ellen bell

It is their courage that brings me to tears. It is so simple. They want to preserve their freedom, their autonomy and their right to live as they choose. And for that, they are willing to sacrifice themselves. Such nobility of purpose. Would I have such courage? I cannot and may never know. They haunt my waking and my sometime sleeping hours. I think of them out there, waiting for the bombs, the machine fire and those other venial tactics that Putin has up his sleeve. But there are also the Russian soldiers, they too will be sacrificed. And there should be no loss of live. Thy shalt not kill. No, not ever. And yet, to defend one’s family, one’s way of life, and the right to live in peace. Oh, it is such a complicated one, and one that most of us, thank god do not have to wrestle with. I don’t know. I just don’t know. But how I honour them.

And in between I live out my little highs and lows. Highs? Well, that woman in the coffee shop coming over and saying ‘they’re amazing, I’ve been watching you, and you’ve made my day’. And she spoke with her hand on her heart. Lows? The dentist on Thursday, ugh and my appointment with the consultant, another ugh but perhaps that mystery and indeed the discomfort is nearer being solved.

But the sun was lovely.

Keep safe my brave ones.

It is always there, in the background for most of us, on the periphery of our everyday lives. Now it has come near. Poor loves. My heart breaks for them and for my powerlessness to do anything. Can it not be talked through? Must people die? Show me what to do, what to say, how to make the world a better, kinder place. Please.

It is those wee small hours and I think of how I used to walk in them, oh so long ago it seems now. The wind lashes the rain against the wind and I am not sorry for not going out, the cold and wet wasn’t pleasant but I do miss something. I miss that black emptiness, that space of no thought, just moving, just walking and being out in the bleak, exposed to the elements. And seeing the sea at that time, too, when no one else was abroad. I had it to myself. Walking in the light, in the sun seems almost pedestrian by comparison. I will return to my night-time walking soon, when my legs are better (or at least the mystery has been solved so that I know what I am dealing with) and when Spring brings that special blue morning light.

Meanwhile the world becomes a madness. Will we all be at war soon? So much misery, pain, loss and disorder. Do we really really want it?

Forgive us, we know not what we do.

After the bleak blackness of Monday I had a rush of courage yesterday beginning with saying hello to H and then the firing off of emails in the afternoon asking to be recognised and ‘hired’. Then I sank. We diffident beings struggle to sustain audacity, it comes in bursts then we are spent and more than a little embarrassed by it.

These are parallel times. Such potential for joy for success and the opening of life and at the same time an awareness of others’ misery, fear, pain and despair. Can there really be a war? What of the brilliance of our diplomats, can they not stop it? Have we learnt nothing? Save us. Save them.

There’s so much grief in it, this business of living, of trying to find a path, an existence that is worthy, worthwhile, useful and true. Sometimes it utterly floors me. Yesterday afternoon was a weeping one. I haven’t had one of those for some time. When we lived in Cambridge he would often come back from work and I’d be a heap on the bed. But I pick myself up, I always have and begin again. As I am doing now.

I woke up saying it. I try to remember and know that if I don’t write it down instantly it will go, like smoke. I don’t know what it refers to, that post sleeping world is a liminal one. A magical one.

My laptop is playing and it agitates and unnerves me. I want to throw it all up and retreat. Can’t it be simple, this living thing? Can’t it be something true?

It wasn’t satisfactory. In fact, it wasn’t anything at all. The results haven’t been processed (there’s a paucity of people to read the scan findings at the hospital, apparently and there’s a six week backlog, he was told). So it was all a misunderstanding. A friend said that this full moon has the ‘devil in it’, so perhaps it is to blame. All this stirring up of life, of the sea, of the wind and the universe. And the threat of war. The big and the small, all so unsettling, so frightening. Perhaps it is the moon and when it calms down and the devil goes maybe, just maybe all will be peaceful again. Who knows?

A Monday morning and there is much to put in place and order. And the wind still howls outside, moaning like a wild animal scratching and mithering to come in to the warm.

I write down the sentences that come to me on waking. Two universes as incompatible as chalk and cheese. Interesting though.

I wish you all well. All of my loves. All of you.

And can there be more jaw jaw so that there can be no war war? Please.

There is a holding of breath, mine and the world’s it seems. The birds stopped singing. Do they know what it is coming? They have promised 70 mile per hour winds. This poor town by the sea will take some battering but it may be worse in Cornwall. I want to wrap everyone up and keep them safe. Does everyone feel as unsafe as I do? He doesn’t. And yet, being out there in such winds can also be so exhilarating. I know this, I have felt it but not recently. Not for a while.

