Fran Macilvey's Blog, page 68

I have a dream

A dream I had recently seems set to plague me. I am slumped over on a roundabout, in the middle of five lanes of cars all moving extremely fast, fluidly and confidently along the motorway of their lives. I am crouching down, just barely seated on a concrete traffic island in the middle of this, and there is no-where to go. My face is bashed and bruised, and my spectacles are crooked, broken. To have fallen, that would explain the bruises.

Beside me there are two older men, dressed in torn rags, drinkers, I suspect, from the look of their faces. They would have been loved once, when they were younger, fitter and less broken by the ravages of their street lives. Now, they are hardened street bums, and over us all stands a policeman in a smart blue uniform, eyeing us warily.

The cop thinks I am like them. He thinks I am a waster, a loser. Because I cannot get up and walk, because I would stagger and fall into the traffic with fatal consequences, I cannot move. Meantime, another one of me is in a cool, quiet hotel lobby, explaining to a reporter….

“I just got a life, and now they have taken it away from me. While everyone else seems to be going places, here I am stuck on the roundabout, because now, I cannot leave the house. I had such a small life before I had my car, and now, what little freedom I managed to discover has been taken away, as if I am unworthy to be part of the stream of life that others just accept as their due.”

Instead of asking people if they can walk, those who dole out financial assistance and monitor its value in the lives of disabled users, should be looking at the difference it makes. Without a car, for example, I would be stranded at home, staring out of the windows. It is difficult, expensive and rather dangerous for me to venture outside. Without the freedom to drive a small way each day, venturing outdoors becomes exhausting and ruinously expensive. Most of us who currently have the use of a car will, if it taken away from us as a result of the latest welfare reforms, find ourselves cornered at home, having no wish to get run over, or to bankrupt ourselves or the family.

While the government talks about austerity cuts, they forget that most people who currently benefit from free vehicles depend on them utterly, to participate in life and make living meaningful and active, despite disability.  Without a car, my life choices shrivel and I become morose, depressed and exhausted. Austerity may be necessary, but taking away vital tools from those who depend on them, is like cutting off a limb or two. No-one, in this latest round of cost saving, is forcing the able-bodied to surrender their freedom. Yet without a car, there is precious little choice left to the rest of us between having a life and a living death.

The Sound Box and the String

Ahmed hefted his satchel higher. His shoulder winced with the rigidity of a long-held pain. Wiping his left hand across his forehead, eyes shielded behind his palm, he could just see the particular dip in the dunes that meant he was walking the right way home: over to his right, the clouds, knowing that water was closer, kept nearer the ground, and he could navigate from here on a good day, using his sense of smell and the sounds that drifted to him like the notes from an ancient, sacred text. Drifts of music, bellows and bells, sang to him in the desert breezes and gave him as much direction as he needed.

He would have liked a drink, though. He had only enough left in his water bag for a couple of careful mouthfuls. He would keep that awhile and swallow its warmth with the remains of his food for his evening meal.  As the heat of the day became intense, even his sandals were scorched. It would be time to rest soon.

Not much further to go.

Starting awake from his walking stupor, he noticed a small, dark snake sliding towards him, smelling water. Or perhaps just slipping from one hole to another…. He watched, and the snake was gone, leaving him feeling alone. Uneasy in the drifting sand, he moved more carefully. Out here, it would be too easy to fall asleep and bake oneself dry. Best to keep moving.

Time passed in a slipstream painted blue. Perhaps he had gone wrong, after all, when suddenly he heard shards of music. His feet took possession of his body and turned towards it easily. Up ahead, as if it had crawled there and stood itself upright, was a tent. A boy was concealed within shadows to the side, where a thin, ageing camel was tethered uneasily. His face carefully expressionless, Ahmed approached slowly, carefully noting the strange tilt of this bivouac, the ropes pegged at unusual angles. From the usual polite distance he dipped his head and signalled his approach while the other boy, hunched over a tall stick of some polished wood, watched warily, flapping his hand in a movement that suggested he should move on.

