Fran Macilvey's Blog, page 55

How I Keep Going

Boxes of chocolate are great, though they cause mood swings.

 

Better to canter downstairs and outside to gaze at the high sky in summer, or rustle up a dollop of good food to fire my synapses.

Hickory Run, State Park, Sky View

 

Reading is a must, my desire fed and watered at well-written books laced with self-deprecating humour.

Kit, a first year student in Laos, reading aloud ‘Big Brother Mouse’

 

Friends, who insist on dragging me out for lunch promptly on Wednesdays at noon, force me notice new views which feed the written word.

Hayat

 

My daughter, with her too-big bike, who gazes smilingly into our dark hallway through the glass, offers a joyful lift with her smile, despite the interruption.

Fisherman and child on home-made bike, Nara

 

Enjoying holidays, I discover, refreshes my spirit in ways that a computer screen simply cannot.

 

Out in the wilds of creative impulse, towering above, proud and unashamed, is the desire to weave bliss in words.�� I choose, I focus on fully; and like the space between worlds where magic is revealed, all else falls away.�� My yearning to write colour into breathing, fuels the determination to continue: My choice, my power, my wings, my life.

Cornis Florida

Why Did I Write ‘Trapped’? (Conclusion)

 

 

I have been astonished to notice, in the pavement, a flowering dandelion with roots so tenacious that the concrete is cracking around it. Similarly, when I was about forty-two, I knew I sat at a cross-roads, or, as a friend put it, on a roundabout, facing a number of choices and not sure which way to go. But I have always known that if I could simply summon the courage to begin writing, and writing in particular about my life, I could maybe find answers, and a new will to live which would crack open all my misconceptions and mistakes, and give me new room to move and breathe and begin again.

It is all very well and good, knowing the theories of happiness, but at times it is necessary to take the risk of experimenting with one���s own life and circumstances to see how they turn out. It is a bit like jumping off a cliff without a parachute and hoping that someone or something will catch you and lift you up: an eagle, a winged horse, a swan, the branch of a tree snagging on the back of your jacket, or a grassy ledge that we land on, breaking our free fall descent. Who knows how it will turn out?

The only way to know, is to have the courage to take risks, with friendships, with ideas and with every single opportunity that presents itself. And that, ultimately, is why I wrote Trapped. To test myself, and see how far I could go.

The journey is not over. In fact, in some ways, it is just beginning. There is still much to do. I have at least three more books to write and publish, and I welcome opportunities to promote all my books, wherever these chances originate. I am learning how valuable friendships are, that can originate in the most unlikely places. As my header says, every day is a fresh opportunity, and I intend to make the most of them. If that means I have to journey to Pittsburgh and subsist on peanut butter sandwiches for a week, or get a cleaner to take up some of the household jobs, or a PA man to help with admin and publicity, then bring it on! Life is for living, and that is why I write.

If anyone would like to contact me to discuss publicity, promotion or other ideas, please write here, or contact me at franmacilvey@fastmail.fm Thanks to everyone for reading, sharing, commenting, supporting and cheering me on. I love you all.

Rose – Golden Celebration

Rose – New Day

 

Something Lighthearted for the Start of the Week

Something light-hearted for the start of the week, and for��Thanksgiving and looking forward to Christmas and the holidays.

 

Sydmonton, Hampshire, England

Ten ways to start again

Resist buttoning every button on your shirt, especially��in winter. Who will see? What difference��does it make?
Set your bedside clock five minutes fast and miss the traffic rush.
Stop wearing so much make-up
Smile, you use fewer muscles than when you frown
Greet��a stranger
Forgive every mistake that anyone ever made
Read a funny book
Wear your best clothes on an ordinary day
Ignore ordinary routines for a week
Tell someone you love them

Leaving Portree

Why Did I Write ‘Trapped’? (Part 2)

Recently I was interviewed about Trapped at my husband’s church, and the experience was over so soon, I felt I hardly had time to draw breath. I had prepared some answers to questions, which were helpful to hold on to. When we went off script, it felt quite natural, easy and relaxed.

The minister was gentle. She asked thoughtful questions and was so perceptive and kind that, almost, despite the laughter, it would have been easy to weep, though not for the obvious reasons.

Being disabled, one runs the constant risk of being misunderstood. I felt I was, and that process turned me initially guarded, then defensive, then prickly, then isolated. In retrospect, and having had the courage to spell everything out (as much as for myself as for the reader), I see that retreat is not inevitable, of course. I can’t help feeling that much misunderstanding and sorrow might have been avoided, or shed more easily and naturally, if there had been more people around who were unafraid to grasp me in their arms, speak to me as I needed to be spoken to, firmly and kindly, in order to break through the self-imposed isolation that has been one consequence of being misread.

I grieve for the obvious reason that life was awful, and for the less obvious reason that I have wasted so many years being unhappy. There is the other, more insidious pain of knowing that my perceptions – like those of others! – were often greatly mistaken, and that if I had been less fearful and stood my ground, no-one would have minded terribly.

Sure, the world is full of insensitive oafs, and cruel people who are casually unjust, and it is our focus on such people that turns us inward. But the world is also brimming with delightfully kind, forgiving and thoughtful people.