Another night sweat last night. It has been going on so long. Will my body find peace soon? Or must it wait for my mind to gain such sagacity first?

More possibilities of work fall away like eroding cliffs and the conundrum of what to do (with myself) continues to gnaw away at me. Should I try this or that? I just don’t know. If you don’t know what to do, do nothing, he used to say. Bless him. I hope he is OK. What a beautiful man he was but what rage.

Will peace come?

It’s still blowing out there and I take my comfort where I can from a warm bath, and smells, such as raspberry butter on my skin and lemon oil in my hair and radio 3 (though that can be a hit a miss experience though the voices are friendly). I talk myself through the fear I have built up around filling in the form (again). Take it bit by bit, I say. Treat it like a job, detach yourself and just do it. I made a start. The title is there, and my details and the amount I intend to ask for. A not inconsiderable amount, he said. And it isn’t. And it is public money, so why shouldn’t I bleed for it? And I do so want to do the work. To make the work. Shouldn’t that be inspiration enough? Look what it would give you, and others. And all from your little brain. That’s good isn’t it?

He texts his friend and the Chemo symptoms were not so bad. I am glad. I feel his fear too. And why shouldn’t he feel it? We are but children after all.

And now the threat of invasion is back again. Will they reach some sort of compromise? Can’t world peace be tried?

I need to gather my good dreams to me. The moon brought this one, I think. There are four, she said, and I knew that she included me in that number, though nothing was actually said. I also knew that she meant who were potential firsts. I was pleased but worried that I wouldn’t match up. And then she wanted to borrow my pen and I gave it and she left me with a red one, both of us knowing that my ability to draw would be impaired. Was it a test to still see what I could do? And then there was a child who came to tell me something had come in the post for me. And then I was there opening these strange envelopes with drawings, notes and hand-made objects in them. I was delighted yet bemused. And I tried to draw but couldn’t, all the while thinking of her belief in me.

Is it full today?

I’d been waiting for his call all day, though I forgot about it for long swathes of time, being busy with other things. He’d been waiting too, in between doing battle with SP, again. By suppertime he still hadn’t called so he chased up the surgery. And it seems he never intended to, or maybe he changed his mind at the last minute. Let me explain. This, this thing with my arteries (and consequently, we believe, with my hips and legs) has been going on for over 9 months now, at least. And after an examination by him (and a promise that he would do some research) and two scans (an ultrasound and an MRI) all that I was offered yesterday, by the receptionist not the doctor, was the word satisfactory. That’s what he wrote on both scan reports. Satisfactory. Satisfactory for whom, I wanted to say, but didn’t. The falling out with them had already happened for he, my love, that is, lost it. I am more sanguine than him, not really expecting anything else. But he recommended this doctor. He values and likes him (they always talk cricket). Is it me? I want to ask. Is my dislike (no that’s not quite right, my distrust) of doctors at fault here? Can they sense it, smell it and do they act accordingly? Enough now. Enough investigating. Let it be. I can and will live with it. Perhaps I will go and see L. Or S. Or perhaps not. Let there be peace. No more wrangling. I am at war with the world and am discomfited by it. Enough now. Is it moon stuff? Or Eunice? Or the water tiger year rattling away at this water tiger’s particular cage.

As to the addendum (is it addendum or addenda?) to the title, I woke saying it to myself, went for a pee and thought I must write it down and did so, in the dark. The fib on 88. What does it mean? Nothing or everything? The dream that followed was more straightforward, falling out with an ex lover and then wanting to return, if only stay and make him fresh coffee. His flat was up high, and I had to get a lift to it. I found a dress to wear in the car in the car park below. Black. But I had no key to get in. Would he hear me knock? Would he let me in once again?

The wind blusters and moans outside.

We have an old friend, well he is his strictly but we met through him and his then wife and he was kind to me during those early days, anyway he began a course of chemotherapy yesterday. I have thought of him often recently. He has lived well, embracing all that it had to offer with enthusiasm and courage, I think. As he is doing now, or appears to be via his text messages. I think of the poison filling his veins. I hope it kills the cancer with it its kindness.

She left three messages via the blog portal. They were kind. She’d taken the trouble to think of me and my drawings and respond encouragingly. The kindness of strangers is a constant source of wonder to me.

I wake with it. I think I always have. There have been brief escapes, such as when I thought I was in love, in lust, or when I was on holiday and I’d wake full of the joy of irresponsible adventure, but they are few and far between these days for I know more. And yet, there is trust, there is an awareness of deep, deep goodness and there is joy but the overriding sensation of life for me is fear. Is it so bad?