Ahmed tilted his head: all visitors had the right to ask for rest and a drink, for shade at the height of day, and the boy’s posture made him curious. Why should he not hope to wait here through the heat of day? It was either a woman, or some other private business he had chanced upon: trade in rifles, an argument over a water hole or negotiations for marriage…whatever it was, he assumed he was being invited to move on. He flashed anger at the boy, who smiled sheepishly. Looking again, Ahmed saw the guardian’s face blank, his eyes still and unseeing. But, held propped up in the sand, the polished wood staff vibrated, sending a sound like breathing music into the air beyond. Arrested by something he had never seen before, Ahmed now waited, politely standing back. The instrument, whatever it was, had been fashioned as a crude sound box strapped with leather strips to a staff, a bridge and strings fastened above with wire or something like plastic string. It had taken a long time to make, but out here, that would not be a problem.

Low notes and trills reached his ears as he stood still, rooted to his place, watching the boy’s fingers dancing over the wires, then heard a slower, broader melody coaxed with a bow. Audience of one, Ahmed waited, listened and hoped he had not missed most of it.

There was a sensation round his ankles. He looked down to see a small cat winding itself around his legs, looking up at him with a peaceful, hopeful face. Uncorking his water bottle he dipped his fingers in and allowed the cat to lick them dry, its rough tongue rasping greedily.

“You like my music?” the boy called.

“Very – very much.” He groped for words to describe musical breezes. “It is very beautiful.”

“I will play some more, if you like.”

Ahmed approached slowly, saw a grin and reached down to clasp the boy’s big hands in greeting. Beneath the long tunic which only partly covered his neck and shoulders, Ahmed saw crossed legs and worn slippers. From the eyes there was no glimpse of recognition, just a smile that shone.

“Thank you.”

“My father is away searching for firewood. He will be back after dark. If you like, there is a little food in the tent. You are welcome to have some, and to fill your water bottle from the large gourd.” He went on playing as Ahmed lifted the flap, crouched and went behind his host into the tent. A small cushion, old and frayed with use, lay towards the rear, with a scrap of blue carpet beneath. Poverty was not masked by the large gun, an old flintlock, which hung at the back of the tent, well-oiled.

Beneath the canvas, the light was diffused, as if by shining, the sun painted the cloth a deep pale yellow. There was a small pot resting up against the cushion, which presumably contained the boy’s meal. Ahmed knew that he could not eat that, but he gratefully filled his gourd with water and took a few extra mouthfuls, letting a small trickle of water run down his neck. The urge to sleep was overpowering, but he shook it aside, crossly. I must not fall asleep now he thought, I have only a kilometre or two before I am home, and then Fatima will be waiting for me, with some warm milk and a piece of flatbread. I must press on.

“Where are we?” he asked the other boy lazily, as much to make conversation as to know the answer.

“Not far from the water, is my guess. About a day’s travel at the most, I should say. Can you not smell it?”

“No, not that. I smell other things, of course. Camel dung, smoking fires, even tobacco, but not the sea.” Ahmed chuckled.

“Well, it is not far. My father is there, and will be coming back today. He said he would….”

“I am sure he will. Peace be upon him.”

Ahmed sat companionably, listening to the plaintive music rising up from the bow that the boy was sawing gently. Resting, he waited until the sun was dipping at the horizon and turning the sand a flaming red before continuing on his journey. Of the boy’s father there was no sign; the playing continued until Ahmed was out of earshot and the sky was quite dark.

Slowly does it

Success happened so slowly, that by the time they came asking her questions, she had almost forgotten this was her, they were asking about. She had not yet grown accustomed to the wonderful – spectacular – tidings, interspersed with long, blank periods of silence and occasional emails bearing good news. “Your cheque is on the way, has been paid in, your release date is early next year…Welcome to our publicist.” Because the silences in between were so deep, she began to doubt that her biggest dream had come true, that she had actually done the literary equivalent of winning the lottery. It took occasional reminders and statistics gleaned from dogged, faithful on-line friends and worthy “How To” articles, to reassure her that well now, writing was what she did, by all accounts, and that she had best find ways to carry on doing that. During the long gestation before her book would be born, whenever anyone needing anything did get in touch, asking for this or that, she had been used to doing everything, like, yesterday. Working for people who genuinely loved something she had made was a pleasure, and she waited eagerly for further instructions.

