Fran Macilvey's Blog, page 63

Beauty at the Beach

“Oh, how lovely!” she sighed, breathing deeply, letting the smells of salt and seaweed soothe her lungs. She stretched out her arms, pale after the winter, and lifted them high as, into the sky she cast her gaze, grateful for the white clouds that scudded overhead. The seagulls screamed as their wings clipped the ocean spray and far over there, interrupting the smudged brown horizon, sandstone hills and cliffs housed nesting colonies of razorbills, gannets, cormorants, puffins, and predatory, snatching, arctic skuas.

From force of habit, she examined the curve of the waves as they came in to crash at the shore, as sinuous as living snakes, as determined as the pulse of a heart. Beneath her feet, where her shoes squelched in the hard, rough sand, the water puddled, forced by her weight to pool in her footprints. And everywhere, beneath the crowded cacophony of birds, waves and wind, there were the musical high-notes of draining sand, pulsing sound from each minute shell and holed-out fragment of rock.

Pulling in her gaze, as she always did after a while gazing, Lizzie bent to examine the shoreline for interesting shells, for shards of colour, for flat spirals of splintering white, or round curled coronets. Here and there her eyes picked out a deeper blue, a flash of bright purple or a slick of purest orange, and automatically, her hand would reach, collect and cradle each find. Soon, she had a collection of about ten specimens, all different shades of pink, yellow, red, brown, orange or blue and purple. Each, she caressed and examined minutely, turning them over in her fingers, brushing out the sand, promising to love and savour them carefully.

Many times, this is what she had done, and she knew, her promises were lies. None of the colour would hold, unless it was trapped in a water-filled glass jar and left to sit on a window sill, ever so slightly in the way, the screwed-down top gathering surface scum. None of that brightness would transport to the ledge in the bathroom, where dust motes would dance, but the collected water would be still. So Lizzie blessed them and let them loose. She threw them high in the air, and watched as each beautiful mote sank beneath the waves.

Soul Food

Deep gold narcissi trumpets

Rhubarb crumble and custard

Soft brown sugar in sharp black coffee

Soft beds and fragrant pillows;

Floating breezes of spring, with bright, sharp colouring

Laughter of pure delight

White clouds in blotted blue soaring;

Blackbird alarms sharp at dusk as cats prowl the gloaming;

That sharp line of pink sunset that sears to the core and leaves

Orange notes, floating on a trumpet of variegated white.

Trimmings of blossomy, lavish yellow

Mellow generosity in wind-blown light.

Praying

When we go into Church and pray, sometimes we seem to make lists. Let us pray for the poor of this parish, let us pray for the Prime Minister, and for ourselves, Lord. We do pray, constantly, for good results, for ease, for great ideas, for hope, love and peace.

While I pray, of course I am hoping to help secure a brighter outcome. So why is it that often I end up feeling a bit heavier than I would like: I’ll pray for you, and you, and him and her and this and that and the next thing…? Lists of prayers can end up resembling a litany of the needy and desperate, which can have the unintended consequence that as we pray, increasingly we focus on hardship, sorrow and suffering. Prayers of intercession can leave us feeling not consoled, moved or enlightened, but miserable, weighed down and more depressed than ever. Do we have to name each desire individually, like a Santa list at Christmas, or worse, like the list of a calculating Scrooge?

Why do we name our particular sufferings, as if that will entitle them to special attention from Heaven? Surely, all suffering is as valid a candidate for soothing as any other? If God is omnipotent and all seeing, maybe we can short circuit the litany of sorrows and simply pray for the whole world. Maybe God can accept a prayer for the whole world, because it offers hopeful thoughts for all those worthy causes that we have not been able to bring to mind or name.

I pray all the time, in all places and for all circumstances. But I am reluctant to believe that we have to name our sorrows separately, or that it helps us to believe we can or should name them apart from each other. Like a less than cheerful missive from an environmental charity, does listing our problems make them better? When I would like to be helpful, it is a great relief to recall that I can cut out the salacious middle man who likes us to submit our lists, and accept that all prayers are heard. We can simply pray for the whole world.

I Had No Idea

Reactions to my book, “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” have been overwhelmingly supportive and loving, with thoughtful and generous crits and reviews being posted on Amazon UK, Amazon.com (USA), Goodreads, Facebook and other websites. I am very touched and pleased that my story has already reached so many readers.

Interestingly, a great many people whom I would count as good friends, react surprised, saying, “I had no idea”. They are really astonished that so much can have happened of which they have been unaware, though of course, being introverted, depressed and solitary for so many years, it is unsurprising that, until now, only little fragments of my life and times, my thoughts, have surfaced to reach the light of day.

