High Alert


Pressing anxious paws against my lower arm,
she marks my skin,
3kg of stiletto feet.

Easily startled, nerves like gum,
she twitches like a bird:
permanent fight or flight.

Even asleep, she is awake
and I worry:
what does this do to her?

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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Directions of work still to do


I’m exhausted today: no energy, no strength. After a morning in denial, I actually went back to bed – me, the obsessive taskmaster who never lets slip, the iron-fisted diplomaterian who demands and expects certain results, felled by external forces involuntarily imbibed. I’m learning, obviously: gradually developing the ability to be more personally kind, to allow what’s needed a space to rest; listening, sensing, feeling after so long in denial. And it felt nice, curling up with my dog: we shared energy, my hand on her side, her paws around my arm.

As I napped, drifting in and out, the past passed through my mind and my body reacted, various twitches and tremors lifting this, shaking that… Observing was a kind of story: directions of work still to do; each separate inner and outer part tugging me back to an event, an unresolved memory.

A friend suggested TRE (trauma release exercises), which resonated. And now I realise that this is why my back, arms, neck, shoulders, legs, hands and feet ache. It fits: so much has happened, not only in the last few years but also over the course of my life. The only question, and it’s always been the burning one, is will I have time to lift it in order to travel my mind, body and soul to the destination I desire?

The clock ticks…
 
Click here to read about my experience with TRE.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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A dark-winged moth

Like a dark-winged moth
coveting a flame that will surely kill her,
she sits just inches from the light –
a plastic monument
similar in shape to London’s Gerkin,
only smaller and many miles from the Thames.

The last time she went there,
London’s Southbank,
was years ago.
The closest she’s been since was dinner in Eton:
same river, different town;
an hour from the capital.

She wonders how much it has changed
and if it has missed her?
She wonders if any of her friends still live there
and which of them remember her when she did if they do?
She wonders when she will go back and if she ever will,
why she would want to?

She wonders why she wonders about things so much
when wondering only creates problems
she has no idea how to solve?
Wondering this,
she decides to stop;
only it’s not that simple,

and somehow,
wondering about the little things,
the trivialities,
helps stop her from thinking too much
about the things that really matter,
like family and friendship and love.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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For the love of Chi

IMG_6018I keep harping on about my chihuahua, Miabella and of the importance of her to my work. And it occurred to me that she really ought to have her own page; that it wasn’t fair otherwise. So this is Mia’s personal page.

Here I will post doggy anecdotes, funny chihuahua happenstances and cute and cuddly images. Be sure to check back often to keep up. And, if you happen to have a chihuahua of your own, or any four-legged companion for that matter (because I love all animals as a rule, apart from, perhaps, the creepy ones), feel free to send me your stories and photos. Us animal lovers are all the same: mad about our cuddly counterparts.

Photo Journal:

Six weeks old

8 weeks: the prettiest eyes

I’ve only had Mia for two weeks. She is a scant eight-weeks-old today. She was a only six weeks when I got her. Too early, really, but the breeder told me it was ok. It was only afterwards that I found out she should have stayed with her mother for at least another fourteen days. Poor thing: she misses her and cries at night. Still, she is instantly at home in my two-up, two-down Victorian semi in Sevenoaks (Kent, England) and we immediately become inseparable; a state we have maintained ever since.

Intended to help see me through a bereavement, that of my beloved grandmother (whom I loved deeply and admired just as much): she is my sole focus, the equivalent of a comfort blanket to my soul.

7 weeks old

7 weeks: a proper little cub

Ok, so she’s already being spoilt rotten and immediately has three beds (Cath Kidston, because I’m obsessed), and that’s just the official ones. On top of that, she has a bed in a drawer at my desk (because she likes to sit near me and cries when I put her on the floor), a space in my bed for afternoon reading and snoozing (very important stuff: I do my best thinking here), a corner of the main sofa for evening TV (we watch two hours: A place in the sun and an American series – Gossip Girl, Grey’s Anatomy, Ghost Whisperer, Dexter, Lost, 24, etc…) and a blanket under the kitchen table for when her elder(s) are at dinner (although in all honesty, she prefers my lap and usually wins).

I have also recently discovered the website Pet London and gone mad. This is like the cutest shop I have even seen. It’s positively dangerous. Already, I’ve spent too much. She has chihuahua-shaped everything: chew toys, rope toys, plush toys, treats, etc… A baby blue cashmere jumper, a pale blue suede lead with tiny yellow ducks and Swarovski diamantés and a matching collar. Next, I’m planning a tartan winter coat with white fur trimming, a bedtime t-shirt, and several jumpers and dresses, all of which I have already picked and added to my list. The rest of the world, meanwhile, thinks I have gone mad. And quite rightly so.

