Borrowed digits

Posted on December 9, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Dog tired. Bone cold. Kid sick. Sniffling and snuffling. Fighting, pushing, pulling and shoving. Pointing; the direction: anyone’s guess?

Walking, talking; whispering and muttering. Hunched shoulders, balled hands. Attention inwards. Heart concealed.

Feeling heavy. Hurting. Desperately seeking… Searching, for the point: all, any, everything, none. Attempting to locate myself – in crowds that bloat and swell. Carried along at breakneck speed: tripping and stumbling; spraining toe and twisting ankle, dislocating knee. Withdrawing – whenever, wherever, remotely possible. Using ‘said’ stolen minutes, snatched moments, borrowed digits, to calculate what from the previous whole is part of the hole that’s unravelling now.

Stumbling. Sinking. Slipping, stalling. Crying: morning, noon, and night. Holding myself together with yarn and thread; bits and pieces catching, bobbling, snagging, spooling off.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Where it hurts

Posted on December 8, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

I’ve got a cold, the one that’s been doing the rounds, the one that’s everywhere, the one that’s on the tube and in cafés and restaurants; the one that’s on every door handle, table and seat; the one that’s in shops and supermarkets, lurking on shelves, hiding on hangers, lying in wait; the one that’s been dancing around the perimeter of my personal hemisphere, infecting my family and friends; the one that’s been trying to get me ever since I’ve arrived. Having managed to avoid catching it from my partner, my father, my sister, a colleague and a friend, I have finally succumbed, my stupid hand reaching up to take possession without permission from my slightly more intelligent body or arm. Feeling miserable; coughing, spluttering, sniffing and sneezing – my voice barely present, my throat raw and dry: I couldn’t be happier. To say that this further drain on my already depleted reserves is unwelcome, is understating the matter at hand. I am examining the rocks on the bottom, befriending the algae that graces them, looking for (so that I might eat and thereby at least temporarily survive) the worm most unassuming and unammouting.

My head, although foggy, is alive with questions. What am I doing? Where am I going? Where do I stand and what do I even want?

It is also full of holes. The explanations and responses I thought I had figured out, the plans I had put together, all feel lame and weak, irrelevant. How can I focus on the future, when the present is so unclear? And how can I start sorting out the present, when I don’t even know what might be happening later, let alone further ahead than that?

I want to make the most of being here: study, join, explore; see, meet, befriend; become a part of. But I can’t do any of that while I am juggling potatoes because it would be irresponsible to stop and, besides, these potatoes are hot. I would either in shock drop them or in horror burn my hands.

This morning, after another sleepless night, I am sitting in (surprise, surprise), a café. Having no Wi-fi at home makes it necessary. As does the fact that I have no furniture at said ‘home’ to sit upon and, as such, being at home feels a bit like camping out in a field. It’s also not my favourite place because, as a space, it has betrayed me. After costing an arm and a leg (roughly translated as six months rent in advance due to the short nature of our intended stay and the temporary, transient nature of our work, and double the deposit, because of our dog, who has never damaged anything but, understandably, in the mind of the landlord, might) it has transpired that half of the contents don’t work, the neighbours are noisy and it, our space, is situated above the dance floor of a busy club. It’s so not funny, one just has to laugh; to do anything else, would be to invite further tragedy and experience additional trauma, of which there is already far too much.

So I am sitting and writing and attempting and trying very hard to make do, and I am (in part) managing. Thank God for my book. It’s not much and it may never amount to anything, remaining as small or as large as the individuals who frequent my site, but it’s a whole lot better than nothing and it gives me something to concentrate upon. And, perhaps, if life feels like giving me a break, just this once, just this time, it might find its way out there to a slightly more expansive crowd.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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A dark hole

Posted on December 6, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

My partner has started to refer to our situation as a black hole. The sky barely visible, the horizon concealed, it is a barren place without comfort or cheer. It is also full of anger and rage, emotions which scare me. Cold and empty, lost and alone, I feel hopeless and desolate. I no longer know where to go, how to feel or what to attach myself to. The plan we had has gone awry. Bad things keep happening. And there are too many antagonists in the mix. If I’ve felt worse, fallen lower, had more to cope with at one time: I can’t remember it.

