Fingers

Its the little things that count.  This morning he was puzzling over something, working out where a lecture would come in the semester, frowning over which week.  Counting on his fingers.  Apparently, even when you have a Ph.D, digital counting still means counting on your fingers!

So he holds out his left hand - because he is left handed (I've never been out with a right-handed man, isn't that interesting?).  Then he holds it with his right hand, pressing his right thumb into the palm.  He unfurls a finger for each count, and as he does, he bobs his hand up and down, only about a centimetre, a little dip, and then brings it back to where it was.  When he runs out of fingers, he turns to his right hand and frowns at it, keeping the fingers of his left hand splayed out.  And unfurls a new finger on his right hand for each continued number.  When he's done counting, he examines his fingers, and those little puckers above his nose get the slightest bit deeper while he is thinking. 

Those slightly curved, tanned fingers with their blunt ends and shapely nails.

Then he curls his hands up, and starts jabbing at his laptop again with his index fingers.

It's when he does the little things like that, that I know how much I love him.

Frock

I've been at it all day, and I am now utterly certain. Shopping for a dress is the definition of HELL!  I've been everywhere, in Norwich and Beccles, and there is nothing, and I mean nothing, that either a) I can afford, b) is suitable, by which I mean doesn't make me look like a whore,and has sleeves of some kind, and c) doesn't make me look like a camel in a frock.  Or my grandmother. 

Why is this so hard?  I mean, I've even lost a whole dress size in the last three months, for Gods' sakes!  Oh, well. I suppose I've got till the 23rd of October.  And there is always ebay.  Or the Boden catalogue.  Which no doubt everybody else will be dressing from.  Does anybody know a good dressmaker in the Norwich area for the next time I am invited to a big event, because I'm not going through this a third year running...

Greater love hath no pal....

Article from The Observer Magazine 4.9.11

You know you have found a true friend when they understand the terrible compulsions that drive your life.  And then save you articles about The Man from their Sunday papers as a result.  Thank you Michelle, you are a wonder.   Now I have come over all unnecessary (again)!

Greater love hath no pal....

Mabon

Today is the Autumn Equinox, or Mabon, the second of the three harvest festivals in Pagan religion.  It's a time to look back over the growing season and consider what you have learnt and harvested - and to give thanks for that abundance.

As you can imagine, its been a tough summer for me, but I feel like I have a great harvest to celebrate, despite that.  I've been tested, and feel I have come through.  I shall miss my step father enormously, not least for his wisdom and wit, but he left me some beautiful gifts with his passing.  One I keep coming back to now, at a time when we are about to move into the period of busyness leading up to Christmas, is his favourite poem.  I read it at his funeral, and I think it encapsulates his philosophy of life.  Today, in celebration, I am going to try to enact these words practically.  I hope you will join me.

Leisure by W H Davies

WHAT is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?—
No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Words Words Words Words Words...

Spiral of Life at Norwich's Catholic Cathedral.

 

Regular readers (if I have any left) will have noticed a distinct lack of activity on this blog of late.

SORRY!

Yes, I have left undone that which I ought to have done and there is no health in me, as the Book of Common Prayer would put it.  Partly, its the grief addling my brain and making it do weird things. 

Like yesterday, at the hospital.  I went to see the Dermatologist about the crusty lumps on my face.  (Fine, thank you, no problems.)  So, I figured, just walk in there, have your cheeks prodded and looked at through that little hand-held microscope they have, and Bob is your mother's brother.

Nope, Bex is sitting in the waiting area having a panic attack because she had to go in through the In-Patients entrance, and walk past the ward windows! 

There were hospital beds.  Of course, duh!  Except they were the same kind of bed that my step father was in when he died.  You can see where this is going, can't you?  So there I was, stuffing Rescue Remedy and trying to do meditational breathing because of a bloody bedstead.

And then there are the stories.  Like some weird plague of locusts, they have descended on me.  I am struck down with imaginational pestilence.  I wrote 5286 words today!  I've written five major pieces of fiction since I got back from Hampshire, all upwards of 40 pages long and counting.  And every time I close my eyes, there's more.  Scenes are falling out of the sky on my head like shrapnel.  I can hardly keep up with the laundry, let alone have a life and a marriage, in between all this writing.  I've written more in the last four weeks than I have in years. It is getting beyond a joke.  It's obviously a kind of dissociative activity, so I am trying not to knock it, but just occasionally it would be nice to have my brain back, please?

And the dreams.  Eugh!  I wake up feeling like I've run a marathon in my sleep.  Last night I was swimming the length of the River Waveney.  The night before, I was watching Welsh farm hands being mauled by two tigers (don't ask, really.)  I dream vividly, so its not like I am getting any rest.

And don't even ask me about Benedict Cumberbatch!!!

I knew grief could do some daft things to you, but seriously, this is verging on something clinical.  The only symptom I have not enjoyed yet has been the itchy scalp. My hair has gone limp and dry, but so far, no itches.  Watch this space, people.  The world will no doubt get a lot stranger before this is over...

A New Beginning

Dear Reader,

Well, three weeks spent in Hampshire, looking after my mother following the death of my beloved step-father, sorting out the funeral, keeping going.  I've been home since the 27th July and my head is still a mess.  Everything feels so jumbled.  I can't seem to concentrate on anything, and yet I was so organised and able to concentrate while it was happening.  Now I am all over the shop!  I'm trying to just go with it, to accept that this is part of the grieving process, and this is just what I need, but you know what I am for productivity and getting things done!  I get frustrated.  I want to be back on track, back in the programme.  I beat myself up for not being able to do things, like write this blog.  Its hard to accept that life is just going to be a bit confusing and off piste for a while.

And then I think of my mother, and the fact that she is alone again for the first time in 25 years.  Its grim, at 80, when you are so vulnerable anyway.  And the fact that she has done this once already, after my father died.  I feel for her far more than I feel for me.

So please send her your prayers, or good vibes, or whatever you have spare, and bear with me while I get my jumble in order...