Fran Macilvey's Blog, page 64

Gratitude

What a strange week it has been. Emotions all over the place, and feeling like a ship tossed on the high seas. The peaks and troughs of having a real job to go to; the agonies of intimacies and private sorrows spoken calmly into a microphone; the kindness of the engineer with his humour and support, his business-like attitude keeping us both on track. At the same time, very generous and lovely reviews for “Trapped” on Amazon UK and Amazon US are posted, which make me feel very emotional, for different reasons. For added spice there is also have the occasional disappointment from people I don’t even know, who cut off contact with me, for daring to critique their work.

Sorry, folks, but I have kinda got used to critiquing literary works, as politely as I know how, and am rather surprised, these days, to having my comments taken quite so seriously. Whatever I offer is only my opinion, and I am quite happy for people to disagree with me, without feeling the need to go for the full excision. Can we not agree to disagree and remain friendly? Not always, apparently. In the same batch of emails, comforting and lovely news far outweighs the dubious, so after a few careful deletions, I think we can all get on with our lives. It has been a very strange week.

In the mixter-maxter, I feel a lot of gratitude, too, lately. I am so pleased and thankful to anyone who posts helpful comments, adds lovely reviews and sends supportive love. It means the world to me. Check out these lovely reviews, and add your own.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trapped-My-Life-Cerebral-Palsy/dp/1628737611/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1395592429&sr=1-1&keywords=fran+macilvey

Big Red Writing Hoodie

Actually, it’s a fleece. I had a fleece I used to wear when I started writing Trapped, because I used to get emotional, and cold, and shivery. Perhaps it had something to do with beginning work on the first draft in the depths of January, when the light was improving, but the ground was still icy and hard. I got accustomed to wearing this garment like a security blanket, every time I was writing at my computer.

Over time, I must have written out so much sorrow, grief pouring onto the page like thick treacle: coming to terms with all the rubbish that I have tolerated, the negative emotions, expectations and ideas that have clouded my lens over the years, and have spoiled my life correspondingly. I was probably in mourning, too, for all the time I wasted being unhappy. Unhappy about being unhappy….what a waste of time.

Last week, I zipped up this jacket crossly, thinking to burrow down for safety and feel insulated from my latest bout of existential uncertainty. Perhaps all writers have them, and they are a pain. But, feeling strangely dislocated, I found myself simply getting crosser, more angry over nothing. “Unusual” I was reflecting, “How odd, I don’t understand this…why am I behaving like a total idiot?” It was like being both Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

An answer landed in my lap. My jacket, which had held me securely through a great many traumas, was suffering from ptsd for clothes. Perhaps it had absorbed all that anger, sorrow and incredulity, which I was then dishing out. Either it was full of bad memories and emotions, clogged up with negative feelings; or else the association of that jacket with unhappiness was very strong. Either way, my fleece had to go. I had to throw it out, which I did immediately. I felt much better afterwards!

In my wardrobe there may be other clothes I should release, because wearing them makes me unhappy. It is not simply that they are old fashioned, tired or frumpy, but also that they may carry vibes that I would rather not hang on to. Which may be the best reason to spring-clean my wardrobe that I have ever come across.

Now the outer waterproof, for which the fleece was the lining, is my only coat. Perhaps I should think of purchasing another: Blue, maybe, with a zip and useful pockets for house keys and hankies. And lots of cheerful memories to store in its fibres.

Resolution

My determination and cheerfulness held well today, and we managed to finish all the audio recording of “Trapped” by four fifteen this afternoon. Hooray! On Monday, we do pickups, and edits, and that is about the end of this project, about which I have been preoccupied since January. Publication of book – tick! Narration of audio – tick! There is lots of new space in my head for doing some work, for writing, for resting and for getting in touch with friends.

It is strange to reflect that the engineer, whom I will probably never meet again after close of business on Monday, knows so much about me, and I know only his name, that he drives a dark, diesel engine car, and lives in town. I have his business card in my pocket with his phone-number on it, and that is all.

I have had various names, each one marking a distinct period of years in my life. I am glad to have arrived at Fran Macilvey, and here I hope to stay.  I am still getting used to it, though, and often forget that anyone who has read ‘Trapped’ will not need the usual context or explanations, even if I have only just met them. I would be interested to hear what other people feel about the experience of writing memoir, of sharing the highs and lows. Do you brush off the inequality in the information exchange, or does it leave you feeling unbalanced?

