I’ve been bagging-up things, clothes mostly, for the charity shop. I put off doing it. There are to many things to consider usually, such as will I wear it, will I need it, can I afford to replace it and so on. And yet, in principle I really like this sloughing-off of stuff. I feel temporarily lighter, less burdened. More will come in, inevitably. Sadly, even. I could just stop, couldn’t I?
She told me over the phone something of their struggles. Well, his mostly, for hers can no longer be known. I understand from what I know of him how much he would’ve battled with her gradual slowness, I might even say, bovineness. She told me he often shouted at her, and even dragged her along the floor. It sounds terrible, but caring isn’t a skill that everyone has. Or should I that wish to care? There was little intimacy between them. They stayed together because is what people of their generation, usually did. I am sorry. Sorry for both of them. She is in a home and, from what she told me, is not fighting it. I hope that they are both more content. And may her end be a gentle one.
The wind is a beast. And it howls. I am agitated by it, unsettled, anxious. I am a beast too. A mouse, a shrew, a tiny thing wanting to be safe, cosseted and warm. I must accept its horrors. It has its place.
I know nothing about him, apart from the fact that he used to work for a telecomms company and has two young children who come and visit him at weekends, though it has been awhile since I’ve seen them arrive or leave. I passed him yesterday. His hoodie hood was down, as it usually is when I see him. We didn’t greet each other. I am led by his reticence. Perhaps I shouldn’t be but he always strikes me as either a shy or sad man who wishes to be left alone. I can see his flat from mine and when I look early on his lights are often on. He sleeps badly, I think. I try to not make up stories about him, it feels an act of intrusion. We call him ‘Smoker 2.’ And yes, I do think he is sad.
It was worrying the trees before I left growing fiercer as I walked. There’s something marvellous about being out in it. It’s a confirmation of aliveness of life, of being part of something bigger than just oneself. It’s the force of it, I think, it is without care, not mindful of what it does and to whom. I like that.
The radio presenter announced that it was ‘make your bed day’, adding that there are all sorts of good reasons for doing it, not least that it could be seen as the first ‘achievement’ of the morning. I always feel better when my bed is made. It establishes an order, neatens up the mess both internally and externally left by sleep. And how I love a crisp, fresh, neatly-made bed.
I bagged up some clothes for the charity shop early this morning. I fold them neatly, wanting whoever eventually buys or receives them to find comfort in them. I feel better for such shedding. I like to have less rather than more. Always.
She gave up her royal privileges and her name and stepped back and then forward into a more prosaic life. Returning to her first love she became a music teacher in a primary school in Hull. It was a life of service that ended as she wished it, or so it seems. Perhaps I am being overly romantic. I hope it was. A good woman, I think. R.I.P.
He is wise and steady, where I am anxious and wavering. You’ve just got to live it, see it out. Those days. those hours. I am blessed. I know this. With so much. And because I am so blessed, that is, there is food and warmth and shelter and meaningful work, I have time to think like this. And dream and hope. And yet there is still greyness and disappointment. I just have to keep on, keeping on. That’s all. Until my rest.
They said on the news that one thousand people crossed The Channel on small boats yesterday. Is it a flood? It is hard to ingest such information amidst the fear generated by the right wing media and political parties. There must be a calm, intelligent way of managing this need to seek political asylum and a better life. Can we not talk about it rationally and come up with some long term peaceable solutions? Please.