Butterflies

It is quite raw, so please bear with me and apologies if it is awful, but here is a thing what I wrote.

The girl loved to run and play with her friends. She was still little and knew the simple joy of the sun, the wind and the falling of a leaf. She ran amongst the others every day, through the meadow and down to the woods. She played in the streams, climbed in the trees and looked beneath the rocks. But mostly the girl ran alongside her friend’s, arms wide, mouth open, enthralled by the world.

One day however the girl and her friends came to a dark place, a place they hadn’t been before. The air here was cool but the girl didn’t like the place and sweat prick her skin despite the chill. The air here was damp and stale, but the girl’s throat felt dry and tight. The light was not dappled and playful here, it was dark and uninviting, the girl felt a fluttering, churning in her stomach.  The children stood together, grouped tight, suddenly there was a flash of yellow and they scattered, running again. This time with purpose towards the light and airy places of the world, as fast as their little legs would carry them.

The girl forgot about the dark place and played until the sun started to slip from the sky, one by one the children’s mothers called them home. As the girl turned to shut the door on the world and join the warm, laughter of her family the sky flashed yellow as the sun finished its descent. Suddenly the girl felt a familiar churning, turning in her tummy. Her mother held her and smoothed her hair and soon she was absorbed in family fun, despite there being a funny in her tummy.

The next morning the girl leapt form bed ready to run and play with her friends, but before she could go any further she was pulled back by a tightness in her belly. Her mother smoothed her hair, held her and rocked her and made her a simple porridge to sooth her, but nothing helped. So the girl and her mother went to town to visit the doctor.

The doctor was gruff and grey with a flash of yellow in his eyes. He growled and grumbled at the fuss he was presented with. He told the girl’s mother not to let her eat berries in the wood with her rambunctious friends. He prescribed plenty of rest and sent the girl home to bed.

The girl lay under cool sheets, sipping ice water and listening to her friends run through the meadow, the warmth of the summer sun warming their backs and pushing them toward the cool relief of the woods. The girl missed her friends, but whenever she tried to rise her tummy tightened and ached. Her mother brought her herbal teas to calm and clear her pain but to no avail. Eventually the sun was sinking once again to its nightly slumber. The girl to tried to sleep, but it was a fitful and restless affair.

The next day the girl awoke to find her stomach full and round, reaching out to the world without her, but tender to the touch. Once again the girl and her mother drove to town and visited the gnarled and growling doctor. Even this grumpy, grumbler was perplexed by the girls distorted, double in size, belly pushing her shirt forward. So with more moaning he sent her off to the next town with the big clinic.

The town was big, bigger than the girl could have imagined, the clinic was white and bright, too bright. It was not bright like her airy meadow, despite its brilliance it loomed. The girl held her mother’s hand as they made their way through the corridors, and her troublesome tum, tumbled and twisted with every turn.

The doctors in the clinic were kind but closed, umming and ahhing and looking at her this way and that. The girl held her mother’s hand and tried to think of her meadow, of her wood, of the running streams, the high trees and the low rocks. All that happened though was her stomach began to ache, dull and low. The girl bit her lip and tried not to cry out, she begged her mother to take her home but the doctors shook their heads and made their notes. She was not going home; instead she would have to stay at the giant, white clinic with its lights so bright. She would be prodded and poked, tested and touched, eventually being allowed to sleep, though it was a sleep more fitfully than ever, even with her mother’s protective arm so close by.

On the second day at the clinic the cool and collected staff seemed to be hot under the collar. The girl’s tummy was by now so big and baleful that she struggled to focus on their rambling, ruminations. The doctors and the nurses, the students and the consultants looked and tutted. They scratched their heads, they scratched their beards and they scratched around for ideas. Then a lady doctor stepped forward and said “it’s no use, we need to see what’s inside”. They rushed and they hurried and they got things ready and before the girl could prepare herself the time had come.

