I write of love again...

 

 

It is getting easier. My heart is lightening in the smallest of increments. My thoughts scatter still, in the darkest hours, but they scatter less wildly. Less and less madly.

It is true, then, that the nights retract. That the breath comes back like the ocean, like the moon. It is true that time is the only way through, that the only gentling is in the  accumulation of the moments, the minutes, the hours. 

Did I write, before, that we work in the same office? That five days a week, I sit and hurt in his line of sight? I loved him, I think. And, He is no longer mine. I also think, He lies, and, I know this is right. But of course it still hurts. His pressed white shirts, his voice, his smile – fistfuls of salt rubbed into a hundred cuts.  

I wore the grief like a hairshirt at first. I smiled and smiled but underneath, the self-flagellation itched and burned. I looked at photos, I returned to the same memories over and over, a tongue poking at a bad tooth. Worse, I let myself imagine. I gave weight to rumours, shaped ghosts from the air. A woman, gold-skinned, swimming in his sheets. Another hanging like a jewel from his arm. Pin-thin heels. Elaborate hair.

There is truth in the gossip, I think. Regardless, it matters less now. It was my decision to end things; I hold tightly to that. It is a stone rolled smooth by the sea, made warm in m y palms. It comforts me. To know that I have that kind of strength. To end something I knew wasn’t working, wasn’t healthy, even though I loved him, even though I knew I would miss so much. There is a lot to be said for that. 

Love songs still bruise. I still look away from lovers in the street, knotted at the hand, their smiles strung between them like a ribbon on a gift. But the lump in my throat is dissolving. My mouth no longer tastes of salt and regret.  

There is a reason things happen. A rhythm beneath each experience. And it's not always clear. Not in the aftermath of something, the churn in the wake of a failed love affair, a death,  some other kind of grief. But there is always something we can learn. There is always a lesson. It’s up to us whether we choose to take it, or whether we shut ourselves off from the hurt, close like a hedgehog over our softness, our terrible tenderness.

I’ve had my hibernation. My tiny sleep. I'm ready to be open again. I'm ready to creep back into the fray. The wonderful, horrible, usual, sensual, marvellous, awful, magical fray.

Plumbing the depths

 

I have been listless these last weeks. Love, or lack of it, the culprit. It came out of nowhere, like a Summer storm, and I was caught up in the wild, sudden loveliness of it; it left just as quickly, and I was bereft. Where was the man who was holding me a moment ago, filling my ears with words as sweet as roses, where was the chest where my head so sweetly fit?

The truth is that I was grasping at ghosts the whole time. The man I fell for was smoke and shadow, a trick of the light. A man like that can't be kept. The tighter I held on, the less was left. I found myself with handfuls of ashes, fistfuls of only air.

And yet, and yet. Would I take back the last four months? The education of the body, the handling of the bones, the falling, the freedom, the fear? I wouldn't, not for anything. I needed to know that I was capable. I needed to know that I could break open like that. I needed to wear those strings of particular words like pearls, touch them, feel their cool weight against my skin, gleam with their soft spots of reflected light.

I feared, I think, that love might kill me. I thought if it ended I would bend and break, like a switch of willow in a high wind. I thought I would seal myself shut again,  cordon off the body and corral the heart, live the quiet, dusty life of an Immaculate.

Instead, I am sitting with my grief, knowing already that it will pass. We fall for the wrong ones, sometimes, the ones whose edges never really fit with ours, and that's ok, that's part of the human experience. People change. Hearts change. We change, and that is necessary, and right.

Growth hurts. I remember when I was fifteen, sixteen, my hormones gone suddenly wild; my bones creaked in the night like ships as they stretched, the new nubs of my breasts were two bruises that ached and ached. I shot up like a hothouse flower, and I hated it; I was a stranger in my own body for months as it quite literally changed and rebuilt itself around me, like living in a house where the rooms switched every day, where windows were suddenly doors, and ceilings were underfoot one minute and overhead the next.

