Tag Archives: connections

Yearning for Cheerleaders

I could do with some encouraging words right now. For a whole variety of reasons, my writing has almost ground to a halt in the past twelve months. What happens to turn something that brought so much joy, that seemed so easy to do, turn into something you almost fear doing, or at best, use every possible excuse not to do? I’m wondering if, in my case, it’s fear of failure.

I am my own worst enemy.  I don’t need anyone else to offer me criticism. I have perfected the art of doing it for myself, thank you very much. The problem being that my criticism is often rather irrational. Voices in my own head drown out others in the ‘real world’ with cries of “There’s no point, you know, it’s never going to get you anywhere”; “You’re too old to try something new”; “Who’s interested in what you’ve got to say?” Of course, sitting at the computer, hearing these words, when there is important stuff to do like walking the dog, washing, gardening, shopping or even (I must be desperate to escape!) ironing! – it’s easy to take them on and walk away. Just today, I tell myself – then the day become several, then a week, a month and suddenly a year is slipping by. And they do go by faster as you get older, don’t let anyone tell you differently! Time speeds up with age.

I was checked by an invoice for the annual payment on my website. Should I continue with this futile enterprise? Then, I hear another voice of my own – one that has been listening to words of truth. Words from the Big Book, words from the Father:

I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me

(Philippians 4:13, NKJV)

You see, I’m not alone and I don’t need to battle on in my own strength. I have my ‘great encourager’ by my side always and he is my source of strength; I don’t have resources of my own, they come from him. I’m still not sure why it took so long for me to tune into that voice and those words, which I know so well, but I’m glad I did. So here I am – back at the computer. Heeding also the helpful words of husband John, “Just go and write”

“But what if I can’t?”

“Then pray”

Oh yes, of course! Silly me! I forgot I could do that. Sarcastic jest apart, and don’t let him know this, but he is right. Talking things over with Jesus is so very necessary. He does understand what it’s like to be in a quandary and knows we often feel useless.

On the way to my study I pick up a book I’ve read over the summer. By Anita Shreve, “A Wedding in December”. Flicking through the pages I read this:

Melissa looked away. There would always be, Bridget knew, a fierce loyalty to the mother that Bridget would not interfere with. A quality one could only admire……..”How are you feeling?” the girl asked.

Bridget thought a minute. She took a sip of coffee. She decided to tell Melissa the truth, unedited.

She worried about the tentacles of the star shape, she told the girl. She had a 50 percent chance of a recurrence, the correct term for the cancer’s return. If it did return, it would show up in the bones or the brain or the liver. She hoped to make it until Matt was Melissa’s age. This was the bargain she had more or less made with God: let Matt get to twenty, and  then you can do whatever you want with me. One could never really use the word “cure. One had to think of oneself as “a work in progress”

All this she told Melissa, who seemed startled at times by some of the revelations, but who appeared to take it in with some concern. She was, Bridget thought, the perfect person in whom to confide. A woman who might want the information but who would remain essentially detached.

“That answer you gave last night at dinner,” Bridget said, “about the Arab men on the plane. I thought it was the best at the table”

Melissa tilted her head. She would know, Bridget thought, that Bridget meant what she said, that she was not pandering, that a woman who had confessed being afraid of a recurrence in the bones might be expected to tell the truth.

We all of us need people in our lives who will speak the truth, but do so kindly and we need those who will listen to our stories, our pains our fears, who show concern but don’t flinch away from what we share, be it irrational or totally credible.Facebook-20150916-024821

We need people to speak words of encouragement to us and to cheer us on. Like our wonderful husbands did for us when we took on 100k across the Yorkshire Dales! For our part, we should desire to be people who use words to edify others. There are enough  in the world  already who will use words to destroy confidence and bring others down, let’s use ours to show grace and and bring joy.

 Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. (Ephesians 4:29)

Now, where was I up to with that book?

(©) Beverley Jepson-Playle 02/09/2016

Sleep Walking Through Life

IMG_0739“How on earth did I get here?” You know the scary thought I mean, don’t you? You’ll sometimes get it when you’re driving – which is quite possibly the scariest time of all to have it. You’ll be bowling along in your car, thinking you’re taking note of traffic, hazards, places along the way and suddenly you look around and think. “What?!! I’m here! But how?” And you panic , ‘Did I go through lights?’,  ‘Have I been speeding?’ It’s as though a bit of your mind had disengaged from the rest of it – like you’ve been driving on autopilot. Coming to awareness pulls you up so sharply you start to drive in a very precise way, taking note of everything around you and making doubly sure you keep to the limit and stop at every red light. You wipe your palms down and calm your breathing.  Scary!