I counted it an important necessity to maintain peaceful dignity, but often that is a way of staying away from the helping arms that others willingly extend towards us. We do need to show our weaknesses, our frailty, and allow others to understand. I’m sorry that, for so long, I have been unable to share intimacies, or to trust that the reactions of friends and family would be supportive. I regret the missed opportunities to share more fully, because, at the very least, sharing would have helped me to notice that we all have stuff to deal with, we all struggle and suffer together in this melting pot called “Life”. Seeing that more clearly before now, would have given me the courage to make more mistakes, be more outspoken, to take more (small) risks so that I might move more freely and help others more often.

Today is a new day. And these resolutions build up slowly, gently forcing my hand. Thank God for the kindness of friends and strangers, and for the love that you have shown me. Thank you.

Resolution

So far, one day into my new decision, the resolution to remain in a contented space called, “Happiness” or “Joy” is holding firm. I take it as a wonderful sign of progress that my choice to be cheerful remains solid, and even vindicated, by the vicissitudes of the last couple of days: Good news – spectacular endorsements – on the one hand, frustrating delays and misunderstandings on the other. Yet I see more clearly than ever, that none of what happens outside me, need affect my choices to live fully and comfortably with a decision – a definite resolution – to be optimistic. I can feel God saying, “I’m going to test you, darling, because you’ve always been strong on the theory and rather weak in the execution. Now is your big opportunity…”

And so it is. Every day is a chance to remember that the rainfall is a blessing. We had a very dry winter, so water is most welcome. As we navigate our way, the windows of our car may steam up, but it is easy enough to keep warm and turn on the car radio. And a great deal more rewarding, after all, than uttering the usual complaints, and then wishing I hadn’t. Indulging in positive thinking feels so utterly delicious.

I may not be posting blogs for a while. Not only are the holidays almost upon us, but writerly tasks are claiming my attention. I hope you all a very pleasant Easter, filled with Spring flowers and sunshine (and soft refreshing rain).

Who Am I?

I am Fran, a woman who still tries too hard. I fret, worrying about the opinions of others, and what I “should” be doing. I push water uphill, until one day, I sit back and reflect, “This is not feeling good. I’m tired. Maybe I should rest for a while”. All over again, through the years, eddies of understanding patiently reach me, that when we relax, let go and allow ourselves to feel pleasure, everything works out better for us.

In any case, most of us seem to be aiming to reach that state of relaxed happiness, so when I remember to stay there, I have already achieved something important. As an added bonus, in that state of peace, what we choose becomes clearer, and finds its way to our side more easily. The Abraham-Hicks writings remind us always to channel our feelings towards relief: Restful relief is a state in which we are best able to unearth what we are searching for.

Interesting observation: If you let it be known you have been depressed for 20 years, people look worried or sympathetic. If you say you have been extremely happy, they quizzically examine the evidence and probably assume you have been drinking too much. Nevertheless, I intend to be happy for the rest of my life, if I can. Why not? I have cried enough to fill a reservoir. I am well past the half-way mark and may not have that many years left, so I’m going to give it a shot, anyway.

What Stephen King Did For Me

If you had said, “Stephen King” in my hearing last week, I would probably have turned away with a hint of distaste, perhaps thinking, “I have enough contemporary horror in my life already, thanks very much”. Which just shows how wrong you can be. Facebook is great too, a wonderful social network of friends and buddies who offer moral support and good ideas. It allows sharing, too, like this wonderful link, for instance:-

http://www.openculture.com/2014/03/stephen-kings-top-20-rules-for-writers.html

One of my writer friends happened to mention that King has also written a book about writing. After reading that article, and the chapters posted on Amazon, I bought “On Writing” and am reading it with pleasure.

King’s top 20 rules answer my current state perfectly: reminding me that writing a first draft is primarily for our own benefit, primarily for fun, and deserves some good quiet time away from distractions. It is when doing cuts, revisals and edits that the opinions of other people may enter the process, not when we are in the midst of our first creative enthusiasm. Hurray! Thank you, Stephen. Now I can let my enthusiasm run away with me, and just see where we can go with it. That kind of fun energy is such fun to have around.

Midnight Monologue

Why is pain always worse at night? No matter which way I turn, it hurts. Either my left toes are crumpled painfully beneath the heavy covers, or if I lie on my side, my knees knock and rub together. Trying on my front, my neck hurts when I turn it sideways, so I flop over to lying on my back and it starts again.

