Tag Archives: shaftesbury

Unto us a child is born

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imageAching, breaking, feeling fragile; the pain in my side no weaker than it was four day ago: I’m contemplating the ‘walk-in’ on Wardour Street. But I’m scared. Sick people remind me of my own mortality, and it’s not so sturdy of late. Things hurt. Others don’t work anymore. And I’ve no idea whether the hurting and the not working are permanent or temporary. Each time we move, each time I suffer a trauma or am challenged and pushed: I slide, and the slope is dark and dangerous.

Looking up, I can still see the sky: a weak hollow of blue light, diluted and empty. No clouds. No planes. No sun. Just a thin strip stretching from left to right. Some days it’s brighter, more intense, and on days like these I draw comfort from it. Some days it’s dull and dead and on these days I sink to my knees and pray, for I have no energy, no motivation, no drive, and things as simple as walking and talking tire me.

Recently, it’s been up and down, bouncing me like a yo yo on thread. Nausea creeps into my belly to sit and sip, drinking tea and stretching out, acting (for all intents) as if it owns the place – which it doesn’t but which I could be convinced to believe it does, because it is such a frequent visitor I can’t now remember when it last went away.

Sitting in church yesterday – listening to the sermon but drifting, not really there… images of past lives, past people, past things… passing through: rewinding me, reminding me; picking at threads, fingering snarls, thumbing pulls, travelling bobbles; contemplating each and every one as if it were the most intimate, infinite thing: precious, priceless… I have an epiphany. And whether it makes any difference overall, or any sense in a day or a week: the warmth and the strength are a gift. Raising limp hands, separating joined wrists, pulling reluctant arms from lazy legs, I wrap myself around that feeling as tightly and securely as I can, hoping against hope, against experience, against knowledge and thought, that it won’t ever go away.

Only it will, and the only question that holds any importance is when? For if the answer disappoints, I will be devastated.

Today I am tired and the colour of the sky unnerves me. Yesterday there was reason to celebrate, to try to feel positive and upbeat. And I guess there was a break too, from the normal way of things. But now it’s back: the pressure, the expectation, the need… and I’m struggling. Feeling useless, uninspired; doubting my ability: I look at everything I’ve done – now and then, lately and a long time ago – and it all seems so shallow and incomplete.

Doubt descends and I sink: deeper and deeper. And the slope down which I was slipping is no longer just a slope; it’s also part of the sea, and I am drowning too.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Deck the halls…

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imageIt’s Christmas Eve and I ought to be excited. I ought, also, to be calm. But I’m not. I’m restless and agitated, on edge. If I were a dog, my heckles would be up. A person: I’m all spines and spit. Like Goldolocks: nothing is right – too hot, too cold, too thick, too lumpy… too light, too dark, too full, too empty; the usual suspects disappoint and the old favourites fail.

As I move from place to place – wandering up busy streets, traipsing down deserted alleyways, past places that are decorated and places that are dark, shivering and cold because there is a sharp wind and it’s raining out: I’m aware that I’m searching for something, although I’ve no idea what. The inner child is crying. The outer adult longs for tender words. Despite spending a relaxed morning with my dog, her first outing since arriving: I am fearful, wondering how to dispel the encroaching shadow before it joins forces with my own faint line.

Tomorrow is unprepared: full of desires but empty of plans. It’s a bit like my life, which tilts forwards and backwards.

At least there will be surprises tonight – like a Hoover, a lamp and several decorations: small things that, collected, make enough of a difference to lift the place. When you can’t bear to walk on the floor because of the dust, or spend a moment longer than you have to in a room because it’s dark and empty and that depresses you: it’s time to act.

We do what we can, using what tools we have. We reach for the sky. Sometimes we touch the clouds. Big things… little things… bright things… tired things… they all count. Given the resources and the lack of ready materials, I consider the improvements a miracle.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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…and then remembered.

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imageSo there has been a development: though sadly, not of the life-changing kind. That would be radical and masculine; brutal and sharp-edged: involving movement and action, loss; the vacation of a space, familiar, for another – dark and unknown. There would be terms, conditions, requirements attached, and something cherished, left.