The room was hushed; the lady doctor stepped forward with the scalpel raised high. With flick of her wrist and a flash of yellow in her eyes, she made the incision. The girl listened for her scream, but instead came a sigh and from in her insides, fluttered hundreds of butterflies.

The girl soon recover and before very long was back running and playing with all of her chums. If there is anything we can learn from the girl in the woods, don’t run with your mouth open, you never know what you’ll catch.  

Quit it

"Complete abstinence is easier than perfect moderation." - Saint Augustine

Every year I give chocolate up for Lent and every year I get endlessly asked why, get opinions proffered on the stupidity of giving things up, and comments about how "you don't need to give it up anyway!". I often get made to feel like some sort of social pariah, either for choosing to observe a 'religious' tradition, or for having enough will power to give something up. 

I know Lent is a religious symbol, I know a lot of people think it is outdated and irrelevant, I'm not particularly religious. However I was schooled at a Catholic institution and it was fine. I never felt pressured to believe, or to join in if I didn't want to. For me a Catholic education was one of interesting stories, comforting traditions and friendly faces. The only negativity I experienced was from the academic side of school, not the pastoral, religious side. So for me I have positive associations with the traditions and rituals of Catholicism.  

It is not so much observing a religious tradition for me, as continuing a tradition of childhood. It feels like an important part of the passing year. Given my relationship with time it is hardly surprising it holds significance. That bit is a no brainer for me. 

What about the validity of giving something up, or whether you need to give it up. Do I NEED to give up chocolate? Nope. I am not over-weight and I would imagine statistically the likelihood of me getting big again is probably lower then for many people. The amount of chocolate I do consume probably doesn't do me much harm physically, so I am fine. 

It isn't about my physical health though. It's about my mental health. I have an addictive personality and I am a control freak. So maybe it is good for me to manage my addictive urges, maybe it is bad for me to support my controlling ones. What I do know is, it is necessary to help me move through my year and stay safe. 

At the end of the day why I chose to give something up for Lent isn't really important. What is a shame, is that I feel I have to defend it. It is a complex thing, it feeds part of my story which is clam and nurturing, it also feeds part of it that's more challenging. For those asking remember, curiosity is one thing, derision is something else. 

 

Condition or Compulsion

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” ― Maya Angelou

Flash fiction or forced fiction. Is there any point in forcing writing if it won't come. I am undecided.

I know that to get the words to flow you have to turn on the tap, but what if all that comes out is brown and cloudy. Is it worth leaving it running in the hope that it'll run clear, when does the point come that you need to give up and go run an errand or visit a friend whilst you wait for the problem to rectify itself.

I am struggling at the moment to get the words to flow. I'm stuck between the feeling that there is something there, something that is at least good enough to satisfy me, and the feeling that I am just not that articulate and it doesn't matter how much I persevere nothing will ever be quite enough.

I guess at the end of the day writing for me is a compulsion. I can't get it out of my head. I have a vein of creative desire which I can't satisfy any other way. If I sing, ears bleed, if I paint, eyes cross and if I dance, it ends in tears. I'm not saying I can write well, but I can do it without damaging anyone. Reading this is your choice.

So whether I leave the tap running or give it a while is still up in the air, maybe I'll have another cup of tea while I decide.

Fit to work

"One out of four people in this country is mentally unbalanced. Think of your three closes friends; if they seem OK, then you're the one." - Ann Landers

I am contemplating going back to work. I don't want to go, but I really should. My job isn't that bad, I am sure someone would love it. Unfortunately it's just not me. The people I work with are lovely I couldn't wish for better colleges. Although jokes when the heating is off, again, don't always go down that well.

I've been off for a fortnight, viral exhaustion. Get a virus, add a bunch of emotional stressors, lack of sleep, bad eating and boom you find yourself whacked out. It's not just that though.

I'm being stalked by the black dog and lately he's been hanging around, not for a game of fetch. I wish I could put my finger on what attracted his attention, but that's the problem isn't it. If the cause was obvious, the symptoms would be much easier to deal with.

