January Dreaming Spires

It's January 2015! Time to reflect on achievements and not quite achievements and what to build on for this year. We have spent the past couple of weeks emptying our container and problem solving. The puzzle has been: Why do we have so much stuff? Why can't we get rid of more stuff? Where can we stash remaining stuff? Gosh that thought was a blast to the past. Amazed I got away with it. But back to the present.

It seems that to fully live in the present, one must not be surrounded by 'stuff' from the past - this may not be volcanic news, but it can be a helpful NY reminder and a useful trigger to get going on new projects or clearing one's space, physical, mental (gosh that's a busy space) and spiritual, in order to think (and be) more creative/ly. Of course one wants to keep photographs and a few precious reminders, but reams of reminders (stuff) are unnecessary and can be hampering, and I don't mean in the Fortnum and Mason sense, if only I were that bling. 

Tip: As one goes about shunting boxes or trying to diminish the pile up in the garage or loft, or both, in our case, one can reflect on what bad (or dire) thought processes need to go to the great dung heap below, as it were. Sometimes this might be letting go of old (possibly ancient) grievances and learning to forgive and forget - the latter part being the key part of forgiving and which is often more 'Escape from Alcatraz' than 'All that Jazz.' It might mean letting go of any habitual behaviour that is unhelpful or just trying to be kinder to yourself (and others) or caring less about what others think.

Tip/sy: Last year I gave up alcohol for a year as a kind of extended lent.

"Golly!" I hear you shriek. "What happened?"

The main thing was that I discovered that alcohol was unnecessary. This also may not be blast your ears off news, but it like Christianity, is something that needs to be experienced rather than just read about - before and after experiments need to take place. Although Hubster and I don't drink very much or very often, we usually take a glass or two when offered and find it is rather relaxing (“You don’t say,” I hear you say). Upshot: (rather than down shot) save your pocket, your waist and your brain cells. You need them in fat, slim, fat order.

I am pondering what else to give up this year. As I have more brain cells now, there is more suff to ponder...

So in January, I am reflecting on what to leave behind and on constructing a new foundation for the fabulous 'building' I hope to construct this year. This building will have many facets that reflect the aspects of my life: being a wife, homeschooling mum/mum to an almost school leaver, writer, teacher and publisher amongst many other things. I'm hoping my building will be made of (toughened) glass. I want my life to be transparent in that I want it to be authentic, truthful and honest - a building of beauty - in the internal, eternal sense. Dreaming spires.

Home hairdressing is like novel writing (probably) best left to the professionals...

This is a post about DIY hair hacking from a few years ago. I re-read it as a warning to myself as I contemplate shelling out for a pro hairdresser...

Me about ten years ago - when did you wed Robbie? At my brother's wedding. The last time I had long, natural, rather than luridly coloured hair.

I have been wearing my hair scrunched into something resembling a knot (a not?) for some time now. Mostly because with the terrific-ten-week-old, the tremendous-two-year-old and the teenage-cash-demander-stand-up comedian there is not much me time, never mind ‘hair-time,’ left. I exist in a vortex of activity in which ‘me’ doesn’t often come out - except via the occasional shout. Today I decided that I needed a sea-change and it was my hair that was going to make waves. 

Brandishing my bluntish hairdressing scissors; the ones that have attacked the locks of my fifteen-year-old for years, and latterly my trusting husband and a few brave (drunk?) friends, I set to. The only thing sharp about my scissors have been my words to my son hovering above them like blades Just lift your chin off your chest before I cut off your ear. Yes, I transform into a Van Goughian madwoman when the subject is my son and my canvas is his hair. Anyway, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror in the gloom (the light obscured by the hanging – yes it looked dead – washing that dried three days ago). First of all I layered the sides. I could still see at this stage. Then the thought occurred to me that I might try layering the back. It was like playing blind-man’s-bluff with my hair as the opponent, as I groped around the back of my head, pulling up layers and hacking away. Before long (there was short) I was in the bluff. Scissor-happy, I liked what I saw – at this stage my hair had gone from long and lank to mid-length and nicely layered. 

My two-year-old, who was taking full advantage of my distraction by emptying ‘things’ into the bathtub and over the floor, said that I looked ‘gorgeous’ and that she ‘liked it,’ I think she may have been ‘liking’ my ignoring her activities with the perfume bottle, canny kid that she is. This tick should have been my cue that the session was over, but the scissors were hot in my hands and I thought I could ‘style’ it some more. Pause for a moment (as I should have) and imagine a sped up film of a person cutting their own hair. This was to become my mode in the minutes that followed as I lost all sense of time and proportion. Soon I had cut a wedge from the right-hand side that had to be paid for by the left and so it went on for some time like a bizarre hair politics show, until eventually my daughter who prefers to play than eat demanded lunch. My hair, like a novel, or rather now, a short story, was forced into conclusion by events outside my control, which was just as well, otherwise I may have continued cutting, cutting, cutting, shaping, shaping, shaping until someone said stop.

