I Isolate

isolate - From the Latin, insulare, to make into an island

I - sol - ate

I am solo

since the positive Covid test

have made myself an island

plotted my time

as a map of solitude

coordinated myself to a pattern of rest

I - sol - ate

within my flat

on the sofa

under a rug

beside the coffee table

between lunch and supper

among books   music   TV   podcasts   phone calls 

with glasses of water

within   on   under   beside   between   among   with --

these prepositions hold me in time and space

identifying relationships between me and my environment

until I am better

I Prepare For Burial

I have felt myself in the underworld this winter. 

I feel, therefore I am. 

There is richness here, and discovery. There are people to meet, a mycelial network of seekers, resting travellers offering stillness, wisdom and quiet hope. In therapy, I have felt the presence of new parts of me too, and they need attention. I have had to absent myself from some of what has being going on above ground. 

As part of this rooting, I booked a massage this morning, a gift from Kate. As Maddy worked with the muscles, channels and fabrics of my being, oiling my skin, working into the tensions across my back, I experienced myself as holy, as if being prepared for ritual. I saw myself stretched out like a Viking warrior, or Boudicca at the end of her fierce struggles, wholly at peace, welcoming the unknown. 

It's been coming to me slowly, this sense of fulfilled embodiment - a from head-to-toe Liz-ness. My inner wisdom tells me (I feel it) that I'm reaching the end of the Cartesian divide that I've carried like a cross, and which has tortured my mind at times like an unknown language: an endless mathematical formula in the centre of my thinking which, if only I understood it, would give me the answer. 

For as long as I can remember, whenever there's been something difficult happening, whenever I've been hurt, or caused hurt, I've split against myself - mind / body; good / bad; right / wrong; saved / lost. These responses made sense in childhood, protected me given the context, but they've troubled me in adulthood.

This legacy of polarisation - part Cartesian, part evangelical Christian, part inter-generational woundedness, part good intention - this legacy, it was never mine, but it was given to me. It's 60 years today since I was baptised. At 68 days old, before speech, before almost everything, I was spoken for.

Gabriel and I saw Rene Descartes' tomb in the Abbey of St Germain des Pres last summer. We were exploring Paris according to a map of its philosophers. Parts of Descartes are missing from this tomb, taken when he was moved there from his original grave. Part of him, a piece of his skull, is, apparently, in Sweden, where he spent important years of his life. 

I'm going to Sweden too, all of me. I'm going to come back, all of me. Do not worry about me - I'll be in good hands there, among old friends and yet-to-be friends, taking part in a grief ritual to which I'm taking loss in all its forms, and hope in all its forms. There's a sense of purpose - the welcome information begins: Grief dares us to love once more (Terry Tempest Williams).

My body has been preparing me for this burial, for five days 'off-grid' among fellow grievers, in trees, near water, and under huge skies. I have been going underground, been going quietly, giving in to spaciousness. And this morning, lying on the massage table, I felt ready. My body is telling me I'm ready. 

I Send Cake To Myself

My sons are grown up and living independently, and more than capable, but there's a part of me that feels a tug towards their birthdays - of course I do. This includes some sense of responsibility for their happiness: a wanting them to have special days.

And since I feel an almost equal tug towards cake, which combines so naturally with this birthday wanting, it made sense to me at around lunchtime yesterday (even though I'd already given a card and presents at the weekend) to order a box of brownies from a company which promised delivery in time for my elder son's birthday which is today - just to make extra sure I'd done enough. 

I tapped his fairly new address into the cake company's online form - I felt confident and on familiar cake-based territory: that I knew what I was doing. 

In fact, because of the way Apple Pay works, I didn't. I now know, owing to an exchange with the cake delivery company, that yesterday, the payment app filled in the billing address (Shrewsbury) as the delivery address as well, despite my previous manual filling in of the intended delivery address (Gateshead). 

Damn.

So when I arrived home, after a tiring but hopeful day of therapy and walking, I found a parcel from DPD on the mat, and in my inbox the offer of a 10% discount on my next cake order as a gesture towards the inconvenience of the difference between Shrewsbury and Gateshead. 

Feeling that the 10% offer was missing the whole birthday point, I answered a timely videocall from my son. He looked cheerful and happy, as did his thoughtful fiancée who had, he demonstrated by turning his phone camera towards it, arranged a delicious-looking birthday cake, complete with icing and decorations. I explained the brownie mix up in a sort of rush of relief. "Never mind, Mum. Why don't you make a start on them, and we can carry on when I'm down next week - and how about we eat them while watching Gibson Girls." I can't think of anything much nicer. 

With that double pleasure to look forward to, and reassured that my son is having a lovely birthday, I cut through the seal on the brownie box. 

Maybe I knew what I was doing, after all. 

I Re-Glaze My Greenhouse

I did not expect to be moved to tears by my greenhouse, but there I was, this sunny afternoon, at my allotment, phoning my Longest-Serving Friend.

    'It sounds like you're crying,' she said, her voice full of concern.

    'I am,' I replied. 'Please don't worry - they're tears of joy.'

I explained how I had replaced the panes of glass broken by Storm Darragh. She was delighted for me and felt tearful too. Sometimes, it takes a Longest-Serving Friend to understand the significance of a minor event as major.

To explain - here's some of the mess Darragh made:

Being a poet and thinker, it was hard for me not to understand this damage as metaphor, especially as it happened around my birthday, and especially as other greenhouses all around stood firm through the high winds. 

