – there are too many words and not enough time.
Does this strike anyone as a bit obsessive?
I like to think that I’m simply reconnecting with the writerly part of me and this is part of the compost I’ve been preparing for the uber-productive book writing period that’s going to happen a n y m o m e n t n o w. I think I read somewhere that Jeanette Winterson only reads poetry when she writes her books, that they provide her with bowlfuls of nourishment. I believe she said that “poems are writing DNA.” (I can’t find either of these cuttings so I could be wrong, but somehow, I don’t think I am. It sounds exactly like something she’d say.)
As I read my book in Borders I had an overwhelming urge to lay the book on the floor, stand on the chair and literally dive into the book. I want to cover my bed with poems and writhe around naked on them.
I think I need to get out more…
For more deep breaths, go here. Image from Shutterstock.com
Sunday Scribblings: Instructions
After my love died, I stayed with my sister for a few days, letting her look after me. I remember the first morning she went back to work and I was on my own in her house. I sat at her computer and typed the word ‘grief’ into Google. I was sufficiently in a state of shock to be able to disassociate myself from what had happened and became the observer. I wanted to know what I was dealing with – what were the symptoms of my impending illness, and how could I cure it? I ordered about ten books on grief from Amazon that day, and sat reading the on-line definitions of the stages of grief.
Denial ~ Anger ~ Bargaining ~ Depression ~ Acceptance
These five words seem so inadequate considering what I know now. Looking on Wikipedia just now, I found the following redefinition:
Shock and numbness ~ Yearning and searching ~ Disorganization and despair ~ Reorganization
I remember asking my bereavement counselor how long it would take me to ‘get better’, to not cry on the bus, or need to drink a bottle of wine to be able to get to sleep. She said for some people it might take six months, while others may never ‘get over it’. Thinking about it, I’m grateful for her honesty. Some days I experienced all of the stages of grief in one go – other days I felt nothing, a complete void.
All and none of the books I bought over the first months were useful. The frequently detached tone in the author’s words didn’t touch me, didn’t reassure me, such clinical or logical explanations barely scraping the surface of how I felt. Often I found more comfort in novels. However, the two books I returned to again and again were Virginia Ironside’s You’ll Get Over It: The Rage of Bereavement, and Stephanie Ericsson’s Companion Through the Darkness. The latter became my dog-eared, tear-soaked instruction manual. The author’s husband died of a heart attack when she was pregnant with their first child and the book is a collection of her essays and diary writings. Reading this book I learnt that I wasn’t mad to spend all night staring into space and all day crying. I wasn’t mad to not want to talk to another soul for weeks on end, and to beat myself up with survivor’s guilt. As she voiced her anger, her inertia, her despair, I knew I was not alone, I knew someone else had felt what I felt, and that they had survived. Her words were a map I could follow - consolation when I needed it, validation at other times. I keep this book beside my bed even now.
It doesn’t surprise me that a book helped to heal me. One day I will write a letter to Stephanie Ericsson and thank her for sharing her story – and for inspiring me to share my own.
For more Sunday Scribblings, go here. Image from Shutterstock.com.
Poetry Thursday: My voice
Reflection
I look in the mirror and see a woman there.
I recognise the sour smell of my
mother’s armpit as she reached over
to put dinner on the table,
her hot summer skin,
olive oil on her Sophia Loren legs
while my skin blistered
red and angry.
I look in the mirror and
hold handfuls of the flesh
that cushions my bones,
rubbery and pliant,
the shape not compliant
with my expectations,
the mind and body disconnected -
how can a belly so empty look so full?
I look in the mirror and remember
learning the language of widening hips
and dark hair between the legs,
not yet knowing that the
body will be reined in when
all it wants to do is grow wild,
to colour outside the strict
demarcated lines of adulthood.
For more poetic musings, go here
Dark emeralds
There is this cave
in the air behind my body
that nobody is going to touch:
a cloister, a silence
closing around a blossom of fire.
When I stand upright in the wind,
my bones turn to dark emeralds.”
