Heal Your Life


green wooden chair on white surface

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A good weekend spent with a lovely friend – who gave me a timely reminder of the book

title above.  Having not read my copy for some considerable time I have now unearthed it once more and realising its truth yet again.

Suffering from severe throat and larynx problems for years I remind myself that trying to heal is a conscious decision that you WILL be heard, that your symptoms can only be allayed by refusing to stay mute, to be silenced. Yes, the chart that lists your particular ailment and offers an affirmation to overcome it and a diagnosis of the reasons your body has manifested your mind via some physical outcome is an analogy.

Yet it still rings true. And after months of being perfectly fine the last few weeks have now cancelled out my self remedies and my hoarse, unworkable, inflexible and very painful larynx issues have resurfaced.

With a vengeance.

So thank you, Louise Hay, for revisiting me with your wisdom.

I am well aware of my need to escape the last few weeks, of my need to suppress my true thoughts, of my shock at events thus rendering me speechless again, at the chaos of my tangled thoughts affecting my sense of Self and in turn my speech ability.

The tool of my trade once again tarnished.

A few months ago I asked you to visit me again after A Visit From Mother.

Little did I know a revisit would be so sharp, so vivid, so real and so shocking.

The lady I described in March had my full compassion and willingness to understand.

The lady in ICU the last few weeks had my entire attention and dismay, hurt and anger, pain and disbelief.

How and why could someone still so active and vivacious be here, inert, slipping away in her clinical bed before our very eyes?

When had her health dissapated before us without any of us realising how frail and weak she had become?

Because she is The Matriarch. She always has been. She holds it all, us all, together. What a sharp poignant reminder we have all had of that fact.

The toneless doctor, advising us, Well she IS 81… we can do no more…..

Seeing the effects of days of drugs, seeing her incoherent and out of control was surreal in itself. Always controlled, and very much presentable, who was this wild eyed woman in this bed, vulnerable and susceptible to the hands of the medical staff…or God.

And I havent talked about God in a very, very long while indeed.

So it hits me, all of us, as it did last year when she lost her partner, did this year for me when this lone version of her visited me in March, and does now with a full, staggering impact that just will not subside. We cannot lose her yet.

Did she hear us? Did she know?

Refusing to sleep again, so afraid of sinking back into the deep oblivion of her recent coma state that lost her weeks of Life, and purged her memory. Sitting beside her day after long day until she awoke, a different woman who ‘fell asleep’, talking to her, reassuring her. Staying beside the ward in a kindly proffered room and ladelling full respect onto the ICU staff who fought tirelessly to save her.

Save her they did. Yet more than that.

This strong, sassy, elegant woman saved herself. Her strength of Spirit shone through. After her ‘condemning’ the doctor in question avoided our eyes, our questions as this amazing woman astounded all by pulling slowly but very surely through. Laughter at her demands, her jokes, her admissions of hating lying so still and resting despite her trauma – the staff grew to love her on the ward and were sad to see her go when, finally and thankfully, she was deemed well enough to leave ICU five weeks on and join the respiratory or heart ward.

And now, in the blink of an eye she is home! I have lost most of the end of the summer and all of September into mid October. Yet she is home. Not listening to a word of our advice, finding it impossible to rest or sit still, but deeply aware that she must. All this exactly one year on from losing her dear partner. It would have been so easy to have given up, given in, to have turned away from a life now lonely, days now long, hopes and plans now dashed.

Her family. She tells me her children, our children – her grandchildren and her great grandchildren have begged her to stay. In their hearts, minds, souls. So much life, love and laughter left in her yet. So many more memories to make.

Welcome home strong, sassy, indomitable Mother.

 

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What is this thing ‘we writers’ do?


The strangest week.

A mixture of highs and lows and then complete highs on a day I was inevitably sinking!

Just when you think you will not, cannot, shake yourself free of your own encumbering thoughts – along comes a lifeline. Thrown randomly from out of nowhere… not that I need to desperately cling…I was fairly happy drowning at that point – a slow, silent, descent into Nothingness.

And here it is: My reason for recovery – partial at least.

 

The Written Word.

 

Anxiety vs Adventures anew


Its absolutely teeming down outside

Not a word I have heard in years! The wind is literally howling up from the harbour far down below where my cottage stands, aloof on the hillside. Eeerily I think of Irish banshees, calling, mourning, grieving for their lost.

There are clouds scudding across the sky and it feels so angry. Or is that just me?

