THE BLISS: MORNING DOZES.
I woke before five this morning. It was so dark; the heating had just come on and Dash the dog was shifting slightly at the bottom of my sofa bed. How I liked that feeling: out of office on and a slow slumber with hours before I needed to wake properly.
I felt a twinge of irritation when the shipping forecast came on; I have listened to it in the dark too many times now, when the weather, the wind, has no bearing on my day but for a small moment I fell into memory. The feel of the boat on the sea, the wind above, the creaking of the sheets and the sails and my dad writing down the forecast on the pad, illuminated by soft red light with his leg stretched into the well of the galley to counter the tilt of the boat. The slight hint of adventure, the security of the steady movement of the pencil, the hushed talk of those in the cockpit on watch.
Next I knew, it was five fifty with farmers talking about how pigs in blankets were selling for less than it cost to rear the pigs to provide the meat; likewise potatoes. That rank dull despair when there seems no way out; that ways of living for generations are teetering towards a far greater destruction.
As the hour drew past, I knew sleep was far away. For a time, to escape the news, I listened to Bjork; then I turned on the lamp and began to read RUN by Anne Patchett. I lost myself in it and came to the last page regretfully and wistfully, loving the images of love that filled the pages.
Off with the light again and this time I remembered yesterday; how I had come into the house with five huge bags of shopping: Brussels sprouts, potatoes, bread milk crisps, whisky; the ingredients for the next few days.
Often when I come home with the shopping I am hot and bothered; anxious to get it all put away before I make the tea; busy forcing myself into the evening. This time the children had already been fed; a special end of school term KFC, while Wendy had had her broccoli pasta slimming meal. Work was now finished, worries fading already. I paused to slow down; began to smile. As is my way, I started talking to the food as I put it into the fridge, no idea what I was talking about but after a time Charlotte came in from the kitchen and with a grin asked if it was the food I was talking to or maybe the fridge I was having a conversation with? I confirmed it was the food; Charlotte gave me a delighted hug and went back to the sitting room where she whispered to her mum that I was ‘mental’ while twirling her fingers in circles meaningfully above her temples.
Remembering that, as I lay in the dark, I found myself grinning uncontrollably, my body full of joy. The delight of being here with my family; our confidence in using the wrong words because we know the reality and couldn’t care less; her hug and Wendys laughter from next door. I felt loved and I felt safe and I felt treasured.
For a brief while I remembered my Rape crisis counsellor talking to me about trauma and felt a tiny glimpse of a sensitive young child buffeted, not so much by people as life, a young boy who maybe was once as naïve and gentle as I was when putting the food in the fridge. Could it really be that some people tend to see me as kind, and funny in an eccentric lovable way, instead of the dark mess I see? Could this stuff I am surrounded with be something other than psychosis? It made me smile, made me keen to message my son. I turned on the light, reached for my phone and started tapping away.
Charlottes hug and laughter was one of my best ever Christmas presents; my son’s message of a few days ago to say that although he would probably not reply to any messages I sent him, I should feel free to continue to send them, his willingness to accept a Christmas present! That is another wonderful, wonderful, present to get at Christmas.
I messaged him and wondered what his life is like; dreamed one day of him in the room with Wendys children, maybe laughing or smiling maybe letting me love him a little, despite the legacy of our past.
I worried that when I said I was so happy with Charlottes hug he might have less happy memories of his life with me and tried clumsily to let him know how well over a decade later I still love him even if I hardly know him at all.
By then the dawn was peering through the window and being perverse about the rules of sleep I was feeling tired; light off yet again and snuggled up into my downie, while Dash alternated between the bed and the floor. At some stage I heard Desert Island Discs on the radio and struggled to listen to it; feeling surprised that I hadn’t heard a word Stephen Spielberg was saying until I heard Wendy coming downstairs getting ready for the day.
(Photos: Christmas decorations at home and at Jeans Bothy – 2022)
Σχόλια