~ James Wright, The Jewel… from Delia
Today has been a good day. I can’t remember the last time I said that so I will say it again: today has been a good day. I got the work done I needed to do in the morning, I had a long delicious bath, I ate lentil soup for lunch, I went into town and spent a few hours in a bookshop. Something magical happens when I do that, when I surround myself with books. I looked at all the new hardbacks and imagined my own name on one of them one day. I browsed through the ‘three for two’ selections, my eye drawn to the brighter colours, the more mysterious titles. Then my feet guided me towards the poetry aisle. Isn’t it always the way? I was looking for Jane Kenyon, but, of course, I didn’t find what I wanted. Instead I picked up a fabulous book I am about to devour as I drink a glass of white wine. I spent time reading poems, and flicked through a magnificent book of Don McCullin’s photographs that I found beside my chair. Later, as I walked towards the cashier’s desk, a very unassuming book caught my eye. The Reader by Ali Smith doesn’t have the jazziest cover I’ve ever seen but my hand somehow found itself holding the book. I read: “the first in a series of anthologies of favourite writing chosen by writers.” How amazing does that sound? I already love her books, and now I get to read what she loves and follow her breadcrumbs to new words. Included are Margaret Atwood, Colette, A M Homes, Jeanette Winterson, Italo Calvino, Muriel Spark, Czeslaw Milosz and many many more. So I had a dilemma. I had only intended to buy one book (at the moment I’m on a budget so tight it should be hospitalized and force fed) but… but… I need books more than I need food (I know Meg agrees with me) so I bought both books. I think it’ll be cheese on toast for me this week, but my brain will be well nourished.
Image from Shutterstock.com
A trip in Googleland
Susannah, (Hebrew), graceful lily… In the apocryphal Book of Tobit Susannah courageously defended herself against wrongful accusation. White lilies grew in the Biblical city of Susa in Persia.
Catherine, (Greek), pure…. From the word "katharos." A name in use since at least the third century AD. The early Latin forms Katerina and Caterina became Katharine and Catherine.
”In Jungian psychology, the shadow or "shadow aspect" is a part of the unconscious mind which is mysterious and often disagreeable to the conscious mind, but which is also relatively close to the conscious mind. It may be (in part) one’s original self, which is superseded during early childhood by the conscious mind; afterwards it comes to contain thoughts that are repressed by the conscious mind. The shadow is instinctive and irrational, but is not necessarily evil even when it might appear to be so. It can be both ruthless in conflict and empathetic in friendship. It is important as a source of hunches, for understanding of one’s own more inexplicable actions and attitudes (and of others’ reactions), and for learning how to cope with the more problematic or troubling aspects of one’s personality. ~ Wikipedia
Susannah is my aunt’s name and Catherine is my mother’s middle name – I like these connections with the female side of my family but it is the secret name I possess that has got me thinking. Perhaps Lily is my shadow side, but rather than being the receptacle for the repressed memories and scary parts of myself that Jung suggested, she is in fact the stronger more centred part of me. She is the part of myself I hide – and the part of myself I need to channel more.
Susannah worries and procrastinates; Lily is dynamic and confident. Susannah doesn’t believe she is good enough and thinks she cannot write; Lily knows she can write and revels in the process. Lily wants to wear couture Dior and high heels and attend literary dinner parties. Lily is a witty conversationalist and can hold a roomful of people in rapt attention; she is unafraid to wear her heart on her sleeve and live her life passionately. If I let Lily come out to play perhaps I will get more done. I’m tickled by the idea of adopting a writing persona, of wearing Lily’s hat when I come to the page. If I let Susannah go off and lay on the bed, writhing around in her worries and insecurities, perhaps Lily will be allowed to get on with the work at hand.
For more Sunday Scribblings, go here. Image from Shutterstock.com
Searching for wild geese
”You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.”
~ Mary Oliver, from Wild Geese
I would love to write a poem today, but I am blocked. My expectations are too high, my internal dictionary is locked. The blocks are reflected in the external world too – I have work to be done today, work for money and not pleasure, so I can’t give in to the soft animal of my body and let her luxuriate in poetry and pleasing images. My keyboard is so full of cigarette ash and breadcrumbs from my daily morning toast the keys are sticking, leaving letters missing from the words so I have to go back and go back and retype, retype. I keep my fingernails as short as possible so that when I hammer on the keys I don’t hurt my joints, but still the keys stick; the words are stuck. This morning as I made my tea I listened to the shouts coming from the fire station that backs onto the mews where I live. The firemen were playing with a football in the rain in the back yard, and I often see them testing their equipment, breaking the skyline with the cranes in their trucks and checking the water hoses are working properly. It’s good to know that the firemen in this town are so vigilant and ready for action. They have a good work ethic. I realise today that I do not.
