ellen bell

She died last Thursday. I didn’t know. She called to tell me. She was inconsolable, not just about the death, her death, but her life as a whole. It’s been so difficult, she said. She died from a fall. She was in so much pain, she said, I think she just gave up. She was in her eighties. I understand. She gave me shelter. She gave me a small sense of belonging. I needed both these things at the time. She was seductive. A force. A power. An iconoclast. She took one over. She took me over. I needed it then. I shall think of her. Of you. Rest in peace.

Numbers are significant for me. I count things. It’s a superstitious thing. A preparation thing. A rationalising of chaos. Today is a 5 day. The number 5 is a scratchy, metallic kind of day for me, or at least it can be. Hard, sometimes, they are also portentious days, things happen. 7 days are kinder, warmer, more loving. They are my favourites, though more the 7 days than the 5s. It’s a silliness, really. I know this, or at least my rational self does. What harm does it do?

I have sciatica. Again. I try to accept it, as I try to accept most of the things that I cannot change or do anything about (such as the newly-arrived splat of seagull guano that has run down two flights of windows). I walk with it and through it. But at the moment it is not shifting. It tightens the back of my thighs and my buttocks. I just keep moving. That is all I can do. Plus, I am dog-tired after a long day yesterday. A rewarding one, but long. Today will be another such. And I long to sleep.

There’s yet more. More than yesterday it seems. It’s colder. From the North. Bitter, blustery and fierce. I walked into it, pushing against the discomfort of my present sciatica. Pain. It’s a teacher. It can make me grumpy but I try to detach from it. See it as a gift. Can it be? Sometimes. It slows me when I know I need slowing. I listen to music, literature, Norwegian and poetry on my iPod. It’s a hotch-potch of voices, sounds and reflections. The poet David Whyte talked about how we should embrace our limps or marble-like flaws. An actor reading Proust spoke of the writer’s impregnation of his pain onto his bedroom walls. Paul Weller sang of being invisible. I listen and am transported. And I forget, for a moment or to, the wind.

I woke to its fury. And the rain. My heart sinks. I need fresh air, to walk, to get it over with. And then to work. I will go out anyway, though my body longs to rest, to sleep, to stay where it is. Often it isn’t as bad as it looks from the window. The air smelt different, churned up. An odour of wet dog, the kind that they leave in cars. Slightly fetid, even warm. The wind gusted. Whirling around me, it buffeted, worried at my legs. It’s tiring work walking into it. I write in my head as I walk. I don’t want to work. I want to rest, to do something undemanding. To not create. But I can’t. Rest can only be savoured, relished when the work is done. T’was ever thus. I have chosen this. And it is a gift I cherish. Truly.

I’ve been seeing magpies. Single magpies. I used to get very edgy when that happened. Not so much now. That one for sorrow. Two for joy. Sorrow. I try to accept its place in my life. It has its part to play. In the whole scheme of things. If it is coming then so be it. Yesterday I also saw a jay. He was following close on the heels, so to speak, of a magpie. I love seeing jays. They are not a frequent sight, at least not for me, though I know that there is a nesting couple somewhere near this school. I saw their young feeding off the American’s seed hangers. But it still thrills me to see one. That pink on the wing and the flash of blue and white. They are bringers of portents, omens. Change. I am open to it. My heart opens to it.

I find travelling, the being out there and open, both joyful and wearying. My body fizzes. I stop breathing properly, taking short staccato intakes rather than slow inhales. It’s anxiety. I am overwhelmed by all that I have to do. I will get it done. Whether I get it done as well as I’d like is another matter. It will calm down. And I will start breathing again. Soon.

I don’t know what a tenterhook is. Something to do with tents? I am edgy. I threw a wobbly just now. A tantrum. I banged the kitchen surface with my fist because the tumble dryer keeps turning itself off. A safety mechanism, no doubt, but it does it without warning. and besides I wanted to shout. The news bulletin at 7.00 am talked of one day rail strikes and that’s my safety valve if the car isn’t fixed stymied. I know. I know it isn’t all about me. And I will pull myself together and come up with another strategy. But it’s how to get over those mountains. It feels such a long way from anywhere when you want to escape….

I worry about doing it, as I worry about most things. It’s mostly about my interaction with others, particularly those that I am endeavouring to draw. Am I abusing them? Asking too much? Hurting or using them? I give little credence in their ability to say no, to exercise autonomy. They have it and presumably would use it if the situation called for it. I am not that powerful. I know this. So why worry?

I am growing to care for her deeply. I see her vulnerability but also her spirit. She is a force. Frightening at times and yet she is old, frail and disintegrating. Her body is failing, her will remains strong. I relish this chance she and her family have given me to witness her last years, for that they must be. I asked to much yesterday. She was unfazed. I suppose so, she said, adding, What am I supposed to think?

Yesterday was a challenge. I slept fitfully. I don’t know why. Too much tea? My head was a fog when I woke and throughout the day. I kept dropping things. And hurting myself. I bit my tongue and my upper lip. I was tired. Too tired. Nothing worked. I was ragged. I made a drawing and began the process of teasing out my question but that was it. It. Enough but not really enough. Some days are like that, I suppose.