I can’t think what that process is called, but it’s happened a few times to me, while driving and also while walking – often in busy town centres. But it happens in life too. You get to a point and you have that scary thought, “What brought me to this place” As though you don’t recall the route you took, or you can’t recall the reasons you had for making certain decisions that led you to arrive at this point – this job; this house you live in; this marriage.  As though you have been sleep-walking and suddenly you wake up and find yourself in a place you don’t recognise.  Scarier still, you find you no longer recognise the person you have become. ‘Who is this person standing in this supermarket buying this food?’

Lady feels like this.  ( “Lady’s Dreaming”. by Tobias Woolff) As the story opens, she fights to stay awake in a hot, airless car, driven by her husband.  ‘Lady’s suffocating”. Seems to me that might be a metaphor for her life – if only she could have stayed awake, she might have noticed where she was going, but she can’t have the window open, “because the air blowing into the car bothers his eyes”. Not that he’d make a fuss, he’s a nice man, “never a mean motive”. It’s an “effort of will” to keep her eyes open now – it’s so hot, it’s almost like having a fever. In this strange place – on the edge of sleep, but skirting consciousness, she begins to see more “things more distinct and familiar”. Is she coming to a place pf greater awareness now?

We learn about Robert, her husband, from her thoughts. “Tells the most boring stories. Just lethal”. Says so much. Maybe it’s the storyteller within me, but those short lines had me – I couldn’t like him from that point on! He’s a man who considers all his words. He’s careful. Orderly. He is considerate. Before the second page I find myself wanting to scream. No wonder Lady wants to stay asleep. Even though he is desperate for her to stay awake. He likes to say her name. “Shut her up in her name”. You can do that with someone. Make them a prisoner to what you say they are. He loves her name – she is what she is called. And he traps her there. Now it seems she can’t move away from it. He has defined her and curtailed her existence. She’s trapped.

He tried to call her to wakefulness but, “Sorry, sir, Lady’s gone”. Where to? “She’s back home”. Lady has escaped down the years back to a place with her mother and sisters. She’s waiting for Robert, the young soldier and her beau then, to come, but also “not waiting”. Why is that? Because the three of them on that porch are actually complete as a unit. They are at ease with other, joking and teasing each other. “Sufficient unto themselves. Nobody has to come”.

Robert is on his way to her though. Now we see him as a thoughtful man, who learns poetry and recites to her, although she laughs at that. He believes he needs to get her away from that family “among sensible people who don’t think everything’s a joke.” Where she can become the very Lady she is named for.  This young woman is so very different to the girl his family would choose for him. This washis rebellion, though it’s a subconscious one. But he doesn’t believe that you just fall in love – that’s something more purposeful, “you master your choices”. He speculates nervously about what his father will think; of her “rawness” and the fact she is “spoiled and willful and half wild”. He is so afraid that he is on his way to end the relationship. It seems he has been sleep-walking and has shocked himself when he wakes up and finds himself in this place.  “He’ll tell Lady anything except the truth, which is that he’s ashamed to have picked her to use against his father”. How could he? Having met him in Lady’s thoughts earlier, I’m now really angry at this guy. So he was going to use her to beat his father over the head with, was he? ‘You can’t make me choose the sort of woman you’d like for me, Dad, I can have anyone I like and if I want trash, as you would say, then I will have trash!’ I don’t like the man and I like his father even less.

But wait, nothing is ever so simple. Maybe choosing him is her own personal act of rebellion? Maybe she wanted out of this place more than she might admit? Or is that she actually does love him? That young girl goes to meet her young man, the one resolved to break her heart now. He sees her and tastes in his mouth the sweetness of her, even as she stands at a distance from her. It dissolves his intention and “he takes the steps as if he means to devour her”.

As she revisits this place of her youth, the girl she was is there before her, but neither of them see that early hesitation of his.  Instead this older self wants to call to the young girl, “This man is not for you. He will patiently school you half to death”. Would our younger selves ever take any notice of our older, wiser selves though? The young girl won’t listen; she is moving towards her beau even as Lady is dreaming. Oh the irony that his earlier resolve to leave her would actually have saved her from being locked in this prison he has made for her! Instead it is her sweet freshness; her rawness and her wildness that melts his heart, lulls him back into his own sleepy state and washes away his previous purpose. He is smitten. But over the years, the very charm that drew in has been smothered and now her only escape is to pretend to sleep.

We fall in love with who we see and their very differences draws us to them. Do they stay appealing? Or do we want them to conform to what we had imagined we really wanted? Do we want to be lifted from our sleepy states and awakened to something richer and wilder? Or will we try to tame the ones we love so that they fit the lives we think we need to fit?