I Must Not Be Selfish

Just when I reach one of my lowest ebbs, there come two pictures of daffodils posted on Facebook by a lovely friend. I gaze at these and determine that what I most need is not courage or resignation, but discipline. And so decided, I don my scarf and coat and go outside for all of ten minutes in search of elusive daffodils nearby. It is windy and cold, a blast of spring air. As I gaze up into the sullen, darkening sky which mirrors my mood so neatly, I realise, This is not about me. I must not be selfish.

In writing my book, “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” and now in narrating it for the audio book, I have at last accepted fully that, regardless of how humiliated I may feel, there is more at stake here, than my privacy or my sense of personal dignity. Other people are working hard for me, it is true, and many of them do so for little tangible reward. But the picture is bigger than this. I can read, and write, and I have a wonderful life. I have freedom to move and the space to express my preferences. I know that, most days, I do not do enough with that freedom, but at least I can move away from here. I have always known that, in life, it is having options that matters most.

There are millions of people in the world who suffer in silence, who endure cruelty, exclusion and neglect, and who have no-one to speak for them: millions of children who are misdiagnosed, misunderstood, pigeonholed, forgotten and overlooked: millions of adults who can do nothing about the places they find themselves in. As I write in my book,

“How many others with issues like mine are languishing in the shadows of institutional ignorance because their families listen politely to advice which owes more to prejudice and speculation than to hard facts or compassion? If it wasn’t for my mother’s decision so often to disagree, to go it alone, I would be in a “home,” possibly dead, having led only a teeny little bit of a life. No one would have known anything about me, or uncovered the thoughts lurking behind my eyes. The smallness of my life would have remained a hidden loss, overlooked, as the lives of so many disabled adults are overlooked.”

If my book can strike a blow for freedom of conscience, self-expression, human dignity and compassion, then the small terrors I have to endure are well worth the price. God will give me the strength to do as I must. And, with that faith, together we can all join and create miracles. I do so hope you agree.

Reading with Ariel

I hope readers of my blog will forgive me: I have not posted anything this week, because I am narrating the audiobook of “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy”. Doing so is heart-wrenchingly difficult.

The audio producer kindly asked me if I would like to read. The word “like” suggests enjoyment, fulfilment. So when I said ‘yes please’, that was fine, and doubtless they see no reason for me to be unhappy about it. Of course, I would do it, even if they asked me again, I would give the same answer, but that does not mean it has been easy.

Writing about the painful episodes of my life – that would be from the age of five to about forty-two, then – is one thing. There is something reassuring in writing that conveys meaning which, while it may have to be spelt out, nevertheless maintains a dignified silence. Articulating the same passages with sound, brings a whole level of new pain to the experience which can hardly be appreciated by those who do not have to endure it. Actually, I am familiar with being told what to do, and my obedient persona complies easily with requests to repeat difficult passages. These are the worst, of course, because they are the hardest to get right, to do calmly, and so have to be done again. I pray continuously, not to break down and weep. I ask for help from my guardian angels. I clench my fists hard and beg, and swallow and wait and hope for the next storm to pass, because there are timetables to meet. Because there are only so many times I would like to cry about this, again.

It has something to do with feeling humiliated, and having to expose truths and lies that I have held beneath a dignified silence for so long.

Whatever way I might have chosen to play this, there were always going to be disadvantages and benefits. I learn, the storm passes, and a smile is always waiting to lift me up. Thank God.

Learning to Float

I always loved floating, knowing I was totally relaxed and safe on my back in the swimming pool. Later, in the waves of the gentle Indian Ocean, I felt the same boundless freedom and joy, with nothing to hold me back.

When I was older I encountered the Atlantic and the story grew rougher, heavier and more ominous. The sun hid behind dark clouds and was a long time showing itself again. I pushed my way, buffeted by storms and big, fathomless deeps below me, filled with gap-jawed monsters. The depths threatened to swamp my small strokes and to pull me under, salty seawater in my mouth. If I drowned, who would notice out here?

I felt an affinity for other drowning souls, the ones I passed in circles to nowhere. The times we met, we would wave at one another, exchange a joke and carry on swimming.