About a year old

1 year: beneath the duvet

Bed is Mia’s favourite place, so long as it’s mine and not hers. She likes nothing better than to lord it up on the mattress, surveying the carpet kingdom below. Every afternoon she snuggles up in the crook of my arm while I read, both of us deliriously happy.

After having survived the first nine months, which were a shock to my system never having had a puppy before and being quite unprepared for the amount of work involved, I am truly a ‘plus one’ and loving it. She is, I have decided, my surrogate child. And for now, if not forever, the option I prefer. Real babies are a decision for the future with tangled threads attached. I’m not sure if I am strong enough, well enough or brave enough to go there, or if I have the time to get there before that decision is made for me.

Five years old, same day

5 years: a lap of luxury

Mia likes to travel in style. None of that crate business or belt on the back seat business for her. She insists upon the front and my lap. And she has to be lying in exactly the right position or she’s not happy: sprawled directly across me; her head on one arm, her bottom on the other. Great for her. Slightly uncomfortable for me, especially when I am supposed to be knitting.

Five years old

Same age, day, car, lap

Just before we park up and disembark at one of our favourite morning haunts. Today my desk is a Mallorcan café in Port Adriano, to the west of the island. The view, a panorama of expensive boats. Some are as big as villages. Some have heliports on top. All have staff. I’ve never seen anything like it before, even in St. Tropez.

Mia's favourite place in the world, beside my lap.

Mia’s favourite place in the world, beside my lap.

This is Mia’s bed, or her main one anyway. She actually has a few. One is a suedo-armchair meant for toddlers, which she sits in like a throne. One is a regular pillow covered in a cashmere jumper that, accidentally for me because I loved it, shrank in the wash. Another is her crate, which Mia loves and insists upon, regardless of all attempts to remove it. This is actually where she sleeps (her choice) and where she rests when I go out (also her choice). And there are her two Cath Kidston beds, my favourites, currently slumbering in storage.

Looking serene and regal on my lap...

Looking like butter wouldn’t melt…

Mia likes to come out with me as often as she can, sleeping quietly on my lap while I work. As a breed, chihuahua’s sleep a lot: around 18 hours a day. I used to worry about this until I researched it. Now I understand it is her choice: she is a creature of whim and does what, in the moment, feels right. When she’s not sleeping, she’s running around at 100 m.p.h or licking something.

...but unable to keep her eyes open for long. Oh to be a chihuahua

…but unable to keep it up

This photo and the one above it were taken in Gibson, one of my favourite cafés. I love it for the art on the walls, the avante-guarde furniture, the people it employs and the music they play. Situated in the centre of Palma, it is right in the heart of where it is all happening. A great place for watching the world go by.

Pretty in Pink

Pretty in Pink

Another day, another day trip, this time to a nearby village called Binnisalem to meet with friends for coffee. Because it was such a lovely hot day, we sat outside. While the grown-ups talked about boring grown-up stuff, Mia entertained herself attempting to intimidate a Doberman. Typically, the minute it advanced, fed up with being bullied by a scrap, she hid behind my feet, leaving me to deal with the the fallout. Luckily, there was a kindly owner at hand to save the day and the only damage was to my dignity.

• Because I am not the only doting dog owner and because I am in good company, some of it distinguished, I have assembled a collection of dog-related quotes. Click here to read them and feel free to email me with your own favourites.

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Invisible Clouds – poetry

image

On the terrace, I watch the moon get swallowed and then spat out,
passing through the belly of invisible clouds.
It’s late and the sky is black.

Overhead, a plane roars,
briefly drowning out the drone of crickets.
The wind stirs, making several twigs snap.

Inside, ants surround the sink,
descending on crumbs
I forgot to clean up.

Their perceptivity fascinates me,
but I am tired
of murdering tiny creatures.

I do not understand this place –
the moon, the crickets, the ants:
acting on impulse, driven by instinct.

Subject to the whim of emotion,
ruled by my own dark tides:
I covet their simple lives.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Invisible Clouds – prose

image

On the terrace, I watch the moon get swallowed and then spat out, passing through the belly of invisible clouds. It’s late and the sky is black.

Overhead, a plane roars, briefly drowning out the drone of crickets. The wind stirs, making several twigs snap.

Inside, ants surround the sink, descending on crumbs I forgot to clean up. Their perceptivity fascinates me, but I am tired of murdering tiny creatures.

I do not understand this place – the moon, the crickets, the ants: acting on impulse, driven by instinct. Subject to the whim of emotion, ruled by my own dark tides: I covet their simple lives.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Yesterday

image

A series of overcast days has reminded me how important the weather is, how much I value the sun; how deeply I loathe the winter, the accompanying cold and rain. With the decline, I’ve felt my mood plummet, matching the shift point for point. I cast my mind back over the past few months: the light, the heat – and forgive the intensity of it; even the nights when I couldn’t sleep, the mornings when the closeness of it was oppressive, hard to bear. Better that than this. Better that than me sat here shivering, struggling to warm up, cold in August) of all things.