This is more subtle: a gentle shift; emotional perspective slanting, slipping, sliding right; sidestepping slightly to make way for something nice. And even though expected, suggested, guided and deserved: it touched me, deeply, in my heart.

The unexpected is rare and I like random romantic acts. And thoughtful presents (my favourite: homemade) are enchanted, coated with things like sugar, icing and sprinkles of winged-creature dust.

Arriving home last night – late, after Christmas shopping recovery drinks; restored and rejuvenated, energised: I discovered a grotto had come to visit my house, transforming a space which was empty and hollow into one that was full and whole. Spinning, turning, casting my eyes around: I took in a tiny tree encircled with lights, a collection of painted baubles, a red plant, crackers and strings of bulbs sitting snug upon formerly naked ledges. And while by no means perfect; less advanced than former years where the effort was magnanimous and the output large, where cookies were baked and pom-poms made, decorations knitted: it was enough to quiet the voice that resides inside and the child (me, younger) who was yearning for the usual trappings that would normally accompany such an affair. I slept like a baby, my dreams uninterrupted, free from the usual emotional collection of agitation, dismay and fear.

This morning, I still feel strong; for even though circumstances have been difficult: the move postponed, plans shelved, dreams derailed – there is reason to celebrate. We have each other. We have our health. A cold that won’t go away and an ache in my bones, a body that is exhausted and a mind that is dismayed: small things compared to the ones that others are experiencing all over the world.

Motivated, inspired, I have looked into volunteering, applying to help the homeless in my local area. Although by no means the same, I feel that events have given me a window that could, perhaps, be valuable. I can relate and empathise. And even if all I can do is listen without myself stepping in, or help to make tea and dish or clear up a meal, it’s something that wasn’t previously present, a person who stopped and saw when to the rest of the world they were invisible.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The house that Santa Claus forgot…

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Monday has lived up to its reputation and proved to be a difficult day. But what was I expecting… I knew there would be challenges at its outset and that hopes, deeply buried, would be dashed: my head told me, my heart warned me; my gut churned, upset. Maybe that’s the thorn in my side, the message I am supposed to take from my recent injury (which, as a result of an overly enthusiastic manhandling – my fault, not theirs – has resulted in a ribcage that cannot be touched)? I cannot even begin to describe the pain.

As I try to reframe the situation, pulling at the ground in search of roots that might be woken and coaxed, examining where I am and what I ought to do in order to navigate: I am surprised by the smile that has, against expectation, hijacked my mouth. From one-step removed, it’s funny. Hilarious, in fact, for I couldn’t make this stuff up. I couldn’t, even if I wanted, find it to read online. It’s far too tangled; knotted in strange places and personally attached. One thing? Possible. Several… perhaps. This many: no. Fiction would object.

I’ve read books about knitting spells into garments and tasting feelings cooked into food. I’ve watched movies about characters who have fought off monsters, survived natural disasters; faced cruel, menacing individuals and survived. But I haven’t come across a scenario where the protagonists have been attacked quite so thoroughly by all of the possible contingents that could come into play, especially not when they are trying so hard to make good things happen, taking action and leaping when previously they had been playing it safe. Gritty and grey: it wouldn’t sell.

Which begs the question: why am I attempting to document this, putting it all together into a PDF to later (hopefully) publicly print? I guess I’m hoping that my experiences will do several things; that, depending on the reader, they will advise, warn, entertain, enlighten, comfort and/or help. Worst case scenario, they will serve to remind me, holding everything that has happened and everything that will happen still, in place; remembering, in case I forget.

I woke to a mild day, released from the usual burden of layers, the need for hat and scarf. Walking into Soho, I was immediately aware of another pleasant shift: Brewer Street was empty, Dean Street was dead; cafés and restaurants, usually open, usually full, were shut. It’s been busy recently, which has made me anxious, pushing me down unfamiliar alleyways in search of peace and although my missions have been successful and my journeys enjoyable enough, I have missed walking without interruption and following a straight line: it’s the closest thing to normality and order that I have. No longer worried about bumping into and being bumped up against, I relax. Sadly, that’s where the gratitude stops: for along with public services being in short supply, businesses have also emptied out, resulting in important individuals being absent. The problem of the house – the what are we doing and where are we spending Christmas? – remains: open and empty; a stain.

