Author: Ellen Bell

Mark Doty calls it a profound internal sense of emptiness, a blank, a nil spot. Yes. I too am empty. Doty wanted to drown, to jump off the Staten Island Ferry, to fall into the New York water. He takes a pink pill. Serotonin. It helps. I don’t want to drown. I want to live. I don’t want anti-depressants. Though, I am lost. I want to acknowledge it. I am lost. I want to feel my loss of way even though I don’t know what to do, what to be. How to use all this, this me.

I am fortunate. I see the blessings of my life. I am truly blessed. And this space, this emptiness can only be acknowledged because everything else is taken care of. I know this. I have time to think, to consider, to look at my life from a distance and ask, what now? What now?

Making, working, doing, keeping busy. That. All that is me. But I am going round in circles. And the reasons why I made the work have gone. She is no longer here. She is no longer listening. She never was. Gone. Empty. And he too. Both of them. No longer here. No longer listening.

Freedom. I am free to do as I choose. Free. What now? How do I use up all this energy? All this longing to work. To make. To create. To communicate. To reach out to someone. To myself.

A new start. A new something. A new me. Me. Wait. Watch. Tick tock. It will come. See it is soon here. Soon.

I ask Jamie about his cat Wendy. She has not returned. Is he upset? It appears not. He shrugs his shoulders. I think she’s found someone else to look after her, he says. I don’t push it. I’m sorry. Perhaps she was restless, wanted another view. Good luck to her. God speed, Wendy.

Two films in a row about surviving in god-awful conditions – one up a mountain, the other in an ocean. We live vicariously through such others. The brave ones. The ones who pit themselves against a greater force than the day-to-day rolling of existence. So it is for most of us. Or is it? Are most of our lives rather more magnificent than we realise? I think about the ending to George Eliot’s Middlemarch. The heroine who wanted, nay yearned, to achieve so much, to make a difference. When in the end all she did achieve was the strength to tell the truth – to follow her heart, ‘to let’, as Mary Oliver writes ‘the small animal of her body love what it loves.’ Isn’t it enough? Do we have to climb mountains, shipwreck on a sea to be extraordinary?

A picture of a girl in a school choir. Third from the left on the front row. I rarely sang. I didn’t trust my voice but I liked the belonging – the being there. I loved the ritual. The sounds of voices in unison. The candles. The exoticism. I watched. I observed.

Not much changes. We, the things that make us us become set. Don’t they? I still watch. Though I suspect I participate more than I realise. I ache with desire. Desire to be like Dodo – to make a difference. What can I do? What difference can I make? Joe Simpson in Touching the Void was so articulate (with hindsight) about his closeness to death. That terrible crevasse. That deep dark coldness. He survived by making decisions. Giving himself goals to achieve. Pulling his exhausted body with its broken leg across the glacier. I will get there in 20 minutes. Do it, do it, now. And Pi in Life of Pi acknowledges that Richard Parker the Bengal Tiger kept him alive, alert – gave him the fear to keep going.

I have finished my thesis. Handed it in. What now? I want to do so much. My mind reels with it all – what about this, or that, I could do that, no that. Round and round. While all the time knowing that I need to stop, to rest, to wait, to watch. To pay attention. Let it be. Wait. I don’t want to do the same thing again. I want to change. To transform. To become more myself. Does that make sense? It is an uncomfortable place to be. I am not in danger. I am safe. I know this and am thankful. I am not used to the space. I am a worker. I keep busy. How would it be to have that time before death? That space of grace. Waiting, watching suddenly becoming aware of the closeness of everything. That intensity. Mark Doty saw it during the death of his love. I think I saw it when my father died. I saw it before my mother-in-law died. Nothing else is left. The body has served its purpose. There is nothing else to say. There is just the peace of nothing. If I let the nothing be what will come? Anything? Something else?

It was a perfect box. A neat, not too shiny, wooden box with a black cross on the lid. It felt surprisingly heavy as I lowered it into the square hole the vicar had dug.

The wind blew, gusting at our skirts. High up on a soft hill in the Yorkshire Dales. A walled-field with a dotting of gravestones. There is no stone yet. Just the hole with its new contents, filled-in with the wet clay and the two pieces of turf. The vicar jumping it down. You would have smiled at such irreverence. He was a friend after all. We all said the Lord’s Prayer. Nice.

Walking early I pass a car by the harbour. A couple having sex. The windows steamed up, a pair of ankles. I smile and remember. I take another route to the SPAR. A sign in the window of a municipal building opposite Harley’s – NO VOMITTING, NO URINATING. CCTV YOU ARE BEING WATCHED. In the SPAR Jamie tells me his cat, Wendy has gone, ‘walkabout’. No mean feat he informs me as he lives in a top floor flat. He is unconcerned. She’s probably in the flat below. I will knock on some doors later, he says.

A dog-collared vicar gives me a long look in the Morrisons.  I see him later in town. When he walks he takes short, little steps.