Claustrophobia descends, settling around my body like a dense cloud: a fog I cannot see through. Hiding in my room, I seek the comfort of literature, curling my mind into the words as I curl my body into a blanket. I sip ginger and camomile tea against a backdrop of white: walls that are still, even after over a year of living here inhabiting this space, waiting to be decorated; the reluctance to put down roots, to claim my territory, to settle – here, anywhere – is evident.

I question my resistance, the reason for it, attempting to list the benefits. Footloose and fancy-free seem to have become my allies. Little and nothing my mantra. It’s all a bit too zen and a lot too modern. I’ve never been minimalistic. In England, my home was filled with personal effects; the space was a reflection of me. Fabric birds hung from painted ceilings. Paper butterflies clung to knitted plants. China ornaments talked to tin toys. Picture frames reclined in alcoves and rested on shelves. Books lined walls, creating temporary tables on polished floors. Paintings, mostly by me, although some by my friends, hung everywhere. I belonged there: it was my nest. Here, it’s more like someone else’s space, my being here borrowing.

I decide that I need to make more of an effort and that I need to work harder on finding my happiness within. This becomes increasingly important as August disappears, each day passing bringing me closer to autumn and the start of everything closing and emptying, shutting down. The tourists will leave, the hotels will close, towns will turn into shells. Unlike other places: there is only life here for half of the year. I dislike that, the isolation that prevails. It is hard enough to navigate my own rocky terain, without also having to deal with the external. I wonder if there is anywhere in the world that suits me; if there is such a thing as an everyday sunshine place? No longer convinced; I still choose to believe. For to give up hope, to abandon the dream, is tantamount to giving up and abandoning everything: my writing, my art, my desire to be something more, my pursuit of the kind of happiness that resides inside myself.

Tired of thinking, I let my eyes close and surrender myself to sleep.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Trapped until summoned

imageThe pain attacks my head,
sticking my eyes with needles,
making a cushion out of me.

My heart pounds,
my stomach lurches,
my throat becomes a summer meadow.
My feet want to stay still
but can’t stop moving.

Trapped inside,
glued to a chair by my dog,
waiting on him,
I have no option but to remain where I am until summoned,
staring at my phone,
willing it to ring.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Yesterday’s desire. Tomorrow’s heartache.

image

Arriving at the beginning, she feels frustrated. How many times has she travelled this way, circling the exact same landscape, weaving in and out of similar trees, meeting and greeting familiar people? Despite having lost count, she knows it is too many. Only a fool would keep repeating the same mistakes, failing to learn, not just from what has already been, but what has been and been despised.

Feeling the twist of loss, she rushes cobbled pavements, ignoring the blade in her foot and the furnace that surrounds her, drawn on by the possibility that life will call her bluff and people surprise her. She knows her wish is futile, her hope naïve, but she continues to dream regardless. A romantic soul with a lonely heart, she always looks on the bright side, attributing to events the benefit. Only when it comes to the weather, which belongs to another being far greater than she, does she doubt. Dreaming is what she excels at, what spurs her on, what allows her to continue, even in the face of it.

She arrives in a puddle of heat, immediately losing half of her dignity to the floor beneath her feet. The other half following, the moment she opens her mouth. An inconclusive reply in her mother tongue, a tongue different to that indigenous to here, further proving just how terrible her grasp of the language is; although she was understood, which must (surely) count for something. It does, doesn’t it? The important thing is that she tried and that she keeps on trying, like with her dreams. At some point the world will feel sorry for her and grant her her reward. She waits, her hands prostrate.

The bathroom, the scene of the crime, is empty. Slowly, she peels open the door, steps inside, catches the light, disturbing a band of neon overhead. To her surprise, her heart’s desire is exactly where she left it, looking forlorn, face to the wall. She snatches it up, lifts it to her mouth, gently kisses it, welcoming it home; then presses it to her breast, where it fits exactly: the final piece of a complicated puzzle.

Returning to the threefold space, a space functioning as entrance, centre and exit, too many jobs for anything so humble to do with any real success, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling, her lips curved, she expresses her thanks. In the city centre, finding anything that has been left, forgotten or mislaid is unusual, unless that thing belongs to another and is part of their heart’s ache. She decides she must have a guardian angel after all and makes a note to correct her parents, who harbour more formal views. That means that God does exist, the Tooth Fairy is real, and elves can and often do live amongst the flowers and the plants at the bottom of the garden. Now isn’t that so much nicer than worshipping the shrine of insignificance, holding fast to the belief that we are all alone?

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Super Moon

image

Once every thirteen months
the moon is uncharacteristically large,
the circumference of its orb almost threatening,
its glow, suffused with orange, demon-like.
Typical, then, that my eyes look up to a cloud-choked sky,
bereft even of the smallest hint of light.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

image

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