Author: Ellen Bell

I am becoming fascinated by empty spaces, in particular those who have been recently vacated by people. It’s the traces of presence and how they play out in these rooms, chambers and interiors that most interest me. What is it that is left behind? Are there smells, marks, even auras of the beings who have dwelt there? Do we make a room what it is, or does it have its own character separate from the one we impose?

There is so much I don’t know. And what I don’t know increases incrementally as I age. This I do know. And how uncomfortable I am with the not-knowing. Is it the same for everyone? It takes me back to my early school days and the hot sweaty panic I’d feel when asked a question by the teacher in class and not having the answer. Life was unfathomable then, as it is now. Can I sit with that? Can I accept my innocence, my naiveity and ignorance with grace? This new venture asks so much of me. It is a behemoth, a dragon, a monster and I must invite it in. Will I come through the other side? Possibly. Possibly not. My supporters aren’t scared. They know that I will do it. I must trust that. Meanwhile, the real world rages. And I ache for all concerned. So much grief, anger and death. Must it be so?

It’s a long time, or at least that is how it seems, since I had a long morning walk. It was pitch when I went out. All kitted out, I expected rain but it didn’t come. The wind, however, was strong, particularly on the Prom. I pushed through it – a metaphor for all the internal wrangling that is filling my head at present. It was good to be out. The air smelt good, churned up, but good. And I was alone. I walked along South Marine, comforted by the sight of now familiar windows with all their bits on the windowsills. I like these brief encounters with other peoples’ lives. One ground floor flat shone with a purple light. That was new. The B&B is still going but no on-and-off Christmas decorations yet. They will come soon, no doubt now that Bonfire Night is done. I look forward to the Christmas trees, some comfort in this dark adventtide.

I’m trying to learn acceptance. It’s a lifelong challenge but I think I am better at it than I was. Perhaps it is an increasing awareness of my mortality and my smallness. I don’t matter a jot so why should my hopes, my ambitions, my longings and wantings matter either. They do and they don’t. Having a plan feels nice. As does having a path to follow. It’s there, that thing that I want but it maybe it isn’t meant for me. If so, should I have something else in place just in case? Or, does that take some of that energy away from the wanting? It’s a magic thing, that I seem to believe is more likely to make it happen. It doesn’t. I am learning that the most I can do in these circumstances is my best. And then? To just let it be, whatever it needs to be. Some say that there is no real difference between failure and success, that they are just different journeys. Possibly. The latter tends to feel better than the first, but that’s our training, our rearing. Dreams are good, they light a flame inside. All those possibilities for adventure, that will probably never be taken. Like that little house that I hold inside, in readiness for when he goes. It is my solace, my consolation. The rest. Oh, yes, I still long to do good work. Make good work and to touch others, however lightly. And to make peace with her (though how I shall do this I have no idea). And just to love and forgive and make this little corner of the world a little better…

I’ve just caught sight of it. After yesterday’s utter greyness it is such a glory. The sky is still murky and threatens rain but there is the yellow, nevertheless. It licks across the yew tree and the clump of firs the lie towards the sea and then catches the back of South Marine. Oh, how I need it. The winter is a challenge. It makes me hungry for light. And now the rain comes and still the sun shines. Will there be a rainbow?

I’ve never liked taking them. They are bullish, unsubtle and they go through my system blasting all the good probiotics that I have planted in my gut. They make me feel unwell but it seems like I had little choice. My finger had grown very infected and my body, bless her, was struggling to heal it. I suspect the capsules that he has prescribed for me are not vegan and that makes swallowing them even worse. I have such an antipathy towards traditional medicine. I am not sure why. My finger is improving though it smells. Yesterday it smelt like blue cheese, today it is distinctly fish-like.

I don’t know where it came from. It is not like me. He caught a nerve speaking to me like he did. I should have pulled back, delved, found out why he was so angry, so touchy. It all came out. He’d felt stupid. He’d done something incorrectly and my response had made it worse. He takes things out on me. And why not? I am a safe place to let rip. I should shoulder it better, detach myself from the emotion and pay attention, listen and then wait. It will pass. It always does. The love is there. It is sacroscant. Safe.

Embrace uncertainty, she wrote in her Instagram message. And I cried. It is hard for me to do so. I hold life, and indeed myself, so tightly. I understand why and can have compassion for myself for doing so. The past has involved so much chaos. I need these tramlines. But research is about risk and the discoveries that such unknowingness generates. And intellectually I love this. I do. But there is still this need for safety and to know that I am doing the right thing and being a good student. I think she understands. Her kindness means the world to me.

We’re home. There was a point in this, let’s call it ‘adventure’, when I thought we’d never get back again. They all return, those memories that are so painful to carry and revisit, sparked by similar sensations of alienation, being trapped, having to sleep in mean rooms, being lost and helpless. Yes, helpless, that is the thing. The thing. Angels did come. They always do but sometimes that take so long. I will write it out. But not now. Not now.

Sometimes I just want to write about tiny details. Today those details are all olfactory. They are the smells I encounter in the dark. My sense of smell is heightened in the early morning before the sun has risen. I notice more, and not necessarily with my eyes, but with my other senses. My ears and my nose become more acute, more alert at picking up resonances. The first of these smells is the air. The morning air is, more often than not, sweet and clear and clean, though the direction of the wind can make a difference. I walked over the Buarth this morning, delighting at a reflection of three lit upper floor windows thrown across a neighbouring wall. I love to see the town from the height of the Buarth. I can see the sea, the town clock and the glittering of lights. Coming down the hill past Holy Trinity and then through the little passage that takes me towards The Avenue, I caught the sharp stink of new paint. Emulsion, I think. There’s no damp leaves smell yet. In fact, there aren’t many leaves on the ground at all. Walking along South Road and then cutting through past the trailer of gigs that is always there, I made my way to the harbour. Salt and fish and the mucky reek of stored nets and lobster baskets hit me, as it always does. Brine. Briny. The stink of the sea, strangely hot and sandy. Sticky like salt on the skin and the hair.

Was I a dog in a past life?