Space for soul work
Monday 9th November 2020 It’s write anything day. Tap out words. Thoughts adrift. In my car when I’m in fine voice, no one knows otherwise. I might be pitch perfect. Doesn’t matter. The important thing is to sing if I want to. Write. Always watching the weather, jumping in the mud. Walk my feet into the sea until my shoulders slip under, limbs fold-unfold, swimming. Write anything. Be. Let the cliche be. Doesn’t matter. What matters? Yes the little things, yes the big picture. Making mistakes YES. Be serious. Be fun. Misuse punctuation in the general flow. Beautiful words that come to me when I’m lacking a pen or a keyboard, that will never be replicated, that were either perfect or illusionary, that do or don’t need to be shared: tumble through it. Look but seek nothing.
I’m at work, it’s drizzling. Sky a pale blur, all colours softened. Indoors the light is warm and also soft. I’m tired from the hot flushes that are stalking my nights, from the dog’s odd new obsession with chasing rats at 3am; glowing from the Monday workout, and a daytime hot flush. In a minute I will probably be cold although it’s not cold. I’m tired and drifty and writing anything. Night is gathering. We have drawn the blinds, put the bubble lamp on. Washing machine rumbling, big telly on. Client sat on the rug pushing buttons on a singing teddy bear.
Friday 13th November 2020 Woke up early. We have coffee, we are sat in bed, blinds drawn up on a washed out sky, yesterday’s lively wind abated. It is day 4 of 5 days off work. I have walked in the woods where the river was billowing, the paths all copper-leafed. Opulent earth from rotted layers. Trees fallen and caught making arches like abandoned cities. Saplings growing anywhere. I have strolled to the top of the lane just before the rain came whipping in, and ate two wild strawberries as I climbed. I have pottered in the polytunnel, come back to the house with armfuls of marigold flowers and one freshly plucked lime. I have wrestled with desktop publishing programmes while my monitor screen developed a flicker, been rescued from formatting woes by my brother and spent money ordering a new screen. I have bought books, and curled up reading. I have cooked a lot of red cabbage. I have ordered 2 proof copies of Kwon And The Four Directional Punch (a children's Tae Kwon-Do tale written a decade ago, finally brought to life). I have lazily bathed by candlelight, binge watched a bank heist; alternating drinks of homebrewed wine with homemade flavoured water. The car passed its MOT while we walked around Coronation Park admiring the new planting of spring bulbs, meadow flora, trees, flowering herbs. Dog ran after a ball like a puppy and is stiff as a dry brick today. We empathise. I finish my coffee, wonder what I’ll do today, as though there is no climate crisis, no political horror, no pandemic, just this bubble of mine. Tae Kwon-Do classes back on Zoom. Training for a postponed Black Belt grading: and yet the feeling of things being paused is cleared away.
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