This also makes me grieve now, because I missed so many opportunities for joy, and for love, and for fun and humour and sheer delight. Meeting wonderful people, knowing they can see past my social awkwardness, my stumblingly stupid statements, to the smile that hopes it will be accepted, is so liberating. That makes me grieve now. Life is full of inexplicable contradictions, isn’t it?

Without having gone out of my way to excavate my experiences by writing them, none of this would be clear. Muddy confusion would all be sitting still, at the bottom of a dark glass, festering.

 

Lavender rose

Why Did I Write ‘Trapped’? (Part 1)

Occasionally, puzzled people have asked, abruptly, why I felt the need to write Trapped.  Why did I pursue my dream of publication?  Do I not object to the invasion of my privacy and the laying bare of my intimate life?

Yes, well.  I always felt I could write, comfortably enough to attract an enthusiastic A+ in essay writing from a stiff and challenging teacher with a soft centre: ‘excellent story, Fran, but I can’t think WHAT has happened to your handwriting!’  I have always written, and eventually it became obvious (probably because I could not fritter away my time being a barmaid or a waitress) that I should stop chasing after what I would never be able to do, and focus on what I could do.  It seemed silly to pretend that writing was frivolous and unimportant, especially as I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that I enjoy it.

I got to forty, and thought, hey, I’ve arrived, and getting old seems to be the world’s best kept secret.  I became even more sedate and withdrawn, dignified, as a forty-year-old thinks she has to be.  But as I cranked up some steam into the following decade, I knew I was hiding, and that my personal silence was much less important than finally – finally – letting my family discover who I was, and  that I really, really love them.  My parents grow frailer, my siblings have their own issues and challenges, and my husband and daughter could do with a few more clues about me.  I thought it might be helpful if I could maybe throw some love and understanding their way: come to terms, discard those grudges that go back years, empty out the pot of resentment and clear away the backlog of mistaken assumptions.  Writing helps with all these aspects of growing up.  The process of learning to write and having the courage to publish is in itself so rewarding, that even if I knew then, what I know now (how long it would take, how much pain there would be) I would still accept the challenge.  A bit of discomfort is never a reason to shy away from home truths.

In case you missed it, here is an interview with Claire Wingfield which was first published on 29th September on her blog.  Please visit her blog, comment and share.  And thanks for reading this.

 

 

Riding Again

Haflinger Foal, photo by Bohringer Friedrich

I started horse-riding again last week. Today was my second lesson with the RDA at the Drum Estate out of town, where I used to ride when I was a youngster. Starting again after a break of over thirty years, I feel a curious mix of familiarity and strangeness: Strange to feel as I felt back then, a mix of yearning, excitement and trepidation; odd to feel nostalgic about the familiar scents and sights, and to realise how much time has passed.  It is reassuring to know that I am now a grown-up and can meet and greet as I choose, with the freedom to be myself.

Posture is the big thing. I enjoy the discipline, and feel shaken to my core by the pain in my thighs, reminiscent of earlier, uglier agonies. All my nerves jump around as they try to discover a different and straighter equilibrium. I am assured that this will get easier and improve. Now, without the teenage angst and uncertainty pulling me back, I can listen more trustingly, and believe what I am told about how to sit, how to move, and about breathing deeply. If I breathe calmly, my mount will pick up on that, and we can be relaxed together.

I love to be back, and I welcome the new friendship, where I discover, yet again, that I have so much in common with others. They too have frailties and physical issues that they ignore, work with and endeavour to get past. I am not alone in that, or in anything else. The realisation that I am in such excellent company makes me at once tearfully grateful to be reminded, and sorry that I wasted so much time in isolated regret. Thank God, I am waking up. At last, I am getting over myself.

Now – sit up straight. I don’t want to waste this chance I have been given.

Two wild horses stand close together – Equus Ferus

 

Failure as Success

 

It was Winston Churchill who said, ‘Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.’

But somehow, even accompanied by inspirational pictures of men leaping bravely across gaps and landing in the unknown, that sentiment fails to inspire me much.  I can’t see the value in going from failure to failure.  Failure is filled with such heaviness, with our private, tortured thoughts of having gone wrong or wasted time. Probably because I spent years feeling like I was not getting anywhere fast, I now flee from the feelings of loss and waste that failure conjures up. Trapped is the story of how I reclaimed my enthusiasm for life, by redefining failure and remembering what success felt like.

I know it sounds cheesy and a bit clichéd, but for me, success is about accepting that failure is a matter of perspective.  Have we failed, when our flambé turns into a table cremation? When our wallet slips from our hands and ends up crushed under the wheels of a juggernaut in the road? Or when the book we spent months writing ends up disappearing into the micro-intricacies of our defective hard-drive? Do events like these offer unexpected opportunities?

For me, success consists in seeing everything that happens as an opportunity, to decide who we are, in relation to every event unfolding around us. This morning, I spent an hour looking for some recent photos of Seline, left over from a new passport application. I wanted to send them to my family. Despite searching high and low, I haven’t found them. In passport photos we are not allowed to smile, so maybe the best thing to do is to get more photos taken at Timpsons, and let her grin. If I’m going to send snaps away in Christmas cards, would I not prefer to send a smile? Of course.