*Happily that novel has now shifted over two thousand copies - all word of mouth too, apart from some good reviews/press early on - yes, I know I am mouthy and a bit trumpet-blowy. But not bad for a girl who ditched (nicely, she was lovely) her agent and the publishing industry (when they asked her to change the ending) to go it alone...I have to remind myself about previous successes when I feel a bit down that the current one is not finished yet...

Jingle Bells, Christmas Smells...

Just back from London where Christmas is already in overdrive with the major stores on Flashy Street falling over themselves to seduce customers with their fabulous window displays and in store tricks, I mean, treats. The shopping vibes are not especially nice. Last Friday, Black Friday, appropriately named, the scenes were Halloween scary. In Asda, people literally fell over themselves, and each other, as they fought over cut-price tellys and more. At Tesco, in Greater Manchester, three men were arrested and a woman was hit by a falling television. Had she died, the death jokes would have followed her through the annals or should I say, anals of history. The telly was on her. And then she was on it. Oh dear.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-30241459 

In the US, it's even worse. There is a Black Friday death count website. Oh yes, here it is: http://blackfridaydeathcount.com/ 

I cannot verify the veracity of the deaths but it says something about US society and ours. Speaking of US society, why are we buying into this black Friday guff? Can't the British maintain some semblance of dignity? 

At the other end of the spectrum, socially, but not politely speaking, things are not pretty in a different way. I usually frequent supermarkets that begin with 'A' and 'L' but I do like the occasional 'W' and not just for their free coffees. Their stuff and their staff are great, but their clientele are from hell. Okay obvs not all of them, I go there sometimes and so does John Snow, apparently. On occasion, I frequent a certain ‘W’ shop in London (thanks for the free coffees!) and marvel at the rudeness and arrogance of the customers and their general sense of entitlement. Nobody smiles, if you have to say 'excuse me' expect a glare. Looking down ones nose is a pose that grows, like the queue - no one, apart from me, uses the new, DIY tills. And don't take a buggy with a chirruping child. Children should be left with the help or at least steered around, petrified in one of those buggies that looks like a slingshot with privileged offspring as missile about to be launched in your startled face. The kid is so high up and ‘out there,’ that the word 'status' and 'symbol' vanish into thrusting orbit. The staff at ‘W’ however, are the antithesis of their customers, they know how to Wait and they know how to waft: Odeur De Rose. Hats off to Mr J.L. They really do know how to treat a punter. As for the shoppers though, they're punts.

My grandparents would never have bought anything they could not afford. And they would have stood in line, and had a chat to get it. As a society, how did we become so uncaring and generally gobbly and greedy, at the expense of others? I think it's a cultural malaise. Enough, never seems to be enough. At the upper end of the scale, there is entitlement in that there is an attitude of ‘we are better than everyone else and we expect servitude from those around us.’ At the other end of the scale there is this rapacious need to have everything that is advertised (in, on and off the telly) despite the consequences: debt, death even. Of course I am generalising, and I know that Britain has a wonderful record (no, not that one) on charity giving, but on the streets of London, shopping is a menace and it points to a deeper lack, and I would say that lack is an emotional and a spiritual one. 

Something has to give, apart from my waistline

Something has to give, apart from my waistline. I have got into the habit of surviving on caffeine and feral snatches of sugary things and bread dipped into whatever's nearest - no, not that. Square meals do not seem to appeal, spiky unmeals have become the thing. I know I must not do this, but like a Smartie-fueled kid on a trampoline, I just can't seem to get off (on anything healthy). To this end, like a pendulum at full swing or a see-saw at full tilt, I have bought a juicer. Husband and I have stripped the apple and pear trees bare, and now I can drink coffee and be virtuous at the same time! I do know that it has to give, and like a bad friend, it does. The jitters for instance - it's not instant. Husband has suggested I give up coffee for next year, given I gave up alcohol for this year. What does he think this is? Grade one, grade two, grade three? What will I have left in my crutch bag? Yes, he is still alive.

I still feel out of whack (and whacked out from lack of sleep - why do my 1 and 3 year olds still play the wakey-wakey game like jack-in the boxes at all times during the night?) with the seasons given the transitions we as a family have been making, and unable to catch up with the fact that it is no longer summer, though, in an autumnal fumble I did put tights on for church last Sunday, my body going through the motions while my head cried that it was still beach weather, whilst eyeing my daughter's pink sandalled feet as evidence - she refused to acknowledge that it wasn't summer anymore either, but in quite a different, and more vocal, way.

