ellen bell

I wasn’t expecting it. It came with such a force. A remembered thing from long ago – that neediness that embarrasses me so and which I try to smother with an often too abrupt capable-ness. I am not capable, not in those situations. I have no confidence in what I know, what I can offer and yet the desire and joy of learning, of grasping things and making sense of them is such a potent thing for me. I cried because I was shamed by my need to be praised, to be recognised as good enough. It has always been there, far, far back when a gold star in my exercise book was a prize indeed. I made myself mouse-ish then, not now. He tried to show me that it is normal, that we all act up in company – Symbolic Interactionism, he called it. And he is right. With my teacher’s hat on I can see this. But oh, the ache of it. I want to learn, let that be enough, the rest, the wanting to be noticed can be let go. Can’t it?

There is some joy, always, if you look for it. The discomfort of my arm, pain sometimes, has taught me much. Expect less, accept more, he says. I want to do what I could do before but I cannot, not totally, not yet, and if I can do some things it is slow. So I am learning patience, and to let some things go. Like the ironing, and perhaps the weekly mopping of all the floors. The joy. Yes, let’s get back to that. That came yesterday when I managed to put one of my text pieces in a small frame I’d bought ages ago for that purpose. It took a lot to do it, both the sewing and cutting, but it is done and I placed it next to the postcard of Gwen John’s Self Portrait. It’s all about juxtapositions. I like that. It is a light thing, a trial, I told him when he asked about it. It gave me joy. Something of mine, not driven by anything but a curiosity to see what works and what it sparks.

Did you shout at it? he often asks when he knows that my walk has been a windy one. I did today. That’s enough, now, I said, loudly as once too often it tried to wrench the umbrella from my hand. (My left hand I might add, as my right is still feeble, bless it.) It was a grit your teeth kind of walk, I told him. And it was, though I did smell the earth, newly wet, and hear the blackbirds (they still sing even in the relentless rain, which as the yesterday’s Nature Diary advised us (he read it out at breakfast) we need it, Nature needs it). And I tried to encourage the delights of such sensations to cancel out the irritation of the wind and rain and the aching in my shoulder. Ah, I’ve had enough of moaning. It is improving.

A quiet day today, reading and sleeping. I hope. Along with washing and ironing. The sun yesterday was glorious again as I sat reading S&S. It feels like another season today.

There is some, though it is slow. For instance I managed to change my bed sheets this morning. Usually a simple if time-consuming task, it takes longer with a bad arm and sore shoulder, but I did it. But I was too tired to walk before breakfast – we shall walk together instead in the sunshine. I missed it though (though I didn’t miss the struggle with putting socks on – why are the simplest things rendered virtually impossible?) I keep asking myself what can I learn from this? Find your own happiness, Mrs Dashwood said to Edward Ferrars in Sense & Sensibility. For it is there, waiting to be found, in everything we do, say and think. A quiet day today now that my article is written. I am tired, I confess. And sitting reading in the sun yesterday was a delight. Let it heal. And soon.

I try to detach myself from it. I remember doing the same, or at least trying to do the same 33 years ago today between 11.00 am and 4.16 pm. What a wealth of life has been lived since then. It hurts, still. As does my shoulder and my arm. An aching, rather than a pain, a dull, insistence of discomfort. It makes me cross and I am sorry for it.

There is a row of rabbits on a window shelf in a house along North Parade. They are toy rabbits, obviously and they have their backs to me as I walk past. A little line of them, in pastel colours. Cute and soppy as they are they give me a little fillip of joy.

It is getting better, I can do a few more things, like wrap a towel around my wet hair as I did this morning, but it is slow, slower than I would like and it aches. I ache. My whole body aches but so be it. Others have it worse, think of those dying of Covid in India, of those killed and injured in Mexico and that precious woman still in prison in Iran. I have nothing to complain of, I am mending. Will they?

And what kindness and care he has shown me throughout. And I being so snappy with discomfort. Onwards. Work to do. Let the words flow.

It’s wild out there. I did walk, though tentatively. Gates were bashing open and closed, pub and shop signs clanged and recycle bags full of rubbish were being blown forward rolling up the road. It is both alarming and exhilarating to be out in such wind. I watched as loose sheets of newspaper aped seagulls and flapped upwards taking flight. I wonder how my sweet peas are. I feel like I have abandoned them, but to watch them die off, one by one after all my careful nurturing was painful. Will they cling on? I hurt for them.

And then there is my hand. My arm is getting better but my hand is black. Well, at least up to my knuckles. The blood had clearly travelled downwards leaving my palm looking like a piebald or a dark and white chocolate block of ice-cream. Is that what it reminds me of? I’ve been trying to remember – was it Walls’ Chocolate and Vanilla?

Back to proper work today with my first interview. I will be glad of the distraction from the aching and my consequent crossness. He is very forbearing. Always.

I walked this morning, alone in the dark, for the first time since I fell. I am slow but oh it was good to get out into that cacophony of birdsong once more. I shan’t write much, I still need to rest my arm and I’m doing too much already. Suffice to say, it is good to be back.

I tripped and fell on my arm. I can’t use it. BUGGER.

I’d forgotten that they were going to re-air her Desert Island Discs. It was an old one for Roy Plumley was hosting it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her voice before. She sounded as I’d imagined, slightly reserved, a Queen’s English voice with her sentences a little clipped. She asked for a case of white wine, German, I think, as her luxury. I forget her book. I liked her. I felt safe with her. She said she wrote in the mornings. If I manage two pages on my typewriter I am happy, she said.

Was I unkind to him yesterday? I told him of it. I smell too. We all do. I’m a little out of sorts. She said that this full moon would be a challenge. Or am I blaming it for my bad behaviour. Another beautiful morning. Fridays are bitty days, I struggle with them. No stretch of time to achieve anything worthy. So be it. What did he say? Accept more, expect less. Wise words, my love. Wise words.