I’ve suffered accidents and injuries. I’ve experienced heartbreak and loss. I’ve been disappointed and disillusioned… I’ve swallowed lies, drunk poison and eaten rejection… I’ve lost my best friend, my grandmother and the love of my life. I’ve been broken, bruised and damaged. I’ve been injured, ill and sick. I’ve been a danger to myself and a danger to others. I’ve been used, hurt, left and abandoned. I’ve swapped one life for another in pursuit of a dream, only to be sorely disappointed, twice…

Yet, none of it was like this. Here, now, the shit just keeps on coming and there’s nowhere to hide.

Today I should be happy. Today I should be productive. Today I should be facing in a direction. Today ‘We’, should be solving at least one of the many things on our ever-expanding list. It should be a day of moving closer, a day of advancing towards, a day of shrinking the problem(s) that seems determined to grow. But this isn’t the case. Life has thrown yet another curve-ball and – hit, injured, wounded; eyes black, heart blue, spirit torn – we are sitting in a café trying to make the best of it.

My best, or at least my idea of attempting such an ambitious feat, is to take the situation and pour my soul into it. If I can document – in transparent account, in poetry and prose, in illustration and needlework – what is going on, perhaps something positive can come out of what is dark and negative?

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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David’s stone

Posted on December 4, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

This morning I had a mini-meltdown, the backpack finally finding my rigid shoulder blades, the suitcase latching lipit-like onto my balled hands. Two months after making the decision, four months after sensing the need for a different approach, a year after feeling itchy and miserable, it’s hit me – the mountain, the avalanche, the stone, the thing I’ve been evading – and I can’t, no matter how much I might want to, escape.

Standing in the middle of my new flat – an apartment really to be exact, to give it (my abode most humble) its credit, its due, the tears came and my lips collapsed. Used to being strong; to coping, to managing, to steering the ship; to keeping us (both e and my partner) afloat – if not financially, then at least emotionally and directionally: I was both humbled and shocked. Shit! What now? What next?

Overwhelmed, everything beyond the current moment was black: the hour, the day, the week… all the way up to as far as I could see without losing myself in the clouds of tomorrow. Too many problems, too many obstacles, too many malicious them’s attacking and subtracting from the sum (currently pitiful) total of us.

I’m sure, comfortably seated in the future, once again enthroned, I will look back and laugh: ha, ha, ha!!! I’m sure this – now; the beast, the burden, the monotone, the unmanageable, etc. – will all be a joke. When my house is a home, when my shell is a nest; when my family are settled and together, happy… But now, in the void, in the interim, in the in-between space from which there is only today, a day that is heartless, callous, never-ending in its pursuit, there is no laughing or smiling or joking. No furniture, no fixtures, no familiar things: it, this, where I currently am – both emotionally and physically, is just an empty space, devoid of emotion, of meaning or me. Which wouldn’t be a problem, only we are bereft of the means to make amends.

Finances being short, thanks to a run of unfortunate events, events that stubbornly keep on coming – thick and fast, faster than we can fight them off, faster than one would have thought possible: we are well and truly up the creek (proverbial) without a paddle to steer by. This is not how I like to be. This is not where I want to be. This is not what I saw or what I agreed to in the beginning when we kicked this whole thing off. Having been sold a dream which was already a personal nightmare (my idea of Hell, if I am honest), I am struggling to keep up.

Slipping, tripping; sinking, drowning: I attempt to evade the wave. Yet no matter how fast I move, how far I go, how much I push against it, there is no escaping the flux. Even as I write this, endeavouring in concretising to superficially placate my rapidly breaking self, there is more… The café that has been my haunt, my rock, my stone, my safe space in a place that lacks any and all things familiar, has just ousted me, informing me that my presence is not welcome any more. Apparently it’s okay to come and sit, providing said ‘sitting’ is for a short while – bite-sized, delicate and feminine – partaking of a coffee and cake or a toast and tea. But to idle with my iPad or sit with my knitting and stitching, is outside the realm of the image they are looking to promote.

If I wasn’t already so upset, so emotionally bruised and battered by the current run of events, I might be able to see my way to the funny side; after all, it does keep coming… As it is, I am struggling not to collapse into a heap. Two things hold me together: 1. I am expecting someone – who, ironically, I am intending to use wool to make things with; and 2. I am surrounded by people who, disturbed by a sudden flow of water, would turn in curiosity to stare. Dignity and pride are my saviours and I embrace them for all they are worth.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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A fog shroud

Posted on December 4, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

I’m so tired I can’t think and speaking is laborious. Navigating my way around town is challenging: my legs dragging hard against my feet, my inner compass spinning; everything the wrong way around. It’s not just the landscape that’s different: the streets themselves have changed, shifting before my eyes.