Hence I stay home, 3 days now, cocooned in my bubble and next to my open fire, piling on more wood with each passing hour.

Building word upon word, with each new thought.

Its been a tough two weeks and I have no idea why – what triggered or sustained it to be so. Yet I do know I got through it. Again.

And here I appear to be – out the other side.

Yet still it rains.

Like a persistent drone in my ear, an unending melancholy song.

 

Time to stream something else. I need fun.

 

 

 

Falling off the edge of the sea…


An illogical premise?  A literal impossibility?

Yet that is how I feel.

A wide unending expanse of water beckons me, entices me. I go. I dance on the waves like one of them. I inevitably fall.

 

I just smashed a new plate. Well, not a new one exactly – but had only just unwrapped a few finds from an antique fair a few months back. How is it anything valuable, or unique, or promising I touch this year seems to disintegrate rapidly? Just an Italian blue and white, handmade, pottery plate. Yet still. Destruction of its unassuming and undeserving stencilled spectrum of blues and carefully placed white swirls that someone lovingly crafted – torn apart by ME in one, obliterating moment.

It seems all my over exerted optimism in my teens, twenties and 30s has somehow dissapated along with the disappointments of my 40s! A diluted pessimism that cannot even be bothered to raise its weary head either at times

 

I lit a fire tonight for the first time in months. There was a strange chill in the air despite the warm day and I needed comfort of a shape. The rise and fall of the flames is reassuring…somnambulistic in its drawing in of both the mind and your fascination.

I love that a dying ember can suddenly link to a stronger wood and flare up again unexpectedly, inexplicably. I love that it flares into life, burns then gradually dies. I love that with it and my candles lit and the arched windows wide open to tonight’s crazy storm here on the island it exonerates my pain, and rejuvenates my Soul. After a very tough few weeks it has almost exorcised some ghosts, and refuelled me in my beliefs.

 

” What if I fall?

Ah…but what if you fly?”

 

 

Go Litel Bok….


Well, its been well over a month since I wrote a thing!

Not a syllable. Nunca. De Nada.

 

After a madly prolific period in which I hardly slept and wrote till dawn mostdays I then fell into a kind of frozen limbo – not a good place to be when your anxietycan often scourge at your inner core as much as your hidden mind.

Something was triggered, and so began the endless, self imposed isolation; the enthusiastically made yet inevitably cancelled appointments; the languid routine of a ”writer’s day” with bouts of research and thinking interspersed with coffees, punctuated with lack lustre snacks yet not a word of print adorned the empty page.

On April the 10th I launched this.

The Cuckoo in Their Nest

Written 15 years ago, when I was living in a similar remote abode, and writing and home replaced nights out and social whirls – I could never decide! – and it was from a rather dark but rawly truthful place.  Not that much of my writing is not.

Coveted for years, I have always been reluctant to release my etchings on an unsuspecting, and perhaps unconcerned world. It always felt so personal and so private, like exposing my Soul to an undeserving – worse, possibly a non understanding and judgemental – audience!

Well, now it has finally been done.

Entrails and all.

 

The initial euphoria as I hovered above the self publishing key and the ensuing plethora of congratulations and sharp intakes of breath, encouraging reviews – even some tears – from close friends and family soon became tinged with a slight regret. Followed hot on its heels by overwhelming Anxiety.

I was, am, suddenly that 8 year old me again.

Afraid, insecure, grabbing at any attention freely given, lonely, isolated, even at such an early age reading and writing became my salve. Long periods of time would be spent alone in my room. Long silences. Who knew then that this was the beginning of the Anxiety that would then plague my entire Life. No labels back then.

girl in white and blue dress reading books while sitting on lawn

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The chatty, lively former me still wore her expected Mask. Still attempted to meet Their Expectations. Yet more and more she cared less and less. And yet cared too much.

The last few weeks have been ones of deep reflection with many uncalled flashbacks.

The book has clearly shifted the Past and unsettled its dormancy. Clouds of memory whisked up and uneasily resettling around me in the Present.

Yet it has been necessary at this point to finally release who I really was.

Who I really am.

I await some recriminations and maybe some Hurt. I carry Hurt within me still but it is not the work of a Victim. Just the truth of a child who clearly still dwells within me.

 

So, in the words of Chaucer –

“Go litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye,”

― Geoffrey ChaucerTroilus and Criseyde

 

and do what you will.

willow that grow along the river

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