ellen bell

I don’t know what happen. I caught my foot on a chair and somehow toppled over. Or lost my footing as the saying goes. And suddenly BAM I was on the floor, on my back, my head having cracked against the floor. Everything hurt. Bruised ankle, bumped knee, a hip an elbow. I thought of the black and blue that would appear like wounds on my too easily bleeding body. Bless it. He tried to rush to my aid but he takes time to react and move these days. I shook for a while. It is the shock of falling. Everything feels dislodged. Awry. It is nothing. I recover. Downstairs is another matter. We shall see her tomorrow.

I lay on the college field reading Bachelard writing about nests. He wrote of how the female bird uses her whole body to form the inner lining and shape of the dwelling. And how physical a process it is. Beautiful. I concur. Home, it’s making and maintaining is a physical process. And my homes, have always resembled my body (in this one, both our bodies) in the way that a bird’s nest does, though perhaps it is also an emotional fitting and resembling too. Are chairs nests? For some. For others the chairs are not theirs, they didn’t choose them but must appropriate them, make the best of them. Make them home.

Many people will, I suppose. It is a change. A landslide, as they keep saying. But I am ambivalent. Is it enough? Who can say? I am locked in my own concerns. I feel bad about that. The outer world has become surreal. There is too much that I no longer recognise. And it’s the others that have been let in, they are more concerning. Those small parties with their bitter poisons. Let us be washed clean of such hate. Soon. Please.

I long to do it. I long for a week (at least) in which to do. Just that. Every drawer, every shelf, every inbox, every scrap of paper, every sketchbook. Sorted. Labelled. Chucked. Or given away. Just to make some space. To make some clarity. So that I can think.

I read at breakfast. I take in snippets. I ingest the words in short bursts, inbetween the up and down of getting things, sorting things. It’s a different form of taking in. I savour what I read, the sentences play out in my head. At the moment I am in Tom Lubbock’s last book. I don’t want it to end. I want to have it in my mouth for a while. To not suck too hard. To not rush it. Every word needs to be considered. Her’s was different. That was urgent, a rush headlong. This is a musing. A slow soak. Of ideas.

I’ve returned. We’ve returned. It always feels longer than it is. Always. And there’s so much adjustment to make, all that re-remembering what to do to keep this life of ours turning. It is down to me. He is more naturally laissez-faire. It is not a criticism. I like him being that way. My way is more restricting, rigid. But he bends to it with his usual grace. And lets me hold us. But I am weary of it at times. Especially after only 4 hours sleep. It is not enough and my body groans. It was good to see the sea. The hills were a challenge.

It is a constant theme these days. This acceptance of one’s lot. And the courage that that takes. I see it. It’s a small thing, a quiet choice. Nothing to be shouted about. And yet. It is brave. It’s a sloughing off all those ego dreams. Of all that one would like to have been. “I’m not going to renew my passport,” she said. She knows that it’s too much. All that wandering and attempts to escape self, the life that limits and yet hold one in place. The other brave one does the same. She will not escape. Cannot. Yes, she can improve a little on her mobility but she is caught there. What courage to accept that and make the best of it. Hats off to both. To all.

I find it fascinating but also slightly excruciating. It is just such an intimate thing, going into other people’s private spaces. Yesterday’s home visit was wonderful. A house full of picture. Every wall space taken up. And all those cats. And a dog. And a squirrel and a pigeon. And then there was the warmth from that Aga. Gorgeous. And now I am waking to another strange house. It takes time to orientate myself. And it smells so unfamiliar. I light candles and open drawers.

Always this fear mixed inextricably with excitement and the thrill of discovery and of taking my capability, my drawing beyond what it already is and knows. Words surface. Words spoken that come to the surface. It’s the fear of becoming banal, she said to me just after I’d finished my presentation. It’s those insights that are so precious. Things that I cannot see because I am so immersed in what comes from me and what I think I see. Such generosity. I am still so touched. And to mention me on Insta out of all of those. What a gift.

It was. It was better than I could ever imagine it would be. A jewel. People were so kind, so open, generous. I felt held. And recognised. I walked lighter afterwards. I’m spent this morning. As is he. He believed in me. He sent me good thoughts. I heard them. x