Trying to walk to Regent Street, I end up on Shaftesbury Avenue: China Town dead ahead, Compton Street behind. Spinning…, turning…, I attempt to reacquaint myself, calling on instincts that have fled. Eventually, accepting futility, I slip into a café. People huddle together, hunched over tables that are too small for adults; sipping tepid drinks that cost twice what they should, what they do outside of London. Noses glowing, eyes streaming: they are full of germs.

I wait in-line and order a latte. Cold and flat (I don’t get this obsession with luke-warm coffee, especially in winter), we’re a perfect match. Shedding my coat, I take out my iPad. My only friend, it’s screen offers me access to a world I no longer inhabit and may never visit again. This is sad: the leaving and the isolation. Lowering my head, I try to fight the loneliness.

Do I miss it: the place, the climate, the lifestyle, the people? I’m not sure. Bits and pieces, yes. But the entirety? My emotions are so tangled, my body so tired: I can’t tell left from right, right from wrong.

Forward-facing, fast-pacing: backwards has become a blur, a sinking horizon concealed beneath a fog shroud.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Snowmen in winter

Posted on November 23, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Better the devil you know than the prince you are chasing after. Better the life you have than the future you would like to arrive. Birds in the hand are worth more than mammals in the distance. Eggs more reliable assets than chickens down the line.

Thank God for what you have and count your lucky stars. Let absence take care of what is missing and providence provide. Tread softly around others, be mindful of their dreams. Give what you can to the less fortunate, take only what you need from those who can provide.

Think big, stand tall, set goals, climb skyscrapers. Plan ahead, take action, share often, do more. Walk with courage, run with enthusiasm, sit down with dignity, sleep with pride. Love each season as if it were the only one available. Embrace all weather, as if it were all there were.

Build snowmen in winter. Plant daisies in spring. Pick apples in summer. Make fires in fall. Smile at those who hurt you, laugh with those who don’t. Listen to your elders, teach your youth. Show those who are searching, lead them who would like to learn. Imagine it all different, then get up and take a turn.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The question she was chewing on these days

Posted on November 17, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Trying to keep the peace in a turbulent household is a full-time job, especially when surrounded by eggshells. One forgets how many landmines can be hidden beneath the floors, knives concealed underneath the smooth veneer of carpets and rugs; how much, in treading onto and then later exploding (albeit, by accident), they hurt. Having navigated a relatively uneventful path for a hand-span of days – commendable, given the circumstances – it was inevitable she would eventually slip up. That it had taken so long and gone so smoothly up until this point was what surprised her. At the end of the day, it all came down to leopards and dogs. You couldn’t repaint the sitting room, just because you didn’t like the colour. Nor could you rearrange the make-up of the stew, just because you were now a vegetarian. People were who they were. They looked and acted a certain way. After a lifetime of operating as such, they weren’t about to change for you or anyone else. And besides… life was a series of challenges, most irksome when you were already struggling. It stood to reason that there were additional bumps.

It had been a difficult summer: hard on the body, worse on the mind. There had been decisions, sacrifices, tests… They had had to prove they wanted it, and how much. Cross bridges. Climb mountains. There was loss, and cost. And it carried on costing. Even now – here, on the other side; standing, walking, running; somewhere in the middle of where they used to be and where they wanted to be eventually, where they were trying to get to when they figured it all out – they were hitting walls and coming up against barriers. If there was a God – a matter that, lately, had come up for dispute – he had a wicked sense of humour. Each morning as she walked across the bridge, the one just shy of Charring Cross, the one on the Embankment; passing the bible bashers with their books on Christianity and their poster asking: “does Satan exist?”, she had to wonder. Either she was being tested for something bigger, better, beautiful… that would eventually become clear – like daylight, sunshine; something she suddenly didn’t have much of. Or she was being sabotaged and thwarted by a tyrant. For now, she had no alternative but to go with the punches. But that didn’t mean she had to like it or pretend that it didn’t hurt. Her back ached, her feet throbbed, her shoulders screamed continuously. And as for her head and stomach… it was best not to go there. She was managing in much the same way as she always did: reverting to the tried and tested, resorting to medicating in imaginative and stereotypical ways. But it was a short-term fix. Sooner or later the facade would crack, causing her to crumble. There was only so long things like thoughts and feelings could be suppressed. Her backpack was heavy. Her suitcase dragged. It was high-time she unpacked.