One evening, just as the sun was setting over the horizon, a small double-oared boat came. I was hauled out of the water into unfamiliar, warm blankets and handed a mug of warm tea. It felt very unusual and I suffered from emotion sickness for a while longer, as my legs, thin and wobbly beneath me, learned the painful art of taking their own weight again, finding strength and standing as tall as I could: I just had to push myself upright and after a few tipsy wobbles, there I was, with the rest of the dry crew.

But I was unused to life on dry land. Like a fish out of water, I missed the wet – the depths of sorrow teeming with slippery, quicksilver life – that felt so real but slithered away out of my grasp. It took a while to accept that rooted trees were valuable allies in the battles on land. To learn to look up and enjoy seeing their branches unfolded above me, especially when I noticed colours again. Yellows, oranges and reds became such a cheerful change from my usual blue. The heart pinks that blossomed in the arms of trees in Spring, brought home the value of love and friendship.

I marched forward with the rest of them and worked on smoothing my stride. It grew longer and more confident, though my body remembered going round in circles, feeling familiar slapping eddies that went no-where. As I pushed at sands, they rose in front of me. I struck at roots, at edges and ledges. I pushed past, always searching. I tripped and fell, though I moved forwards, always on the way to somewhere and something else. I hardly know what I was searching for.

I made out lamplight that burned constant and cleanly over the landscape. It brightly promised hope which I reached for, and answers for when I might stop to listen. Always the answers waited, in the piercing brilliance of the light, which gave me hope and courage to keep searching when evening came and darkness fell. With each declaration of strength, “I am strong. I am powerful. I am peace” my light shone brighter. The ripples these beliefs sent out – first resistance, then acceptance led me forward to a different knowing.

Each statement we make is like the arrow shot over the bows of our “difficulties” and landing in the soil of our fruitful future. It is our soul task, to flex our muscles and state benign beliefs strongly. As we move, we select and refine our choices. That we can do, seeing our choices all around us, after familiar eddies of disbelief come and go.

Regardless of which sea we swim in, we can learn to float again on the currents of our desire. Learning to float again, we do not need all the answers. We only need to decide what we choose, and the rest will come, so long as we can wait peacefully. A peaceful life is a happy life. A contented life is one that accepts. Accepting what we are, what we have and what we desire, we are in a state of allowing, and All comes to us in the best way it can.

 

In The Driving Seat

For me, one of the hardest disciplines is waiting patiently: waiting to hear from other people, and having to accept more immobility than I would prefer. I have always wanted to run, skip, dance and move more than I could; and it has indeed been the work of years, to learn patience in the face of silence. Now, I prefer to reframe that unwelcome lesson with the reassurance that every silence is kind, and allows others – who are working hard on my behalf – to procure small miracles quietly. When I remember that “The Universe is constantly conspiring to work things out in our favour”, the most important thing is to decide, clearly, what I choose, and to let go.

Next week, I have to get myself to a recording studio over several days. It is out of town, on a route I am not familiar with. It also leads across one of the biggest and scariest roundabouts – with turnoffs and leads lanes of fast traffic – that I have ever encountered. I haven’t ever flown over it solo – My brave husband or the jolly taxi drivers do that – but I yesterday I did at least manage to get to the approach, before swinging off at a petrol station, just before showdown. I was rather petrified. But pleased with myself for driving so far.

Again, that fear mirrors much of the hesitancy I have about life, the indecision. It could be that, because I didn’t walk until I was five-and-a-half, I am simply unused to taking things in my stride. In the old days, my failure would have brought up feelings of loathing and despair, but now, I understand sadly, that forced immobility could excuse a lot, and there is no point being upset because I fail with what I set out to do. Maybe I will never be the best driver in the world, but I will always do my best. That thought will have to console me meantime. I will take cabs, which will cost far more than I can afford. Another hidden cost of disability? Not quite, but close.

Optimism 2

My mental meanderings bring me neatly back round - ho, hum! - to optimism again. Despite the strange vicissitudes of the last few days, having arrived here again, I do believe I would like to stay in this particular cool pond for a long time. It feels calming and peaceful, a good place to be. Optimism makes difficulty a far easier meal to swallow than dogged realism.