Today, I reinstated the ability of my greenhouse to be a greenhouse by replacing three panels in the door, two at the sides. It was when I slid and clipped the first side panel in, that I felt emotion rise in me: a rush of relief. The sensation was unexpected, and the Doubter inside said, 'It could still go wrong, Liz.'

This inner voice is the voice which questions whether I can manage things by myself. Wouldn't it have been better to ask for help? I'm not averse to collaboration. A friend made a significant contribution by transporting the glass in his estate car but, apart from that kindness, I'd managed to make the correct measurements, buy the right fittings, and position the panels (without breaking them or cutting my fingers) all by myself. 

My acts of independence may be moderate, aided by YouTube videos, and fine sunny weather; but I reaffirmed for myself today that they hold a deep significance. This has something to do with freedom, autonomy, womanhood, space to learn, and a growing confidence in my physical, embodied self. In turn, this all is something of a metaphor for my ability to mend, to create for myself a house of light and growth.

I Number My Days

Lately, it’s been about counting. Years. Runs. Words. Work. Breaths. Days. Trees.

60 years - a number I may not have made. There was, among so many other near misses, that dangerous overtaking move I made in a dark blue Ford Cortina on my way to Mull in 1986 after finals. I was driving my Longest-Serving Friend, and I think Dave, Seb, and Richard. We were rushing to Oban for the ferry and the car coming in the opposite direction swerved to avoid us.

149 runs - it was meant to be 150 in time for my birthday, but storm Darragh intervened. I spent the night before wondering whether to try to find a Parkrun that wasn't cancelled but at 2am, saw the light, and decided that 149 is as beautiful a number. So instead of driving through wind and rain to Wolverhampton, I had a wonderful brunch (dry and warm) at Greenhouse Café with 15 of my closest running buddies. 850: the number of my token (and highest ever) after today's 151st Christmas Parkrun.

12,000 words - the number of words my novel has been stuck on all year. I lost my writing mojo in 2024, but I've found it again. Standby 2025, especially February 14th.

18 - the number of years I've spent at Wrexham University building a project which includes the voices of those usually excluded from education, from life, from being heard. A few days before my birthday, Outside In won an Above and Beyond Award for embedding Inclusion into the everyday life of the university. A day after my birthday, the group threw me a surprise party with more gifts than I could carry, some flowers that have lasted right up to today.

Breaths - who knows how many? But lately I've been practising Yoga Nidra as a way of grounding myself back into my adult self after the re-emergence of childhood traumas, counting breaths in through my nose, and out through my mouth. At first, I found this almost impossible to do. Now, it's becoming more of a habit.

24 - the number of my advent calendar, and maybe yours: a treat I bought in the dark of November. Each day in December, I've opened a cardboard drawer to find a gift to myself. Lavender salve to rub into my temples, geranium hand cream, frankincense oil to rejuvenate my 60 year old skins. It's taught me something about self-care that I don't think I knew before - how to treasure myself each day, regardless.

                                      

1 - the tree that came to mind in a therapy session recently. This tree is real and imagined, a safe place of non-judgement, acceptance, strength, solidity and power -  somewhere I can go, in my mind, to find all that I needed when a child, all that I need now to draw upon when I'm thrown back into child-learnt fears. 

And so I find I've numbered my days, counted myself into my sixties and up to this Christmas  Day. And what have I found? 

Love. A growing into love for myself I've never thought possible. A growing into receiving love from others I've never thought I deserved. A growing love for this world, with all its darkness, all its lights.

I Will Build You A Bed ...

 … literally, if you’re my friend Julie. Here's her bed. We built it together last week because it’s easier to wrestle larger self-assembly things into being with company.

Helping build Julie’s bed put me in mind of something Ted told me that his grandson Freddy said a while ago. I thought his words, as I walked home: I Will Build You A Bed … and then later ... this can be the promise I make to myself as I enter my 7th decade.

I’ve spent too much of my first six decades weary - some of the tiredness inevitable. Much of it the result of trying too hard to avoid something. Myself, mainly. Myself as reflected to me by the habits I formed to survive the harsh aspects of my childhood (you are not worthy, so serve, please, rescue). I’m learning, re-learning, that I no longer need these survival strategies. It’s time to rest up from the reverberations of that childhood stuff, and the pains they cause.

So, here I am, or there I was, thinking about, and now quoting, what young Freddy exclaimed so lovingly to his beloved grandpa, whom he calls CC, in the context of Ted explaining why he couldn’t stay at Freddy’s home (because there was no bed). “But I Will Build You A Bed, CC!”

***

But I Will Build You A Bed, Liz. A place to sleep, a place to grow strawberries and over-winter your geraniums, a place to read and write, to stare at the sky, a place to run, and a place to camp. I will build a place to lounge around, to daydream, to sing and dance, to sleep on-and-off till noon sometimes. A place which takes proper heed of those wearisome wearinesses, carried since childhood, lays them to rest. 

I Write Again

It’s been a while. I’ve been coming through things, and still am, but here I am, writing again. 

In the café at Wrexham General station, the kind barista is putting up the Christmas tree while I drink my morning coffee. I choose to take it as a sign of hope. 

It may snow before November is out. I will love again the way snow falls through the street light outside my living room window.

And I’m listening to Haydn’s first cello concerto on ear-pods. It drowns out the hiss of the coffee machine. Moderato - cheerful, adagio - poignant, then upbeat allegro to the resolution. Three movements. Three moods. Nothing authentic can be expressed in a singularity.

I move through things by sitting still, writing, going with the music.