“I saw what skill was needed, and persistence – how one must bend one’s spine, like a hoop, over the page – the long labor. I saw the difference between doing nothing, or doing a little, and the redemptive act of true effort. Reading, then writing, then desiring to write well, shaped in me that most joyful of circumstances – a passion for work.” ~ Mary Oliver, from Staying Alive
Working from home is a luxury I abuse too much. I get up when I want, I go to bed late. I might read all morning and shower at midday, then if I feel so inclined I’ll work all afternoon. Or maybe I’ll put it off until tomorrow. When depression moves in I surrender to its seductive grasp and exist on the seabed for a while. We all have to work to earn the money we need, but why do I have such a princess mentality about it? Why is it such an effort to get stuck in and do what needs to be done? I’m making small in-roads – I sent the synopsis off on Tuesday, so that is a little step closer to achieving the goal I yearn for, but in the meantime, the other work must be done. The work that does not make my soul sing. And why should it? It’s work. But I want work to mean enjoyment, I always have. I don’t want to live out of another’s wallet – I want my own money, my own success. There’s no bottomless inheritance coming my way, no hedge-fund manager to sweep me off my feet, and quite frankly I wouldn’t want there to be.
I think I need to stop moaning and just get on with it. Simple as that. And to trust that it will not always be this way. I guess I’m just impatient for the future to be my present.
Lingering in Happiness
After rain after many days without rain,
it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the tress,
and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground
where it will disappear – but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole’s tunnel;
and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.
~ Mary Oliver, Why I Wake Early, 2004
For more poetic inspiration, go here. Image from Shutterstock.com
Remembering blue eyes
I tried to write a poem today but the muse just wasn’t having any of it. The Poetry Thursday prompt of blue got me thinking about my love’s eyes, which I have talked about here before, but the further I wrote the more frustrated I became. Frustrated with my pen, with missing him, with my life right now. I feel I have an enormous mountain in front of me, blocking my path. The mountain is called depression and I have no energy to begin the climb, and so I find myself skirting around the base, looking up at the summit and wishing it would just crumble away. I have a rucksack on my back, filled with map, compass, Kendal mint cake, but my feet are bare – where are my climbing shoes?
I abandoned the original poem and started again. This time I found myself thinking of the pet rabbit I had when I was nine or ten. She was called Bluebell. The poem started: The day my father killed my rabbit. And he really did – he dropped her on her back (she was struggling to get out of his hands) and he had to break her neck to end her suffering. I didn’t witness this as I was told to go into the house, which I gladly did, in a tsunami of tears. And maybe this would make a good poem one day, but all I could think was: Christ, if i post this poem I’m almost being depressing for depressing’s sake. But then I guess our blogs really do reflect our lives. Right now? I’m a bit blue. Tomorrow I want to be red… or pink.
Working on: the synopsis. And I really am – I have been all afternoon.
Michiko Dead
He manages like somebody carrying a box
that is too heavy, first with his arms
underneath. When their strength gives out,
he moves the hands forward, hooking them
on the corners, pulling the weight against
his chest. He moves his thumbs slightly
when the fingers begin to tire, and it makes
different muscles take over. Afterward,
he carries it on his shoulders, until the blood
drains out of the arm that is stretched up
to steady the box and the arm goes numb. But now
the man can hold underneath again, so that
he can go on without ever putting the box down.
~ Jack Gilbert, from The Great Fires
For more poetic inspiration, go here
Image borrowed from here
To Anon-e-mouse
Hello you, thank you for your new comment. I’m really glad you came back. I’m so sorry to hear of your loss, and yes, I imagine you still feel your grief very deeply. We can’t ever replace the ones we loved, the ones who have left us.
Your apology is accepted whole-heartedly.
I imagine reading my readers’ responses to your original comment was, ahem, a little scary (Amber and The Mad Hatter didn’t pull any punches, eh?). And yes, there was a tosser-ish element to your comment, but I have a very deep and profound understanding of the effect of wine and late nights on our ability to be discerning, so I let you off the hook!
Do come back and comment again as yourself if any of my ramblings speak to you. It’s all good.
Love to you and yours,
Susannah