Meantime, my husband is shuffling uncomfortably beneath his breathing apparatus. It noisily breathes air in my direction, a surround sound like the middle of the waves at the seaside. Now, ordinarily, I love the sound of the sea, but, with the noise and the cold vent of air blowing in my direction most nights, this is all a bit too real for my comfort. I try to ignore the disturbance, breathe with it. After a while I give up and wonder crossly if I should refer myself to the department of sleep medicine…. They seem to take themselves very seriously, so it must be mostly men who get this sleep apnoea thingy. I hear stories of women sewing tennis balls into the back of their husband’s jammies so they can’t lie on their backs. Women and their complaints are just left to manage. Even when a mum with three children under ten suspects she has something serious – which turns out to be secondary cancer in her abdomen – she is fobbed off with “it’s just your age….”

I should try to get to sleep. Need a few deep breaths. In, out…In, out but my sense of resentment builds, lifting open my eyelids crossly.

Need to get up to go to the loo again. Hubby always brings me a cup of something, several if I’m not careful, especially at night. “Would you like a drink?” he asks, so kindly, and though after a considered pause, I may say “No, thank you” he brings me one anyway. It’s his way of showing how much he loves me, well worth the inconvenience of going to the loo at three in the morning. I never bother to turn on the light. I can do everything in the dark nowadays so as not to disturb the family. At this time of year it hardly gets dark anyway.

Soon time to get up, judging by the early morning manoeuvres going on. Covers are pulled away, and I shiver. Just have a snooze, now that the noise is switched off…..

“Mum! Is it the first week, or the second week of the holidays that I am going camping?” Daughter jumps on me. Ten past seven.

Writing

How proprietorial are we about what we have written? For me, the most fun part of writing is the first bit, when ideas are running away from me, down the page, sometimes so fast that my fingers slip off the keyboard while my thoughts are pushing ahead to catch up. The excitement of chasing down an idea and capturing it to the page is really the best part of the writer’s day. Having these ideas, and the words to work them into something, is what art and craft are all about. That first draft, the energetic outline, may be fleshed out very quickly.

But we cannot leave it like that, can we? Having a good first working draft is one thing. But surely, the most difficult part of creativity – and a part of writing which I actually enjoy very much – is the discipline of re-reading, discarding and re-writing, sometimes agonising for hours or days over one sentence or turn of phrase.

Every artist has pieces of their creativity littering their lives, the piles of which would very quickly become unmanageable without some sweeps of culling and clearing. I find that it is the process of tidying, of reinvention and re-writing that most taxes a writer’s courage.

How often should we re-write, and what should we throw away? Anything that we know in our heart of hearts will not appeal as much to our readers as it does to us, will probably be heading to the recycle bin. Writing is not only about retrieving beautiful passages of prose and poetry from our souls. It also encompasses the benign destruction of our favourite passages, to allow the light to penetrate. But like a rosebush that is pruned hard to the ground and blossoms easily and wildly the following year, if we have faith in what we are writing and some patience to brew the final result carefully, that first taste of a good finished piece is surely worth the wait.

Now

Perched high in the branches of the acacia, the eagle looks over the desert. The lions yawn and stretch lazily in the heat of the day, as sparse clouds move noiselessly across the blowing heavens.

“What time is it?” asks the visitor, glancing at his mobile phone.

“What time?” The animals barely understand the question. “The time is now, of course. What other time is there?”

 

I finally pushed myself out of the house and drove down the long hill, across the city to the gardens in search of daffodils, those bright puppies, so willing to be blown about in sharp winds, and to resurface, open hearted and welcoming. My favourite flowers, at this time of year, remind me to focus on love. Starting my search, I went through the formal gateway and took the path laid out on the left. Wandering along, up and through banks of rhododendron bushes already past their best; I sauntered easily down a sloping hill to find my favourite tree, whereat I sat for a long while, praying.

Lord, make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace

Where there is hatred, let me sow Love

Where there is injury, Pardon;

Where there is doubt, Faith;

Where there is despair, Hope;

Where there is darkness, Light;

Where there is sadness, Joy.

O Divine Master, Grant that I may seek

Not so much to be consoled as to console;

To be understood as to understand;

To be loved as to love;

For it is in giving that we receive;

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

And it is in dying

That we are born to Eternal Life

Amen

Still in search of bright yellow, I wandered further, past one hill planted with bushes of the orient and featuring a pagoda and a stream, then walked on came to the foot of another, where a woodland garden waited, littered with clumps of narcissi and crocus, bright, beautiful and careless. Set aside for them, this patch of ground lay directly in front of the building from which I had set out. If I had taken the right path, instead of the left, I would not have needed to walk even ten steps, to find what I had been looking for.