Author: Ellen Bell

There’s yet more. More than yesterday it seems. It’s colder. From the North. Bitter, blustery and fierce. I walked into it, pushing against the discomfort of my present sciatica. Pain. It’s a teacher. It can make me grumpy but I try to detach from it. See it as a gift. Can it be? Sometimes. It slows me when I know I need slowing. I listen to music, literature, Norwegian and poetry on my iPod. It’s a hotch-potch of voices, sounds and reflections. The poet David Whyte talked about how we should embrace our limps or marble-like flaws. An actor reading Proust spoke of the writer’s impregnation of his pain onto his bedroom walls. Paul Weller sang of being invisible. I listen and am transported. And I forget, for a moment or to, the wind.

I woke to its fury. And the rain. My heart sinks. I need fresh air, to walk, to get it over with. And then to work. I will go out anyway, though my body longs to rest, to sleep, to stay where it is. Often it isn’t as bad as it looks from the window. The air smelt different, churned up. An odour of wet dog, the kind that they leave in cars. Slightly fetid, even warm. The wind gusted. Whirling around me, it buffeted, worried at my legs. It’s tiring work walking into it. I write in my head as I walk. I don’t want to work. I want to rest, to do something undemanding. To not create. But I can’t. Rest can only be savoured, relished when the work is done. T’was ever thus. I have chosen this. And it is a gift I cherish. Truly.

I’ve been seeing magpies. Single magpies. I used to get very edgy when that happened. Not so much now. That one for sorrow. Two for joy. Sorrow. I try to accept its place in my life. It has its part to play. In the whole scheme of things. If it is coming then so be it. Yesterday I also saw a jay. He was following close on the heels, so to speak, of a magpie. I love seeing jays. They are not a frequent sight, at least not for me, though I know that there is a nesting couple somewhere near this school. I saw their young feeding off the American’s seed hangers. But it still thrills me to see one. That pink on the wing and the flash of blue and white. They are bringers of portents, omens. Change. I am open to it. My heart opens to it.

I find travelling, the being out there and open, both joyful and wearying. My body fizzes. I stop breathing properly, taking short staccato intakes rather than slow inhales. It’s anxiety. I am overwhelmed by all that I have to do. I will get it done. Whether I get it done as well as I’d like is another matter. It will calm down. And I will start breathing again. Soon.

I don’t know what a tenterhook is. Something to do with tents? I am edgy. I threw a wobbly just now. A tantrum. I banged the kitchen surface with my fist because the tumble dryer keeps turning itself off. A safety mechanism, no doubt, but it does it without warning. and besides I wanted to shout. The news bulletin at 7.00 am talked of one day rail strikes and that’s my safety valve if the car isn’t fixed stymied. I know. I know it isn’t all about me. And I will pull myself together and come up with another strategy. But it’s how to get over those mountains. It feels such a long way from anywhere when you want to escape….

I worry about doing it, as I worry about most things. It’s mostly about my interaction with others, particularly those that I am endeavouring to draw. Am I abusing them? Asking too much? Hurting or using them? I give little credence in their ability to say no, to exercise autonomy. They have it and presumably would use it if the situation called for it. I am not that powerful. I know this. So why worry?

I am growing to care for her deeply. I see her vulnerability but also her spirit. She is a force. Frightening at times and yet she is old, frail and disintegrating. Her body is failing, her will remains strong. I relish this chance she and her family have given me to witness her last years, for that they must be. I asked to much yesterday. She was unfazed. I suppose so, she said, adding, What am I supposed to think?

Yesterday was a challenge. I slept fitfully. I don’t know why. Too much tea? My head was a fog when I woke and throughout the day. I kept dropping things. And hurting myself. I bit my tongue and my upper lip. I was tired. Too tired. Nothing worked. I was ragged. I made a drawing and began the process of teasing out my question but that was it. It. Enough but not really enough. Some days are like that, I suppose.

My clock has stopped ticking.

I had a restless night. A particular drawing and the act of drawing haunted my sleeping visions. I woke and woke. And this morning, intent on doing a touch-up wall job that I’d been putting off for too long, I am also stymied by the wrong paint. We joke, he and I, that it’s ‘The Mercury’. It probably is. I give in, submit, and leave it all be.

My clock meanwhile, I’ve discovered by default, ticks if I turn it upside down.

I am out of practice with being alone. And yet I see it as my natural state, I always have, even though I come from a largish family and I’ve been with someone for most of my adult life. But I do see myself as a solitary. He and I do spend time alone. We have our own rooms. We need it, both of us. But I’m out of the habit of being without him near for long periods of time. I both welcome the opportunity to be apart and shrink from it. I lack courage. At least I think I do. We shall see. I must submit. And be brave.

He called from town. I knew it was about the car. There was another big bang, he said. Poor love. He sounded so jaded by it all. There’s been a catalogue of things. One after another. It’s the other side this time. They should’ve done both sides, apparently. We must manage it. And, if I have to, I will go to London alone and by train. Trust. All will be well.