As the world has taken this strange turn, so has the way I feel about writing. Up until recently I had really enjoyed telling the stories of my journey. And it’s probably no surprise to learn that I wrote them as much for me as I did for you. I liked the company that writing gave me and there was almost always something going on that I wanted to ramble about. I liked boring you with my diving tales. Although I had started to realise that I’ve been using the same words again and again and simply change the order in which I use them to tell a different story. I mean, how many times have I been mind-blown or breathless? So I had already been thinking that I must do better and find some new adjectives. Some new superlatives. But now it seems I have to find not just new words, but a completely different language to describe and give meaning to the experience that I’m having. That we’re all having. And I’m finding it’s near impossible.
So I’ve decided to stop trying to get my head around this thing that’s a thing for everyone and instead do what might be considered the opposite. I’m going to try and accept that this thing is completely unfathomable. And I’m not taking it in my stride. It has me rattled. It’s truly bonkers. But I’m no longer going to feel bad about feeling the way I do. I’ve come to the conclusion, finally, that I’m having a perfectly reasonable response to the most extraordinary situation. There are no words. At least not for the time-being.
But that being said, I do have to get myself through the days without completely losing the plot. And thankfully, moments for breathing and for gratitude are presenting themselves.
The more concerning wobbles that I was having at the beginning of last week have eased off which is in no small part down to a reassuring FaceTime call with my oldest and best in the UK. FaceTime. Thank heaven for FaceTime. And the other day I was introduced to Zoom video conference calling and laughed for 40 minutes straight with some of my old pub quiz team. They were tucking into Saturday evening glasses of wine, whilst here in New Zealand we were in our Sunday morning pyjamas and drinking our first coffee of the day. It was perfect.
I’ve also been exchanging lots of lovely and heart-warming messages with people that I’ve met and friends that I’ve made since Taking Leave. Friends in India, Thailand, Vietnam, France, Canada, Australia, the Philippines, America, and the rest. It’s really quite special. I’ve never had so many worldwide connections and I’m so fiercely motivated to keep them alive. Oh, the irony of isolation. We’re not alone in it. I’ve learned that everyone is wobbling in their own way but we’re getting through it, sharing our experiences, and managing this madness the best we can.
I’m still drawing and that continues to be helpful too. And, as an art therapist, I’m slightly embarrassed that I hadn’t worked this out for myself. But thankfully, those boys in Gipsy Palace, and their dear mother, worked it out for me. Broccoli continues to be a thorn in my side but I’ve an idea to keep coming back to it until the day arrives that I can live happily with the results. I have an inkling it’ll be a useful exercise and you know how much I like metaphors. Later today I’m going to draw a carrot.
But right now, I’m making onion soup and cheese scones for sanity and for lunch. And one of the teenage ChO’c children has just come into the kitchen and asked me if they’ll be as good as mum’s. Probably not, I told her. But that’s not the point.
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