But growth is crucial to development, even if we might not like it at the time, even if we feel that it's cruel, even if it's unwanted, even if it hurts. Maybe even especially if it hurts. Even as I tell myself this, my heart feels like a stone, heavy and hard, clunking dully in the space behind my ribs. Knowing that pain will pass doesn't lessen the immediate experience of it. Nor does it mean that I can sleep easily at night  again instead of charting the acres of ceiling like an astronomer mapping the stars.

It does mean that I can take how I'm feeling a day at a time (or an hour at a time, or a minute). It does mean that I'm certain that, given enough time, the space between clock-ticks will expand and relax again, and the pillow won't only be something to wrestle with in the deepest hours of the night. It does mean that I will be ready to love again when it happens for me, and it will, because I am open, and I have much to give.

The heart is an ocean. It isn't always safe. The salt stings, and its wrecks are countless. But oh my goodness, are there treasures untold in its depths.

 

Roman Holiday

 

 

The clocks were turned back last weekend, so the days have been suddenly and thinly compressed. The light starts to fail at around three o’clock, the yellow trees dimming as the grey deepens. By five o’clock, we are sunk in darkness: the wet ground duplicates the office windows, the streetlights shoulder their sodium haloes and the shy moon begins her slow climb through the earth’s turn.

Invariably, people complain about the changes – the altered clocks, the rain that slants in sheets, the nights that stretch like black elastic – but I love the suddenness of it all. Summer has dwindled gradually into Autumn, Autumn has heretofore dawdled along…and then comes the end of October, and with it, a switch is flipped. The line between before and after is clean and cold, punctuated with darkness and stars, and from now on, we are on the descent into Winter, down, and down, like Persephone into her long half-calendar of blue subterranean rooms.

Two weeks today, I will be flying to Rome. It is strange, at least to me, that it is still sunny there, the cobblestones still baking with heat, the blonde ruins still simmering in hours and hours of light. I’ve never travelled out of my season before. Always, at this time of year, I have gone to places that are as cold, if not colder, than home. Paris last year was bitter. New York before that was frozen over, glittering with frost like a disco ball. I know, of course, that seasons on other continents are different to those I’m used to at home, but still it feels otherworldly to be able to fly from one season to another on a whim - like a magic spell, or a wish granted in a flash of sparks.

This will also be my first ever romantic break, which amplifies the magic factor exponentially. The thought of four whole days in Rome together fills me with lovely drifts of butterflies. I can’t wait to explore the city - the opulence of the Vatican, the elaborate ceilings of the Sistine Chapel, the crumbling grandeur of the Colosseum - but one of the things I'm most excited about is to do so as one half of a couple, and take part in all those little coupley things that I've seen and sighed over for so many years but never experienced for myself. Holding hands in the street. Stopping to kiss by one of the many fountains. Taking arms-length photographs with our beaming faces cheek to cheek.

Don't get me wrong. I will never be one of those girls who needs a man to be happy (thirty two years of being single has put paid to that)  or who defines the crux of her existence by whether she has a head on the pillow next to her at night. But right now, I am all a-flutter with first love, and treasuring the honeymoon period, which I know won't last indefinitely.  I am old enough and wise enough to know that - if I am lucky - the whirling dizziness of these early days will settle into a calmer and more companionable sort of love, and if it does, I want to remember every phase, every layer, every moment of how we got to where we are, like counting the rings on a tree to determine its age: this is our first date, this is when we said I love you, this is when we realised it was for real and for good….

 

And if it isn't meant to be, then I will deal with that, too. It's just a pleasure to be participating, for once. To feel like part of the game, and not a faceless presence on the sidelines. It's still a  bit terrifying, if I'm completely honest, the whole falling in love thing - it's not all roses and goodness and pleasure. Openness can be completely unnerving. Letting someone have access to all those parts of yourself that you normally brush under the rug is nail-bitingly worrying. I suspect I will never be comfortable with being vulnerable, but then who is?

 

There is a quote I love by Kurt Vonnegut: "We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down". That is just about perfect for where I am now - somewhere between the sky and the sea, my skin thin but rippling with feathers.

