Lessons

This week has taught me to respect others’ dreams; to pull the threads of gossamer thoughts but lightly.


I won’t piss on your daft plans, if you won’t piss on mine

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Summer Sun

A man in crocs sits in the sun
Mothers with shady prams take a stroll

A small child in pink scampers
Dogs emerge from the undergrowth

A cyclist ambles slowly past
Birds, butterflies, all, enjoy the sun

Moving On

There is nothing like being in transit to make you think about moves.

Moves make shudder. There is the obvious planning and logistical angle, but the sheer physicality of having to pack belongings and dissemble furniture makes me weep with tiredness. The mental aspect looms over waiting to pounce when it sees me sleep. The nightmares attach themselves to me with parcel tape.

I’m aware that there are services which do it all for you but ‘my stuff’ is precisely that. I don’t have much, and I aim for even less after a clear out, but a part of me needs to handle each item to check it is real. And that objects are present and correct.

Such is the effect of too many moves, carried out at times when I was vulnerable. Those upheavals were mostly my fault and generally the result of relationships ending, or the untimely closure of a settled period of my life. Some moves just seem like a good idea at the time.

The one event that was not my fault was the Divorce. My father had left a couple of weeks before and I was bereft. After a massive physical fight with mother, I fled, with just the ripped clothes on my back whilst blood poured from my nose. At this point books, clothing and whatevers didn’t matter; all I needed was the relative comfort and security of my father.

The following week, when my mother was out, my father and my good friend broke into the house to gather my shattered childhood. My father did not come in because he was weeping too hard. I had to decide what was important quickly, because the police – or my mother’s violent family – could have arrived at any time. As we threw portable essentials into bin bags, duvet covers, the emotional ties ripped. I left, never to return.

So every move since has an essence of bloodied nose and hurried get away about it, even when it’s a necessary and exciting opportunity. I’m not saying that such an experience has been the cause of all moving anxiety, after all, moves are stressful. But I don’t think it’s been helpful.

Essentially I’ve learnt that all places are transitory, and it’s what you do and think and learn whilst you are briefly in them that matters. It’s not what you collect that’s important, because ultimately you’re going to leave that stuff behind when you move on.

Lost count already

I suppose I should start writing lists. Things to cancel, things to do, what to keep and what to discard, timelines…

It’s far easier to write lists than it is to do maths. I spectacularly failed in my task this week, which was to work out exactly how much I can save per month.

After a hysterical moment involving a missing grand, I’ve decided to put ‘an amount’ aside and if I go over drawn, it’s too much; and if I end up buying champagne at the end if the month, it’s not enough. Clearly I’m a modern day Ms Micawber.

I just hope I don’t lose count of how many lists I’ll need…or how many glasses of fizz I’ll have polished off whilst writing them.