The hardest part was remembering her poverty. She had one good suit that she had bought for her wedding, now with one moth-hole (carefully darned) and there was a brace of shirts that she kept for special occasions and had never worn, hanging about waiting for the day she would have to be smartly turned out, carefree in cufflinks. Cufflinks for women were something new, though she had always envied those who could demonstrate so subtly their unsuitedness to domestic tasks. She had bought herself one pair, just to experiment with the ambition that said she, too, might one day leave aside the wet dishes and the soaking tubs, the water that would not now be allowed to catch her cuffs and creep annoyingly up to her elbows. It seemed that her wishes were coming true.

The excitement that others read into the print, she had expelled uneasily over many years. The writing was not the worst part, so that by the time they were enthusiastic, she had moved on to other things, and was able to smile convincingly, and give great answers. She was ahead of them in that, but when they were off zooming down the highway, she waited patiently.

Esther

“So, my dear, you want to stay, do you?” The unpleasant, oily tone said more than the words, and the sneer left no room for doubt. Esther Alambe was unwelcome.

“I have fled from my home because…” the woman’s words came slowly, one at a time. Not only was she unused to speaking the English she had learnt at school, but having a conversation, understanding what the man was saying, considering a reply, all took time. And there was the question of why. Why had she run away, concealing only her identity papers in her cleavage and disappearing into the night wearing her thin, evening clothes and light sandals?

“I was soon to be married and, well, in my culture, it is often that a woman is -” Unsure how to reveal what was so very private, she whispered to the woman sitting next to her “Do I have to tell him, now?” The quiet nod was enough, and Esther’s hopes sank, just when she needed her courage most. “In my village it is the custom to cut her before she is married!” She spoke more loudly than she intended, her cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

“All right, all right, no need to shout. Keep yer hair on. In your country…” there was a pause while the gentleman shuffled through a thin dossier that was at his right elbow. “In your country, it is illegal to cut a woman, according to your penal code. Is that not so?”

“I suppose it may be, but…”

“Well then, there was no reason to leave, was there?” The man shut the file and sat back, lacing his hands over his stomach.

“Yes, but you see, where I live, in my village, all the girls are cut before they marry. It is the custom and I cannot go against it. I am just a daughter. I saw what happened to my sisters. My two older sisters died soon after, from so much bleeding, there was so much blood on their clothes, on the bed. My uncle was negotiating for my marriage and the man who was to marry me was insisting that I should be cut, you see.”

“You could just have refused, or run away to the city?”

It seemed obvious when he spoke like that, so that Esther was silenced. She could feel the woman beside her urging her to speak, because silence now might be taken for agreement, and that might signal capitulation. But Esther looked at the man before her and understood. He was pale, too broad around the stomach. His legs looked thin and his hair was thin too, from lack of exercise, from sitting at the desk all day, shuffling papers to one side and then the other. Bizarrely, she felt sorry for him and for his glib cruelty, his deliberate unkindness. He did not want to understand, and everything she managed to tell him would be twisted around the wrong way.

But why, she wondered, why the hostility? What had she done to deserve such stupidity? Was it because she was a woman, a black woman? A black woman from Africa who did not have any rights? I do not fit here, she was thinking.

“They would have found me and taken me home again. If I had run away to Accra they would have found me, reported me missing or – something like that. Afterwards they would always be looking for me. In our families everyone can find out. It is the way.”

“Well, our way is a bit different, I think you will find.”

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, her questioner wanted Esther to leave. “Is there anything you would like to add to your statement before the end of our interview?”

“I miss my country and my family. I would not have fled at night unless I was very frightened. Cutting and bleeding and such pain would have brought only sorrow to me. But, in our culture, because I am a woman, whatever I could do would bring pain. It is the way.”