 

 

 

Matters of the Heart

 

 

"The bees are flying...they taste the Spring."

'Wintering', Sylvia Plath

 

 

A blogless August, a blogless September. Where do the days go, and the months? The last of the sunshine slips through my fingers like water; the last leaves litter the lawn, crackling underfoot like tiny fires. I wake in the dark and go to sleep in the dark; my days are bracketed by blackness and stars.

 

October. I love the sound of the word in my mouth. I love its briskness, the implications of apples and frost, of breath hanging in the air like clouds. I love this whole segment of the year, the last cold quarter of the calendar, as crisp and clean as a slice of moon. The deepening. The gathering in. The hushed sense of everything having gone to ground, to sleep, to dream, to preserve and replenish. 

 

Year after year, I find my life mirroring the season. As the ground hardens and the hedges moult down to their brown bones, I invariably find myself sorting and settling, tying up loose ends, finishing the tasks that have remained unfinished – nesting, in effect. Readying myself for the year’s closing.

 

Which is perhaps why it feels so very strange this year to find myself suddenly in a process of growth and renewal, of newness and blooming, beginnings and opportunities. It seems somehow out of sync with the season. Like strawberries in January, or snow in the middle of June.  

 

I am thirty two and I have never been in love. Or rather, I have never been in love until now. While my school-friends were doodling names in notebooks and batting newly-mascara-ed lashes across the classroom, I was keeping meticulous lists of calories and loping determinedly around the running track in my lunch hour. While they were enjoying first kisses, first crushes, I was enjoying the new sharpness of my hips, my belly's empty bowl, the stutter of my palms over emerging ribs.

 

I missed out on all those years of relationships - the years where people learn what a relationship is, the years where people learn how to be in one. So that there was a part of the adult me that still felt like that tentative teenaged girl who hasn’t been kissed yet, who doesn’t know how to give herself to someone, who doesn’t know what really loving or being loved feels like.  

 

That used to terrify me. I saw it as a failing or a flaw, as something that made me somehow defective. I would tell myself that I couldn’t ever be in a relationship, that I’d left it too long without having laid the groundwork or had the practice runs. I told myself that it didn’t matter, that I couldn’t miss what I’d never had, that some people were just meant to live independently and alone. All of which is, of course, ridiculous.

 

My relationship history is perhaps atypical, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Yes, this is all new to me, and yes, I am probably very green in lots of ways, but I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. This relationship, this process, is so important and so precious, that there is simply no room for those old limits. There is no space for those voices saying Don’t, or can’t, or won’t.

 

I wake up in the mornings and the first thing that I remember is I love someone, and he loves me; my whole body hums with that knowledge as though bees had taken up residence. It's exhilarating and wonderful and a little bit terrifying all at once. I don't know whether it feels more like flying or falling. But I do know that I am treasuring every moment. And that the wait, however long, was worth it. 

 

This is what the poems are for, then. This is what the heart feels like when it's full.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weather and words

 

 

 

The sky finally broke open yesterday, weeks of heat and pressure shattering like a dropped pot, an explosion of sound and water. I opened the window a little to watch the sheeting rain, and the smell of the garden rushed in, lush, and wet, and green; the pines were glittering all over like brides in sequins and silvery lace. And then lightning scorched the sky, its singular smell like pennies sweating in a sea-green palm. And thunder rolled in, low and deep as the boom of a bass. I watched for ages, the odd jewel of rain tossed on the sill like a coin dropped in the throat of a well. And despite the violence of the storm, I felt strangely calm. Safe and peaceful. Human. Small.

 

I write a lot about the weather here. It's not intentional. I think it's a way of locating myself as I write; anchoring myself in a physical reality before I spiral off into poetry and metaphor and glorious dreamy language. Like someone about to fly a kite in a high wind might plant their feet in the sand before letting their paper diamond go up into the high, far blue.