The house is emerging from the stuff we dumped on it when we partly moved in a month or so ago. Previously we could not tell that it was remotely house-shaped, though we perceived that there was a garden into whence we could tip the children while we tried to make their interior habitat less dangerous. I still avoid ladies with organised houses. I can't take the shame. I don't let them in anymore.

Another fact that I can't get my head around is that my eldest is eighteen on Sunday. He is now older than I was when I left home (17), but I will be holding onto his ankles for as long as I can, and believe me I am Elastagirl.

So this is how I am rolling at the moment: slow mo in some areas and way too speedy in others. Let's hope I all catch up. Was that ketchup I just dipped into?

As September Slip Slides Away

Slipping in a little post before September slides away. Much has been happening. Spending more time in Wales, though necessarily in London too as big son completes A Levels. We have had some lovely sunny late September days with visits to the beach where we have marvelled at wobbly jellyfish and the knee (and hip) highs have grown braver at sparring with the waves. Having a garden - and more space generally, has been sublime, the kids are wellied up and turfed out to play before school each day. That majestic beauty, Regents Park, in London, is still a corner to go around, but to have ground outside the door is a joy over the threshold. Watching my husband chop down a tree with the kids (armed with plastic golf 'axes') was one of the more amusing sights of my day today.

I am now in the ninth month of my year of teetotalism and have given birth to new things...

I am studying the Bible through 'Unlocking the Bible' with David Pawson, a new and fascinating journey.

A children's story and poem competition was 'judged' by me today. What a joy it was. How wonderfully exuberant and creative kids are. Us writers should read more kids work to keep the spark alive.

Writing Workshops begin in London and Wales next month: a new Hillman Publishing venture that I am excited to teach. We will look at aspects of story telling and craft. Can't wait!

Home schooling has begun and I am really enjoying teaching my son and daughter. People react in their various ways and ask me why I have chosen to home school.

Here are some reasons:

I get to spend most of the day throughout the year with the ones I love.

It's a privilege and a joy to teach them.

The teaching is academic, but there is an emphasis on creativity and spirituality too.

The teaching is tailor-made to suit them.

It does not take as long as usual, so there is much time to explore and learn: on the beach, in the woods, in museums and more.

It is a gift that I can give and to watch them learn and respond is a gift to me.

There are many more reasons and many more days. I am enjoying the journey thus far.

On Gaza: Show. Don’t tell.

Those of us of a literary bent know that in our work we must show, and not tell. I can still hear my MA Creative Writing tutor – an elegant English writer – reiterating this to us all time and again as students during our course. Amongst other points pertaining to literary discourse, to show and not tell is to demonstrate through the work: don’t spell it out, repeat or over describe. And for goodness sake, don’t lecture your reader.

With all the feeling that is being poured out left and right (pun intended) on Facebook and other sites regarding the current Israeli/Gaza conflict, and as a basic principle, this course of action may well be heeded. We are all entitled to our opinions, though I think we all need to try and do our research as much as possible, myself included. An emotive response of moral outrage before gathering all the information available to us – though we are all at the mercy of journalists to some capacity and their inevitable biases, to some extent – should be the normative course of action.

We need to apologise when we get things wrong and move on, though I have no desire to be ironic and sound ‘lectury’ myself, or sound ‘holier than thou,’ I often get things wrong and am as passionate about my beliefs as the next person, but perhaps a deep breath, and a count to three before taking the plunge might help – I am learning to take this advice myself - happily I have someone in my life who dispenses wisdom in this area, without being patronising – a skill in itself!

When engaging in debate, I suggest we show – by demonstrating with facts, (alongside our well thought out argument - not fighting!) why we support as we do. Attacking, demeaning and, the most silly of all – ‘de-friending’ on Facebook, does not help support one’s argument and does not encourage serious debate  it may even make you look like a silly banana with a wonky cap on with scribbles for features. Inevitably, mistakes will be made – what with all the inaccurate statistics and photos from other wars and so on being circulated willy-nilly in the press and online.

This is not a war between ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys,’ there are good people being caught up in the conflict and paying a price too high, through no fault of their own as with the recent Malaysian Airlines MH17 tragedy, and the plight of the Christians (and others) in Iraq; and there are ‘bad guys’ and ‘good guys’ involved on both sides. There are as ever, very many grey areas. I am firmly ‘on side’ with my beliefs, though I try to be clear-eyed when ‘my side’ acts disproportionately or unfairly - in my view, -which I have to admit, is limited as I am not on the ground, as it were. And though your view may be different to mine, I respect your right to air it, however cloudy I might suspect it; I respect freedom of speech and I respect democracy. I do not want to live in a dictatorship where I am told ‘believe as I do’ or you are 'a dimwit, a moron, or even dead,' if some folks get their way.

Having said that, I am all for good-natured satire, but there is no need for further hostilities. There is enough of that already.