I have come crashing into this year with one question – what was all that about? How do I distill 2017? Only one word comes to mind. Fog. 2017 was foggy. Fogged by legal matters. Fogged by the unknown. Fogged by the awful turn of world events, (and this post couldn’t say it better). Fogged by a brain that isn’t operating at capacity. Honestly, it has been a challenge coherently stapling an argument together. It’s the same now: organising my thoughts into words is like rolling a boulder up a slippery hill. It could be the dark winter days. It might be that I’m feeling a little under the weather. The light box is switched on.
But there is so much to be a grateful for. I now know where I stand. I have a roof over my head, my name on all the bills; I am woman-ing the ship once more. But I am scared too. Scared that I am completely on my own. What if this or that happens? What if I get sick? What if the money stops coming in? How will I look after her? A lovely friend bought me a hand lettered art print: … but what if it all goes right? And this one question may rub the others way. What if tomorrow and the day after next are okay? Why shouldn’t they be? This moment and the next are held in the misty clutches of trust.
There was a time, the years below thirty, when I owned little, where every fortnight I signed on, and every month I received a housing cheque. The days when we had a semblance of a welfare state. Luckier times. A post student house in Hyde Park (Leeds). No vacuum. No washing machine. The poll tax was never paid. But happy years; a conflation of ideas and creativity and spinning records on a radio station in a high rise block. At twenty-two the years beyond twenty-five didn’t exist, a mirage on mars. There was always faith there would be enough…
It will be okay. There still is enough.
And now I’m building a new NEW.
I thought of beginning a crazy routine. Wake up at 5am. Yoga. Mindfulness. Affirmations. Visualisation…. 6am, write for an hour. Unsurprisingly, that never quite got off the ground. The plan needed moderation. So on a good day I wake at 6.30 am instead. I do my soul routine, and then its porridge and the school run. But maybe 5am isn’t beyond the realms of possibility when the sun kisses the curtains at 4 am.
Sadly, any dedicated writing will have to wait. (but not for too long). The building of foundations is required for the day job. I have commitments to online training, the website needs an overhaul, I have to attract more clients. One brick laid on top of the next. I am trying to keep a daily diary of sorts: a note book in which I list seven things I did, seven things I saw, seven things I felt, and one thing I heard said. The idea to keep noticing the detail; a stain of blood on the pillow, yawning daffodils, the bubble of leek and potato soup, a yellow jelly of dog shit.
The novel waits.
What I really require this moment is spirit and sorcery, the conscious weaving of my hours and days around the wax and wane of the moon.
And when I return to my story I will rewrite each and every word anew.
My word and element for 2018? EARTH.