Inside the agency, a battle ensues: sunk feet, strong words; sentences; explanations; lies… fists, fingers, knives. No budging. Adamant! With no authority, those in charge throw toys, preferring to take back everything (that which was wanted and that which was not, that which was promised and that which was planned, that which has been done and that which is to happen still) rather than give in completely or consider a compromise. We can’t even be escorted or get access to a key in order to inspect the work; yet we are expected to sign and be happy with that. No way… not after the last time. Once bitten: I am twice shy; sensibly fearful.

Four hours later, the dust has settled and what I suspected has indeed transpired. The mouse problem has not been addressed. The cleaning has been superficial. The light fixtures and blinds (worn, discoloured, dated) remain. Disappointed, upset, frustrated and angry; I am also glad. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t…. even if that devil (a.k.a: the other one, the one you don’t) might actually be from warmer climes. A vibrating floor, a bed with a heartbeat, fire escapes and balconies that fill up with smokers, usually at 4 am; builders outside the window staring in, living inside black blinds, a leaking sink, a malfunctioning hob, limited furniture… all preferable to a colony of four-pawed, long-tailed creatures, lurking inside the walls.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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A thorn in my side

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imageI think I have done all of my Christmas shopping, or at least all that I can do for now: there will be more later, when I have time; when the crowds have dwindled to the last few stragglers, or, perhaps, after… once the sales start. Now, though, I am free, and I feel lighter. Shopping daunts me: I worry too much. It’s not just what to get: it’s where to get it and how much to spend and whether the recipient (he, she, them…) will like it. No matter how hard I try, how much I think or how long I spend on the task: I always get it wrong; it’s the story of my life. I do it with haircuts, nail colour, food in restaurants and clothes. I do it with books and movies and magazines. I even do it with wool and beads. And when it comes to my art: invariably, I mess that up too – overworking or miss-selecting, using colours that clash, adding too much texture or weight. I did it last night on my autumn quilt and now my heart is sad. Poor rabbit… poor carrots… poor ladybird, leaf and branch…

The thorn in my side today, however, is more tangible and I am struggling to function as a result. Moving is painful; I feel broken; something isn’t right. But what do you do about the things you can’t see: can you fix a problem located beyond the reach of eyes? Massaging my side, swallowing painkillers, moving gently and slowly, trying not to touch it or anything else: I attempt to navigate through the waves of discomfort, crossing fingers that don’t believe over hands that are cynical.

The past few weeks have been tough. The past few months have been challenging. My body has suffered while my mind has endured. Standing in the middle of the road; watching cars and buses, bikes and taxis: I deliberate over how much more I can take. We are still living in limbo. We are still sleeping on the floor – if what we are doing can be described as that. I have a cold that won’t disappear and I am cold most of the time. I am also exhausted. I know this because I long to lie down for days, long to lie down and never wake, craving horizontal more than I desire any other position I could pick were any others on offer. I cannot speak. I cannot navigate. I confuse my left and right. Sticking to the tried and tested, clinging to familiar friends: I manage by keeping it simple and small.

But what will become of me next week? And how will I find the strength to pack and move on Tuesday when we are supposed to be leaving our home-sweet-hell in favour of a new apartment? And what will I do if tomorrow we find out we aren’t moving yet and have to stay where we are instead, abandoning all hopes of having a relaxed Christmas; accepting, instead, a poor substitute lacking furniture, belongings, decorations and love? There are too many things in the pot and I am no longer managing. Like a snail, I need my house. And I don’t care if it’s a temporary house or a borrowed house or a house that actually belongs to me: I just need a place to call home that I can return to and relax in when I need to stop. Take away all of my creature comforts, suspend me in between here and there; poke me, prod me, push me, punch me, and I unravel. As the tail of thread lengthens and the length knots and snags, I start to wonder if, when I finally come to catch it, it can be untangled and rewound .

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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

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