He eyed her speculatively, wondering what to say next. “Well, you see my dear, your country’s penal code makes it clear that cutting is illegal and anyone involved in it can expect to go to prison.” He spoke the last words with deliberate slowness. “We accept that your government has a policy against. So officially, there is little we can do, see? If the law was different, it would be easier…”

“But women live in the villages, with their fathers, husbands…even going to school is difficult. Unless our fathers protect us, we will be given in marriage….like cattle, she was thinking. “My father died.”

Esther sat back, exhausted with emotion and memories. “Have you seen a woman being cut?” she asked, unexpectedly impatient. “They tie a little girl to a table, or they hold her down, two up top and two below, so that she does not move. They take an old knife, and they cut away all her private parts. Just like that. No stopping for the screams, or mercy. She is stitched up with a needle and thread and wrapped and left to heal all alone. That is what they call “cutting”. Make it polite so that no-one knows what happens.” Esther’s eyes sparkled defiance as she waited for him to close the file. But he looked up, straight into her eyes, and she saw new respect. So, he was a bully, he liked women to talk back, eh? Esther was glad she had spoken out. “I hope you wrote that down, what I said?” she asked more politely. The woman clutching a shorthand notebook beside her nodded sharply, her mouth set in a grim line.

“I’ll defer a decision on your case. Meantime, see if you can rustle up some representation.”

Esther nodded. She saved the small, grim smile until her back was turned. She had not been cut. She had escaped. Now, for now, there was a small window of light, a breath of air she might breathe. Someday, she might be safe. It was a hope she held close to her heart.

Sunday at Meeting

I was on duty last Sunday, greeting at the Meeting Room door, but we set off from home much later than I would have liked. Family duties seem to crowd round me on Sundays, like eager and slightly unruly children, demanding my attention, Now Now Now , but eventually we set off, car de-iced, daughter reluctantly wrapped up in her warm jacket bought for weather exactly like that morning’s, and complaining bitterly about parents.

I reached my station five minutes late, to find a dear friend happily chatting to arrivals. I was so grateful to see him and so pleased, that my eyes might have misted over just then, and I fumbled for my tissue, as everyone else seemed to be doing anyway. I stood to do my duty, then sat gratefully outside the room where others were gathered, crying quietly and unsure why. Cold, tired and slightly shredded, I hate arriving for Meeting in a fumbling mess, uttering pious sentiments, smiling at my friends, and then leaving to resume the mantle of domesticity.

This came to me, I must re-learn, free myself from the constraints of duty and honour, and re-acquaint myself with the impulses that proceed from genuine joy and love.

Genuine love and joy are empowering, liberating and full of the right kind of energy. As I sat weeping, I noticed that I could not hope to help anyone, if my doings came from a sense of (obligation, duty and honour) all bracketed together in a heavy bundle. The only way out, was to accept the help that others gave, to listen to their love and allow myself some peace and liberty. So, I have told Eddie that I would like a couple of days away next weekend, and I could have sworn I saw a tinge of relief in his face thank goodness, she is going to go and have some fun… I know where I would like to go, to a small B & B down near the gardens, where I can wander at will, freely admire the trees and hug them without being told I’m embarrassing or silly….it is a parent’s job to be embarrassing, but sometimes we too, we want to be allowed peace to be with ourselves, alone.

Feet First

I’ve just had a lovely visit from a friend, who was explaining that she recently visited a podiatrist. Ok, chiropodist. We were animatedly discussing how our feet, and the way we walk, affects our whole body, our calves, our back, our necks…which set me thinking about my routinely dreadful posture, my shambling and all the compromises I  muddle through. These days, I walk so seldom that I can feel my whole body stiffening up, in places I didn’t know could be stiff. So, just to keep me a bit flexible, I think I shall be going swimming more often. So far, this year, my resolution to swim every day – or, at least five times a week, timetables permitting – seems to be holding. Monday, Tuesday and today, three in a row.

