ellen bell

He was scumbling along a pavement at the bottom of Bridge Street, just beyond the Trefechan Bridge. A man who was standing on the corner pointed him out to me. He was huge. A magnificent beast. And yet, there was a vulnerability to him being there, exposed, as he was, too exposed in that urban setting. A car came round the corner and he scampered across the road and into some undergrowth. As I turned to make my way home I could see his form, cast in shadow, making its way along the bridge. Just for that moment, I had forgotten the wind.

The last few days have been trying. Was it the effect of the new moon? Who knows? I’ve felt unstable and out of control. He has been patient and forbearing, while I threw tantrums. Will such whirling ease? Will it calm? All I can do is bring myself to this desk and keep writing. I dreamt of being stuck in a train station during a gas leak, with a phone that didn’t work. Dark tunnels going nowhere faced me at every turn. But I don’t remember panicking. Can I take some comfort from that?

Georges Perec claimed to have remembered every room that he ever slept in. If I put my mind to it, I could probably do the same. I ingest space deeply. Possibly in an attempt to impose some control on it. I certainly do this with hotel rooms. I both love and dislike them. The offer such possibilities and yet are so lacking in home-ness. Which they can, of course, never be. What about their wallpapers, can you remember those?

It is when I am working, that is, when I am in the work that I feel the least stress and anxiety. I am at it. I am doing what I am supposed to be doing and things, though not always being solved, are being dealt with. It is when I am outside of this architecture of productivity that I flail. Like yesterday and like the other weekend mornings when domestic travail insists on precedence.

Learning to yield to what is lifelong. I have moments of it. Moments that are easier when one is away from the humdrum of the everyday. And yet, this is the true arena in which to learn it. Here, plodding along day-by-day, writing. It is without glory, or much intrinsic reward, just a little peace, sometimes at the end of it. A sleep, earned.

I written about the notes before, the post-it notes that he leaves on the stairs for me to find in the wee small hours when I am awake (and invariably fretting) and he is asleep. They are mini pep-talks, expressions of love and a snapshot of the weather. I love them. They are my solace in those dark, solitary hours. I use post-its too, for those thoughts that come post-writing. Yellow squares. Just like in his old office. Yellow squares everywhere.

I wake with voices in my head. Conversations. An unknown dialogue, often with which I have no involvement. What is it I am hearing? They are not distressing to me. Mostly, at the least the ones that I remember, they are inconsequential. A nothing.

I wake already worrying. Oh, about all and nothing. I want to be safe while knowing that life, the universe, cannot offer that and that all I can do is live this moment, this step, this breath. That is the key, just that, that small act of acceptance of my own vulnerability. And know it, own it, hold it, close.

It comes like a hard thing. It takes over my breath, my joy and my hope. I know that it is not real. And that any harm it threatens is illusory. And yet. And yet it assails me. As it did this morning. In those wee small hours.

I’ve always fretted. And my whole body feels it. Mostly it is about not being good enough, of falling short. And yet, as I try to remind myself daily, if not hourly, death will take me soon, so take James Taylor and ‘just enjoy the ride’. After all, you’ve nothing to lose.