A Minor Inconvenience

It is nothing. It is nothing compared to what some people are experiencing day in day out. Like the refugee children traumatized by war that that academic spoke of on the TED talk yesterday or the thousands who have fled to the beaches in Australia to escape the bush fires. How must it be to be so displaced, homeless, all order, all structure in tatters? This is nothing. It will be resolved, one way or another.

I woke wanting to feel detached. All those fears rising to the surface on waking, I wanted to step back from them, to see them at a distance, be at arm’s length from them. I can see clearly then. One step at a time. Let the truth, the wisdom of each come through. What is it I want to say here? What is it that I need to learn?

So the fridge is bust. And now my laptop is behaving oddly. Does it matter? Well, yes, but not that much, or at least there will be something good that comes from it, something will be learnt. I think my cold helps. I am a slight distance from things, suspended, encased in my seemingly swollen head. I wanted to wake him, to spread a kind of panic at the waste of it, the inconvenience, but then I pulled back. No. Do what you are doing. There is nothing that can be done yet. Wait. Let him sleep. All will be well.

The woman on the TED talk spoke about how she reached the parents of the children in the camps by arranging for printed parenting advice to be attached to the bread wrappers of the food that was handed out to them. Bread wrappers bearing messages of hope, of support, of acknowledgement. Brilliant. And yet, my creative self can’t help thinking about the idea and perhaps adapting it to my work. I love the idea of something designed to do one thing while becoming a carrier of messages for another, and at the same time.

I need to marshall myself and try to salvage what I can of the peace of the morning before the disruption of a possible, fingers crossed (though I promised not to throw a paddy if it isn’t) delivery of a new one. I cleaned the flat, well a spit and polish and now my body aches, even my teeth. But it is nothing. Bless those on those beaches. There will be joy again and safety, I promise. x

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.