A wet November morning, the edge of winter. A small cafe in a suburban town. Having been soaked by the rain as she attempted to save her dignity from foul things in the kitchen, she was hunched over and shivering, cursing her mediterranean excuse of a coat. While it might serve adequately in climates used to providing: it offered little by way of protection from the elements right now. Once it dropped below 18 degrees, it was basically useless: more frivolous accessory than practical attire. Why she had brought it in the first place, escaped her. Something to do with a cute shop, a bad day and someone owing her a gift. In that sense, it had served its purpose, removing a thorn that might otherwise have festered, dragging out the matter, causing yet more pain.

But what about the coat of now? How was she supposed to navigate the mean-time: the time in the middle, the time with its own agenda?

As she bit back the tears, cursing her skin for being so thin, her heart so pathetically fragile, she was involuntarily rewound, returning kicking and screaming to where it had all begun, the reasons for the adventure rising from the grave to press against her eyelids. She had fled, running away from it all, taking her almost entirely broken and still breaking as far away as she could. It had been an act of self-preservation. That it hadn’t entirely worked out, that it had tested her in new and unanticipated ways, was something she had then had to accommodate. But she had borne it all without complaint or hesitation, resuming vertical, relocating upright, glueing back together and replacing her cracked and chipped. Was there no end to the assault? Everywhere she went, every path she took, there seemed to be a new monster. What was that all about? And did it happen to everyone or just to her? That was the question she was chewing on these days.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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One step far away

Posted on November 16, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

She’d been there for seven days and so far she’d survived. Done better, in fact, than she had imagined when envisaging it in advance from one step far away. Given the circumstances, the disruption, the different location and altered routine – a routine she stuck to, swore by and depended upon as if her life were a cup made out of the finest bone china, her routine an armoured tank to huddle inside – she was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad after all, or not nearly so bad, anyway? And anything not so bad after all or not nearly so bad anyway, was good in her books. If she was going to be bold: perhaps even better? Her doom and gloom predictions were bleak, end of the worldy, of the cut her down and slice her apart variety. She had thoroughly expected to be lying in a heap by now, catching boot heels and trainer soles and fending off umbrellas. To be upright, standing, walking even, was a miracle she couldn’t help thanking the constellations for. Maybe the misfortune that had dogged her ever since her real life dog had died had realised it was time it departed, making way in its absence for another breed of fortune to arrive; one that was bright, shiny and pleasant, a joy to have around? Maybe her dreams would come true, allowing along the way her wants, needs, hopes and goals to be both met and realised?

Ok, so it was still winter and wet, dark and cold most of the time. But it was also unseasonably mild, given that by now it would usually be freezing and the rain, although persistent, was at least intermittent and light. For England, that was unusual.

It was also unusual for her to be feeling so chirpy at this time of year and so excited about the future. She had energy and enthusiasm to spare. By all accounts, she should really be holed up inside, hiding behind the walls of an apartment or snuggled beneath the folds of a duvet, curtains drawn, lights low, music bleating softly… She hadn’t realised how much she had missed her former life – her friends, her family, her country – until she had come home from being away for a while.

Maybe in order to appreciate what you have and know what it is it does for you, you have to journey outside, venturing beyond what feels comfortable and safe to then realise in coming back that it was enough in the first place?

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The dishcloth dog

Posted on November 12, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

I have begun a new piece. It is three days young. Starting as a simple, non-challenging project – one designed to take me from A to B (with A being Mallorca and B England), a sad parting attached to a reluctant returning – it has quickly evolved, presenting me with a list of demands: a cashmere circumference, merino eyes, a mohair tongue and snowflakes of mixed synthetic origin in an array of colours: coal, chalk, slate, berry, pearl and ice… I expect glass beads and metalic sequins to follow, as well as lace edging in a yet-to-be-determined yarn. Promising to be many-layered and complex, it should help to keep me occupied for a while. And while I cannot speak for the length of that illusive allotment of time, that intangible allocation of clock and calendar digits, I can at least relax in the knowledge that it will be long enough for me to start to settle and adjust. It’s a brave new world out there (big, loud and scary) and I am a timid old thing (small, quiet and soft), it could take some practice.