 

 

Take Me Back Down the Years

Facebook-20150511-115544This is a picture of me taken when I was probably nine or ten years old. My auntie Janet found it for me and I am fascinated by it. You see, I recognise myself in that picture. I knew it was me, before anyone confirmed it. I see my ‘little self’ there in that chair and although I can’t actually remember the moment it was taken I immediately connect with her – that little me-girl – and the things that were going on in her life back then – down the years.

It was taken in the back garden of my grandmother’s house. I can smell the roses and see the flamboyant bright colours of the dahlias and the chrysanthemums. In later years there would be a fish pond in the spot where I am sitting. Before me, off camera, are two greenhouses and if I get up from that chair I can go in, push open the door (that is quite stiff) and feel the warmth and inhale the sweet scent of tomatoes and cucumbers and lettuces. I can hear my grandma’s voice from the kitchen, just behind me, calling me in and smell the cakes baking. I can taste the sugar on my tongue as I lick the mixture from the wooden spoon that she lets me use to scrape the bowl. I can run down the garden and tell my granddad to come on in for his cup of tea – and I can see him straighten up, put a hand to his back, roll his eyes, take his huge handkerchief from his pocket and blow his nose. “I’m on my way” he says and I run back and tell Gran. “Yes and so is bloody Christmas”, she says.

Then I’m standing on a stool shelling the peas he’s brought in and slipping as many as I can into my mouth – the green freshness of the taste delighting me – before she can see me and catch me round the ears with her damp tea towel.

I am there in the garden and in the kitchen of the place where so much of my childhood was played out. Where I learned to play cribbage at the age of 5, whilst recovering from measles; where I snuggled into the huge bosom of the grandmother who taught me outrageously bawdy songs and told me wonderful stories.

The chair I am sitting on was called by my Uncle Bill ‘the Director’s chair’ – she ruled the roost all right and though many argued with her, she would generally have the last word. I am sitting in that chair and wouldn’t have dared if she’d been around, unless I was ill and I remember then I had been. I’d had my appendix out and had gone, after the operation to stay there, while the rest of my family went on holiday. Clearly the reason for my rather sad little face! Bless my little cotton socks.

I could weep for that girl and all she would face but I could also tell her – “It will be fine; you’ll come through. Life will be good for you.” But today when I look at her, I’d like to simply go back and sit with her for a while; not speaking – just to keep her company and enjoy the scent of the roses and the colours of the dahlias. To taste again those cakes, those peas and feel the warmth of the greenhouse and the soft bosom of my grandmother. I feel a tear slide down my cheek for those moments and want to be there. It won’t last – this feeling – I’ll stay where I am in my present and make a coffee, write some more, hang out the washing or go shopping – just get on with my 57 year old life.

I’m reminded of D H Lawrence’s “The Piano”

SOFTLY, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

 

In spite of myself, the insidious mastr’y of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cozy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

 

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour

With the great black piano apassionato.

The glamour of childhood days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

See the beautiful way the poet talks of ‘betrays me back’. As if those memories have stolen into his present and given him away – revealed him to be that one he has denied himself to be. ‘The heart of me weeps to belong’ – that was exactly what I felt as I looked at little me in the picture – I wanted to climb back into that time and just be there. “My manhood is cast down in the flood of remembrance” – I couldn’t have thought of that line but it speaks precisely of what we often want to do. Just lay down who we have become – these grown up selves; these adults who have to be so responsible – and let the memories flow over us and take us back, back to the times we remember as being happy or even just without the cares we have now.

It isn’t that we want to stay there – I don’t think it is that. It’s not escapism – it’s about making connections to strengthen our being now, where we are. I’ve just finished reading “The Invention of Wings” by Sue Monk Kidd. It’s a compelling but painful story of two women – Sarah, the daughter of a judge and cotton plantation owner in Charleston, and Handful, the slave she was given on her eleventh birthday – and the relationship they forged between them. Sarah Grimke was one of the most famous of America’s abolitionist eventually. Handful’s mother, Charlotte, spends most of her life trying to be free and suffers terribly for it. She is an excellent needle worker and quilter and sews pictures of her life and her daughter’s into a story quilt she bequeaths to Handful, telling her of all the hurt and pain she has endured; the beatings, the brandings, the humiliations. She urges Handful to continue to try and get free but to always remember who she is and where she has come from; all she has experiences. “If you don’t know where you’re going, you should know where you come from”, the slaves would sing. The stories of their lives connected them and grounded them so that they could hold on to an identity that was significant and of value.

This is about knowing where we have come from, so we can know our own starting points, tell our own stories and are able to thread those pieces together to join us to where we are now. Of course, we will cry for those times when we feel ourselves overwhelmed with longing – for that was the place we came from – the first chapters of our story and our present will make little sense if we don’t have that place to turn back to. We are richer and stronger when we know our own stories.