 

I feel a little as if I am flying today, barely-tethered, grazing the clouds and the white day-moon. It occurred to me earlier, as it sometimes does, that I am writing something; more than that, I am writing a book. I've had bits and scraps for so long, chapters scattered like wedding confetti, notes here and notes there, that it's easy to forget sometimes that it is taking shape and becoming something solid and cohesive. I thought of it for so long as jottings-that-I-might-be-able-to-make-something-of-one-day that even now as it gathers weight and depth, even as it spills from one desk drawer into another, I still think of it as something formless and fragmented, so on the rare occasions that it strikes me that it is now very definitely a book-in-progress, I get this wonderful soaring feeling, a sort of wild exhilaration that is perhaps three parts pure joy, one part fear.

 

It has been slow in the making, partly because I move like a butterfly between projects, lifting here, landing lightly there: poetry one day, fiction the next, non-fiction the day after that. I love the actual process of writing, but I find exacting any kind of discipline impossible. If I’m in a poetry-writing frame of mind, I am quite literally incapable of writing anything else. Each style of writing comes from a different place, I think; is driven by a different sort of compulsion. And the idea of trying to corral that compulsion and break it like a wild horse is utterly absurd to me. I like to write from spark and fire, from the first kindling, to a flickering, through to a furious burning, a bright white heat. I’ve heard other writers talk about the ratios between inspiration and perspiration, about the necessity to sit down and write even when the motivation isn’t there, and maybe that works for other people, but it doesn’t work for me. I write from exhilaration, not from duty; sometimes I wish I could be more clinical about it, more dogged, but there it is. And it’s taken me a while to realise that my way of writing is fine, too.

 

Different people have different ways of doing things. That is part of what makes us interesting. I am fascinated by other people's kinks and quirks, their particular habits and processes; if we all worked according to the same template, I would have one less thing to be fascinated by.

 

And I do so like to be fascinated.

 

 

Moments of Gratitude #6

Beach weekends, and horseriding in the dunes, and peeling lighthouses, and oyster shells with a rosy gleam in their folds, and blue skies, and crab skeletons, and old temples with holy pools, and champagne on the sand at sunset, and friendships, and laughter, and boys with Irish accents and soft, soft lips.

Full Fathom Five

 

 

 

Summer has finally arrived like an overdue visitor, her arms brimming with conciliatory gifts. Lush bouquets of plum-coloured roses. Soft gold bees browsing dizzily in the grass. I bring sandwiches to work - cheese thickly slathered with lurid yellow pickle - and sit outside to eat them in the sunshine, reading, dreaming, feeling utterly content.

Yesterday I watched a jewel-blue dragonfly skimming the surface of the lake. Today I threw in my leftover bread, and the soft little patters drew madly-quacking ducks like filings to a magnet, a hundred gleaming emerald heads bobbing for scraps.

I have always loved the water. It’s in my horoscope: the sign of the fish, two little slips of gold in a single loop, gilt-scaled, thin-finned. I have always found solace in it, a sense of quiet and calm.  It feels like home. Like I lived there once, in the cathedral quiet of the ocean depths, and some memory of it still lives at a cellular level, as coiled and self-contained as a nautilus shell on the sea-bed. When I was little, I wished every night that I’d wake up a mermaid – slim tail the colour of tears, hair spilling over my shoulders like water. (Secretly, I still believe it could happen. That one sunrise there will be a faint salt scent in the covers. A scattering of light in the sheets).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I've been choosing beauty wherever I can. And finding that the more you look for it, the easier it is to see. Filling my head with fairytales and poetry, selkies, spells and elves. Taking the longer route home along the river, stopping to take photos of the fish in the shallows, the cool blue herons as regal as queens. I’ve been eating dinner in the dappled garden, cats about my ankles in happy figure-eights. Drinking peach tea and writing out quotes in my cramped notebooks.

It’s as though beauty wants to be noticed. If I open to even its smallest expression - a smile, a sweet smell, the halo of light around a candle flame - it crests and swells, rises like a wave, or the notes in an orchestra. 

And who wouldn’t want to live on that singular frequency. Who wouldn’t want their body to pulse with that song.

Einstein said, Either everything is a miracle, or nothing is. 

 

My whole heart tell me it's the former.