Whether something fails spectacularly, or merely trips us up, what might it be trying to tell us? How can we make it our next success?

Ignition pattern, prescribed burn

Prescribed fire, Florida

If At First You Don’t Succeed…..

I heard the story of Robert the Bruce in the cave, watching the spider. Three times it was defeated, its web breached and broken, and it kept coming back. So Robert became wise and did not give up hope. Having suffered a couple of defeats that would have chastened lesser men, he went out and fought again, and finally won.

Good for him.

I admired him, of course, we all did. That was the point of the story, that we should persist in the face of discouragement, setbacks and other people asking us, with shaking heads, why are ye bothering with that, hen?

But, there is persistence and there is….folly.

I remember standing out in the car park trying to open the petrol cap of a new car. I must have tried about four hundred times – doing the wrong thing repeatedly. What I was trying to do was obvious, but I was never going to open the thing, by closing it over and over again, was I? Yet stubbornness insisted, and so I was a fool, who wasted a day.

So….If at first you don’t succeed, try something different.

There is that sinking feeling which knows when something is a pointless waste of time, and there is that determination which refuses to go away, and which in the face of failure, dejection and discouragement is strengthened, straightened and made more true. It is the challenge of a lifetime to discern which is which.

 

Barn Owl

 

More Good News

It is wonderful, being at swimming. I believe I may have said this before. But, well, when you realise just how much there is to learn about life at the pool, it becomes a real joy. In so many unexpected ways, gradually all of life becomes an increasing and obvious pleasure.

Forcing myself up and out in the mornings, I slip on my swimming cozzy, put on my shoes and eat a quick breakfast. I can be up and about in five minutes, so I have time to spend with family. Because of the relaxing effects of regular exercise, there is less nervous energy around. I laugh and joke, because I am awake and enthusiastic and – hurray! – more patient. As I head out to the car, Seline wishes me a happy day and Seeya soon. (I cannot help noticing that dad just has to get out of the house before me. He cannot bear to leave later than me.) What might have been thrown out as a bit of an accusation a month ago, is now a chance for a giggle. What a funny guy.

The cobwebs on my car wing mirrors are still hanging on beautifully, despite the cold and the rain. They have been there for months, and I admire the spiders that have presumably been living profitably behind the plastic and glass all this time. Their persistence is admirable.

Taking time to swim, to sauna and to chat, I am forced to slow down. As my physical health improves, I notice that my focus naturally moves outward. I see stuff I didn’t notice. One of the reasons for having been so introverted and self-absorbed is that historically, it has proved such a physical challenge just to put one foot in front of the other. After the preoccupations of life have been taken care of, there has been so little energy left over for pure enjoyment. Now in late middle age, with many of my choices made, I can relax more easily and have time to saunter, which makes such a delightful change. I begin to notice this world that everyone has been raving about for so long, as part of my experiences too. And I learn, just by watching and smiling, and listening and by having the time to take it easy. By doing these things, I learn, this is what joy means. Another lesson I can usefully extend to everyday life.

I told the head supervisor, seated behind the desk at the pool, that I had grown two inches, and that he could use me as an advert for the business, anytime. And he smiled so brightly. He seemed so pleased to share my good news. I wonder, do we share good news with people often enough, or we just assume they know?

White belied Sea Eagle

A Trip To Dunbar Leisure Pool

Dunbar Leisure Pool   is near the harbour, where the view down to the edge of the tide is very lovely. Picture perfect. Many is the time – okay, once or twice, but I would go back often if I could – I have sat at the bench there and pondered the beauty of the view.

Historically, I have been reluctant to enter the portals of the leisure centre, a short walk over the grass. I have been fearful of the Leisure Pool. Strange now, to remember when I hated it: the noise, the tiny cubicles, the feelings of confusion. I loathed getting changed and was acutely self-conscious. With no coins for the lockers and half blind without my glasses, I wept in fury and confusion, and changed my mind, refused to budge like a stubborn horse that has put a foot wrong and frozen up. I waited that one out, at the side of the pool.

All changed. All changed, now.

Cairns Lagoon, Australia

 

I sit here day after day, and wonder if I have made any progress. Now, I can point to measurable success. On our very full and too-short holiday, Seline, Eddie and I visited the Leisure Pool, and we all had a marvellous time. It was noisy, but we arrived early, getting there before it got too crowded with kids on holiday screaming and splashing. I enjoyed a swim in that part of the pool which insists on being square. The water offered more resistance than I was used to, there being lots of people splashing around, and extra water features – a spray, a cascade and a frothing spout. So, it was harder work to achieve lengths, but such fun! And when the waves came on, preceded by a claxon warning so loud it would have frightened timid souls, I just floated over the top of them.

I enjoy being happy, even with something as simple as getting more easily to my feet to fetch things. Rising easily to my feet is such a joy. Without my constant fretting, I hope that Seline also sees how much fun swimming is. Finding happiness consistently is a blessed reminder of just how far I have come.