All of us at lunch. A big round table. The noise and cluck of women’s voices. Nerves make us a little loud. For all the mess of the past there is good will and love. I was glad to be there among them. My sisters. Amazons all. Yes. Proud. Good women. All trying their best to be true. My loves. My family.

I am immersed in a book. Even when I am not reading it I am lost within it. It is Mark Doty’s Heaven’s Coast. I began reading it as part of my research for my thesis. It is beautiful. It is beautiful to me. Now. He writes about the loss of his lover, Wally, to AIDS. It is a beautiful vision of dying, of death and of mourning.

I have finished my thesis. I handed it in yesterday. What a weight. What a responsibility. I still carry the memory of its weight. Was it worth it? This last year. The writing through the mourning? Yes. I learnt so much. I crafted poems, stories. I have gained confidence. I wrote a memoir. Incredible. I wrote that. I pinch myself. See what I have done. And yet, the most, the best thing, the wondrous thing was, is, the reading. I am learning to read. To read and write.

Yesterday morning there was a couple in the road, in the rain, waltzing. Later, I saw them kissing.

It wasn’t there any longer. The golden spider silk cloak had gone back to Madagascar. It was amazing, the man at V&A information desk told me, amazing. Yes. I am sure it is. And those giant puppets in Liverpool. I want to see these things. I want to be in there presence. Does the paranormal exist asks a questionnaire? Oh, yes. Life is beyond normal, beyond ordinary. See the wonders. Such wonders. The tiny and the massive. Life explodes with sensation.

London was fun. I felt alive. So much to absorb. The sun shone. The sounds, smells, sights all exaggerated. Coffee in the Monmouth Coffee House. I rush to stand, to place myself in my favourite haunts. To find myself there. To be there. It is enough, that revisiting.

Back home I walk to the sea. Early. I heard snoring. He was lying on the first tier of the scaffolding around Alexandra Hall, wrapped in some lagging. A group of kids were shouting by the pier. One shouts a greeting at me. I smile. I wanted the peace. But that is OK. The birds shout too. The oystercatchers peep, the seagulls screech. The water though was still. A lapping quiet. It is good to be home. To be with my work. Useful. But I miss. I miss that aliveness. I miss my aliveness. All that possibility making me feel beautiful.

I saw him from North Road. A young man sitting in the middle of the maze. A miniature maze made from roped fences, not bushes. He was sitting on the circular seat in the centre. It was 5.45am. His body kept slipping forward, trying to succumb to sleep.

My dreams have been vivid. Is it the heat? Or the supermoon, perhaps? What did I dream off? A butterfly trapped in an inner chamber of a inn. I closed the door knowing that at any moment this fragile creature would set off the burglar alarm. In another I had been asked to play the part of Jesus. It was to be performed outside and I remember standing on the cross, looking down, crucified. Then there was a loss of a child. Last night I dreamt I had begun to menstruate again. I was both alarmed and excited. New possibilities for birth. For a child.

The radio is my delight. The radio fills my day and my thoughts – weaving magic. A series of interviews with war widows yesterday. Such stories. Heartrending. In Afghanistan they have to chose between marrying again into their husband’s family or out of it. If out they will lose their children. All we ask is to be free, they say. Free. Freedom.

You won’t see me for two weeks now, he says. Oh, I say. Are you going away? No, but at least I won’t have to come in here, he says. A cheerful man. A contented man. I miss him in the mornings. He showed me his coins the other week. So proud. This one’s gold, he said. Solid gold.

I found it on the beach. A porpoise. Dead. A deep red liquid oozing from its head. Rooks bobbed around it. Flies buzzed. How did it die? A large plastic bottle of water lay on the sand next to it. I was overwhelmed by sadness. It didn’t belong there, beached, exposed and alone. The day before we’d watched the dolphins. Such vitality, such rolling joyous-ness stopped. I touched it. I wanted to wake it, carry it back to the waves. Dead. Gone. Later it was gone. Who took it? Was it the sea?

It’s life this death. I force talk about moving. He closes down. I close down. An ocean between us. What do I want? I just don’t know. I make a return journey to childhood things. Will it help me know? I read Wind in the Willows both wanting to escape what they are. A bedtime story plays in my ipod about the mouse who heard the roaring. She had to go out and find the source. Even though it was dangerous and uncertain. She encounters a land where old mice live comfortably and safe. Stay here, they say, stay here with us, we’ll keep you safe. No, she replies, I must keep moving and find what it is I am looking for. She finally sees it, that shining hill.

‘Save my life’ say Mary Oliver’s voices all the while knowing as she knows, that the only life she can save is her own. Just last night, I dreamt of the shining hill. Nice.

A man sitting on a bench at 5.30am. A brutish-looking man. Tattooed. Do you live here? he asks. Yes, I reply. Was it worth it? he asks. Yes, I reply, without thinking, knee-jerk, anxious to keep moving, to walk on, it’s lovely.

Worth what? I think afterwards. Worth what?