I am lucky, I have a great counselor, an amazing family, fantastic friends. I know that balanced food, sleep, exercise are important. Sometimes though it doesn't matter how hard you fight, how hard you try, it still creeps up on you. Drags you down.

So I am contemplating going back to work, but I am nervous. I am nervous about adding something extra to my week. I am nervous about where black dog might lead me, who I might become. 

Home, Sweet (?) Home

"A house is not a home unless it contains food and fire for the mind as well as the body." - Benjamin Franklin

I'm fairly sure I have had a rant about this before, but it's bugging me again. Why does everyone make being an adult look like it is easy when this is clearly lies?

Lemons, it was lemons that really got me today. How is it that at my parents my mum always have lemon, they never go bad, and I am fairly sure she doesn't use them for anything. Am I being fooled, are they fake? I am sure I have used them for baking before, so what is this witchcraft?

Also stuff going wrong, all of it, all the time. Why does everything go wrong? I get one thing fixed, I settle down and think I am going to get a break, a chance to relax and enjoy my home. Then the next thing goes, or series of things. It is unbelievably frustrating and I feel like I never get a break.

Then there are all the things that haven't gone wrong but need doing. Grass, does it ever stop growing? Get the mower out, fix the "issue" the mower has developed since it was last used, mow the by now jungle like lawn, put mower away, turn around........jungle! The same goes for housework, shopping, finances. Having a home is like having a child in it's own right, with a constant unending stream of wants which rapidly become needs.

Honestly I have to go to work, I have to manage my house child, I have to solve the mystery of sneaky lemons. No wonder I regularly feel a little frayed.

Routine

“Sometimes, when things are going hard, you have to use your routine to keep yourself moving.” – Anonymous

I have been struggling to write the last few days as the observant among you may have noticed. Those of you who know me will know that's because there is a lot of "stuff" going on right now. There is lots I could write, but I respect the written word, once its written down you can't take it back. You have to be careful what you write if you are going to write from the heart.

Anywho I have been trying to work out what I do want to share and found something has been sitting with me for a few days. Someone made a comment the other day about depression and the importance of routine. The black dog definitely doesn't hang around if he is well fed, and walked at the same time every day, he's not a play fetch kind of mutt.

Anyone who has every found themselves stuck at the bottom of the dark well of depression knows the drill. Eat properly, get enough sleep. Do the things that need doing, get out of bed, wash, get dressed, don't push yourself but keep a sense of normality, give yourself a lifeline to hold on to.

The things is there is a fine line between good routine and unmanageable routine. I'm sure I'm not the only one that struggles with balance. The reason I'm generally in a pickle is because my routine is too hectic and I've crashed. I feel like I am on a pendulum, balance is possible but fleeting.

So yes, when I am low I need to get sleep, eat well, get up in the morning, get dresses, get some fresh air and exercise. If someone can let me know how I work out when the list gets too long that would be super. I guess I'll have to muddle along, trying to figure it out on my own for now. 

Little things

“If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.” ― Albert Einstein

There is a lot going on right now and I'll be the first to admit I am not holding up very well against these waves. My head says that we deal with different things in different ways, my heart says not a lot, and the rest of me says I need to man up. The result of these different points of view is chaos, internal and external.

However small steps are often the most important ones and today I was reminded of the importance of simple things. I've spent a lot of time outside today, outside and with small people. It is, despite my regular instance otherwise, still winter (just). It was grey and damp and blowy out today. It wasn't freezing though, nor was it entirely grey. There were swaths of white and it wasn't snow, there were splashes of yellow dotted here and there. The trees weren't green, they weren't even fluffy, but wrapped up tight in their protective coats are signs of spring. I know because I was showing a little person, well between stirring puddle cauldrons and transforming things with giant stick wands.

Little things are important, taking time out to look for signs of spring, to contemplate the ever changing nature of all around us. Holding on to these little insights is something different. I guess that is the next step. I hope it isn't too big