Stitching a new friend out of yarn and thread

In times of upheaval, being busy is important, distracting us from what we cannot cope with or do not wish to see, acting (if you like) as the ideal wall of defence against externals that could otherwise turn around and bite. Fearing change and needing routine, this (the necessary employment) is especially true for me. Think of it as a holding agent – a boat to cling to or ride within whilst navigating a vast and choppy sea roughly the size and temperament of the Atlantic. I need my dishcloth mutt: today, tomorrow and next week.

Since arriving (four days ago for me writing, longer for those of you reading this), words have deserted me and what I have managed is painful, taking ages in gestation and demanding much in labour to be set down. I’m also unable to read, my mind resisting the page like two opposing magnets. Television works better, although only intermittently depending on what I’m trying to watch. Having been away for three years and not having watched anything at all for two of those, I am out of touch.

It was the same yesterday when I went into town (and here, I mean Windsor not London: diddy rather than hulking, slow rather than fast, outskirts rather than central). The world appears to have grown in my absence, leaping forward several decades in the course of several years, so that – walking into a bank, navigating the likes of Superdrug or Boots, attempting to connect to WiFi in a café or pub – I have no idea what to do or where to start. Even the bank has changed. What happened to the cashiers? Like Scarlet Johansen in Lost in Translation, I am totally confused. And the confusion is like a weight bearing down on me, crushing my ability to navigate.

I’m trying to stay positive and strong, placating my inner brat with all of the things it likes: hot drinks in take away cups, people-filled venues, central heating and warm clothes, quiet time, creative time, cuddles and company, upbeat music, light and fresh air, exercise, routine, sewing and yarn, plans, projects, ideas and dreams, romantic notions I choose to believe in, life after the brief diversion of here… And while it might not be the solution I am seeking or anywhere near a cure to my current malaise, it’s a start to somewhere and something and that’s good enough for now.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The Clucking of Hens

Posted on November 8, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

“There is no point in trying to suppress the babble of words and ideas that goes on in most adult brains. So if it won’t stop, let it go on as it will, and listen to it as if it were the sound of traffic or the clucking of hens.” Alan Watts

It’s my last day. My flight leaves tomorrow. I’m packed, the boxes have gone, the dog has been to the vets for pre-flight jabs. And I’ve tidied, washed, ironed and cleaned, to the extent that the house feels empty. I am no longer here.

I am lying in bed beneath a blanket writing by candlelight. In the main room, a fire burns. Outside, its raining. It has been for hours. The shift I had hoped to avoid caught me unawares, materialising without warning. It’s winter now, properly; not sometimes or some days… Still, at least I will be better prepared when I land, which is something.

I’m not sure how I feel, as I’m doing my best to avoid thinking and feeling is strictly banned. I’m scared that if I pause for long enough for it to sink in, the everything that’s happening around me (which is pretty scary and big) will rise up causing me to drown. I have a tendency to suffer from overwhelm at the best of times.

To keep the monster at bay, I drink lots of camomile tea and dose up on sedatives – all herbal, mind. I move a lot, too – all nervous energy atop impatient feet.

Looking after my dog is helping; tending her agitation, aiding my own dis-ease. What she is suffering is bad enough: she sees boxes, cases; knows something is happening to her environment, chipping away at it, but she can’t quite explain what it is. Is mummy leaving? Is daddy going on a trip? Has she done something to anger or upset? Why are things disappearing: her blanket, her bowl, her bed? I know where she is. Being in limbo is uncomfortable.

I wish I knew what was on the other side, whether I will love or loathe it. I wish I knew how long it will take, the exact length of this interlude. I wish I could have a guarantee that if I hate it, if I am unhappy, I don’t have to stay that long. I wish someone could promise me that the temperature will be favourable, that there won’t be much rain and that the sun will always shine. I wish there were answers. In their absence, I have no idea where I am, how I feel, what is happening. Like my dog, I am confused.

I reach out my hand to those around me, looking to them for comfort, only to realise too late that they are only interested in subtracting. I lend my shoulders, my arms, my breasts… while my heart endures a battering. I need to widen my circuit, balancing the flow between to and from.

Tired, drained, I shrink back, taking refuge in the one place only I can find. It’s quiet and dark. Even in a busy cafe, nothing reaches in. Safe within the void, held by the flow, I find comfort. For now, it works.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

To keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

Rebecca L. Atherton

A novel approach to needlecraft

Category Archives: pen & ink

Borrowed digits

Where it hurts

A dark hole

David’s stone

A fog shroud

Snowmen in winter

The question she was chewing on these days

One step far away

The dishcloth dog

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