Edith Piaf. Fiercely loving, wildly living, hurtling toward disaster. Ending with her father giving her the doll, the death of her child and smiling as she sang that song. In the pink. A life in pink. A rose-tinted life. A body stiff with the pain of it all. What is a good childhood? One of safety, of consistency, of love? Titine the prostitute teaching her to pray, her father the contortionist pushing her to perform to find her voice, her mother begging her for money. A life, no better and no worse. Just. Just different. In pink. In the pink.

In the Spar, the boy with the beautiful eyes telling me his life. I’m sleeping on me mate’s couch. Me Mum threw out me things. All me toys. Me childhood things. She threw out me childhood. It will get better I say. What do I know? He smiles. Thanks mate.

And me. I order Wind in the Willows. Trying to remember what made me feel safe, grounded. Mole, Badger and Ratty. Tales of the Riverbank on the TV. Do you remember? The live mouse, or was it a rat in a little boat? The lapping water and the soft voice of the narrator. Gentle moments in the chaos, the uncertainty of moods. Her moods. Sometimes. Sometimes love too.

I am thankful. I am alright. In the pink.

Walking. Walking along the road up close to the hedgerows. A microcosm of life. Bursting. Seething. So happy to be alone, walking. Walking in the sun. In and out of the shadows. The smell of warm earth. Alive to the darting of sparrows, the flicker of butterflies and the hum of bees. Just walking, following the road. In no particular hurry. Is this the right road for Ambleside? I asked her. Yes, but it’s a five mile walk. There’s a number 555 on its way, she said. That’s OK, I said, I like to walk. And I do.

It’s about keeping moving – through the sun, out of the shadows. Wearing the wrong shoes and doing too much. What did I tell you? he said. Always bull at a gate. Yes, I am aren’t I? I just wanted to keep moving. To be alone in that sunshine. That beauty. Then back to my room. Alone. Free. Tired. Nicely tired. Hot bath and pyjamas tired. It is good. It was good.

What was good? Remember. Earl Grey Tea in Baldrys. There you go, sweetheart, said the man with the tattoos. The early morning visit to Wordsworth’s grave and the rabbits. The birdsong outside of my window. The heron coming to land on the edge of the lake. The white rabbit. The philosophical newsagent. The Mediterranean Salad in Zefferelli’s and the Albanian waiter sharing his love for Sudoku. Philip Roth’s Patrimony. The open top bus. The Japanese gentleman fondling a toy Peter Rabbit at The Old England Hotel. The council worker saving the lamb on the road. The White Moss walks. Marinated tofu salad. Toasted pumpkin seeds. Eating tiny vine tomatoes and cottage cheese in my room. The Charley Harper puzzle. The pale green wallpaper of the Nightingale Room. Going down to a too late breakfast feeling famished. Cold orange juice. Feeling alive. Feeling open. Feeling space. Feeling empty. Feeling grief. Feeling alive.

Walking along the hedgerow, fingers trailing its complexity. So full of life.

Thank  you for it all. The grace of it all. Each moment, each day. So full.

Today began beautifully, though cold. I went out without gloves, the first time this year. My fingers were so numb I couldn’t turn the key to get back in. There are clouds now, white shadows over the sun. Never mind. Let it be.

The longest day. The lightest day. I’ve loved the light. Out at 5.30 am and the day bright. Seeing all. Lovely. Just lovely.

We walk in the afternoons. Together. Slower than when I am alone but I don’t mind. I like the gentle strolling. I like our talks. We see the same people. The woman with the goitre. Do you think she will think me patronising, he asked after greeting her, for talking to her, do you think she’ll think I feel sorry for her? Does it matter? I ask. Isn’t it enough to acknowledge, make a connection with each other, whatever the reason? To be kind. Is it kindness? And the other woman on her mobility scooter, sitting on the jetty watching for dolphins. I saw three today, she says. In between her staring she writes postcards. A nice hand. Then there is Howie and his wife, striding along the prom, his big strides outstepping her little ones. And all those visitors in their camper vans that make him so cross. Spoiling the view for everyone else, he says. I don’t mind. I like passing them in the morning thinking about them being nice and cosy inside, some with their little dogs. Where do they pee? Or poo even?

Yesterday he placed some more of her ashes, on a rockery just up from the prom. I don’t know the name of the flowers, they are like sea anemones, like stars – spiky even. It was one of her favourite spots. He’d switch off the engine and she’d stare out to sea, her head barely over the dashboard. Can you see Aberdovey? Yes, lovely. Do you want a Marie biscuit? No, not now, love. I’m fine. Just fine. There is still more of her in the boot. He doesn’t want to let go of it all, just yet. Not just yet.

We took white gerberas to her grave on the anniversary of her death. Two years. Two mothers. Mine died June 28th 2012. So much has passed since then. Not on the outside but the inside. I am not the same. A transforming.

The other morning there was a cobweb, clinging in all its exquisite frailty and strength, to the jetty railing being blown by the wind.