Last Saturday, in the grip of my new decision to be upbeat about everything - before I fell and hit the skids on Monday - my husband and I had arranged to meet up for a meal, after the rugby. He went to the ‘six nations’ match (Scotland lost in the last minute) against France, but it was a good game. Driving down to meet him, and looking for a parking space in a very congested part of town, I headed up a narrow cul-de-sac which came to an abrupt end. It was stacked with builders’ rubble along half of its length. I was forced to reverse very slowly along the dark, narrow side street, back to the main road. Other vehicles seemed intent on following my car down this dead end, and I could have been very stressed about the whole thing. Instead, I very clearly and calmly reminded myself I was an optimist now, and asked my angels for help.

As I was nearing the road exit, a lovely woman got into her car, which was parked near me, and signalled that she wanted to leave her space. She waited in the road to move past, as I moved in to give her room, before turning the car around and parking properly. That, in the context of the surrounding traffic chaos was nothing short of a lovely miracle, confirming that my intention to Be An Optimist is a good one, heartily approved of by anyone watching from the spiritual balconies.

Perhaps I should discount this outcome as merely ‘beginners luck’. Even so, it makes me smile, which has to be a good thing, when training to be a full-time optimist.

 

Believing in Best

I have been browsing the website of the Society of Authors, which offers reasonable and very practical advice. Thank you, SoA. Membership is a possibility, and I shall reflect on that in the next little while. However, reading through their eye-opening material I cannot help detect a certain amount of realism creeping in. Of course. Realism is what everyone needs, isn’t it?

An advocacy group or a trade union rather specialises in offering realistic advice. Artists often need practical help, perhaps more than other professionals might. Before you rush to condemn my blatantly prejudicial pronouncement, I mean merely to suggest, tentatively, that those accountants, lawyers and architects who enjoy their jobs are probably better equipped, on the whole, to tackle the world of business, money and hard fact. Artists are perceived as nurturing dreams, rather lost in the realms of colour, music or written whimsy. To be creative, artists allow themselves to be carried away on the wings of fancy; and history is littered with examples of artistic geniuses who could not manage the transition to hard-headed marketing guru; which is why I suspect that artists, on the whole, benefit greatly from practical advice.

However, we have to tread a careful line between heeding practical advice and believing it. We may listen and learn, but to take into ourselves the wisdom that, for example, “(Writers) are appreciative and supportive of any efforts a publisher makes to promote their book, and entirely understand that in the vast majority of cases, given the number of books being published every year and how busy PR departments are, all an author can expect is a couple of weeks of effort around first publication” is to feel a toe-curling anxiety that is hardly beneficial to our prospects.

To succeed, whatever our private weaknesses and reservations, we need to believe that what we have already achieved, and what we are about to achieve, amounts to success. ‘For what we are about to achieve, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’ Without that belief, which often flies in the face of all the practical advice that others offer, we will surely sow the seeds of our failure. Writers achieve miracles every day, in blogs, letters, in emails carefully crafted, and witty replies on FB or a perfect Tweet. We need to believe in miracles, and keep seeing them everywhere in what we do. Success is not what other people tell us. It is what we believe about ourselves.

Fear

Optimism, faith and relaxing with Life were yesterday’s theories. God bless Sundays.

Today, I am wondering about the wisdom of having shipped out copies of my first book, “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” to my long-time friends. I worry that they will read my story, and, filled with a new and worrisome incomprehension, they will flee from me, and possibly never speak to me again.

The older, wiser me steps in and attempts to arbitrate this fear, “Ah, but is fear of the reactions of others – even our friends – ever a reason to not do something which we feel impelled towards?”  And I know, of course not, no. If we let our fears of disapproval dictate our actions all the time, we would have very small, lives. Ruled by fear, what do we become? Mere shadows. Intellectually, logically and spiritually, I know this. I know too, that my friends like and love me for who I am. In most cases, a mere book will probably not come between us. But emotionally, I am less robust, frightened of my steps into the unknown, this uncharted territory. My resolution wavers wildly, and I am prone to unexpectedly fierce bouts of weeping. How will my kith and kin to this latest bout of independent action? When my neighbours see me again, will their minds rove constantly to the sorrowful and shameful revelations of my story? Will their eyes flicker in disbelief or widen in disgust? I doubt it, yet part of me is sorrowful in fear.

The answer is in what I have written earlier, that the Universe is constantly conspiring to work things out in our favour. So then, everything I do is part of that process, in which there is nothing much to think about, far less actually worry about and a great deal to enjoy. Okay, that sounds gentle and reassuring, so it works  meantime. Now, who else would like a copy of my book?