Apparently, I have one leg which is an inch or so shorter than the other. That might make anyone lope a bit, I suppose. I use an elbow crutch outside to help with balance. I also wear a certain brand of shoes which make me wobble. But these shoes, which are expensive, top-of-the-range types, are so comfortable for my back, my hips and my knees (except when I wobble too far and fall, in which case, everything hurts) that I persist with them. My legs, feet and knees have endured years of unusual wear and tear, so these soft, sturdy shoes are valuable shock absorbers.

I was wondering what would happen if I telephoned the chiropodist and asked to make an appointment. Would she say there was nothing she could do to help me, that my problems were too complex? I suspect so, though I have rarely had the luxury of an independent or sympathetic assessment of my compromises. There is the chance that another, careful professional look-see would yield a handful of helpful answers, even if the outcome was a fresh list of problems that I might need to watch out for. I don’t mind being made aware, so long as I can keep my body active. On the other hand, I have sort of worked out what works and what causes real problems. I am also reluctant to tell the whole story, again, to yet another professional. Should I just phone up and see how far I get, or would a dignified silence be best? Only time will tell.

Growing Up

I’m still upset about a particular thing that happened yesterday, but it was my daughter who said, “If he is doing something wrong, he can sort it out”, a reminder that sometimes we need to grow up and let go; which can be hard when we invest a lot of thought or time in something. We want to be appreciated for all that we contribute, and it can be sharp when instead we are repeatedly told what we are doing wrong.

Yes, indeed. Is this not how I have fallen into the habit of speaking to my husband? Do I not repeatedly offer him advice instead of listening? Chide him instead of waiting peacefully for what he has to say? Before I had a long-term hire car, and he was always driving, did I not tell him what he was doing wrong, where he should watch out, be careful? If he does the shopping, do I not always look through the shopping bags, regretful for that two-kilo lump of cheese and wondering why he always forgets to buy salad? Do I not tell him he showers for too long (well, twenty-five minutes is a bit long, sometimes) and uses too much soap? When we go out to Church on Sundays, has it not been my habit to feeI I know better? Yes, yes and yes. Mea Culpa.

Just because Eddie has chosen to spend his life with me, does not mean I have the right to lecture him. I do not have the right to tell him what he is doing wrong, what he should think, how he should behave, who he should associate with or write Christmas cards to. I do not have the right to tell him what to do with his afternoons off, or to insist that we should “all do something together”. Actually, the more I think about this, the more I realise that, as Seline said the other night, “You just want to make other people miserable because you are miserable.” At the time, I agreed with her, “Yes, darling, of course, you are right” because I find that agreeing is a marvellous way to diffuse an argument. I have also come to respect her observations, and to notice that they often contain a grain of truth. And, now that I am no longer routinely miserable, I notice more clearly how often I have imposed misery on other people. Noticing that is motive enough to want to stop, right away. What my husband does is up to him. I hope that my more laissez faire attitude will mean that he will choose to spend more time with me, enjoyably. In the meantime, I challenge myself to mind my own business, literally, making my own time rewarding and as happy as I can. A good resolution for the New Year, methinks.

 

Emotions all over the place

Suzie could see herself, snapping and snarling as she wiped the tiles behind the cooker, which streamed with steaming rivulets of water. The entire back wall had to be wiped down fast, her arms carefully navigating behind hot handles, sticky bottles of oil and damp teabag boxes containing unused chamomile infusion. She could hear herself getting angry, and wanting to stop, but why could Ali not see what needed done? Why was he leaving her to do all this now, while he tucked into steak pie? Why had he burnt the curly kale, left the potatoes to boil to mush? She had been gone only ten minutes.

Squeezing out the heavy, hot cloths, she abandoned her scrubbing, wiping and sniping, then sat reluctantly with a heavy thump and salvaged what she could of her own meal – charred kale, cooling potatoes and hummus – while her husband and daughter carefully finished their steak pie. Maxine slipped out of the door and Ali quietly waited for the storm to pass. Suzie had to decide what to do.

“I want you to -” she tried to explain, “And I get cross, because you never …”

Ali nodded, “Yes. That is true. I don’t”

“And you will always be just yourself, after all.”

“And I do love you.”

“I’m sorry I left the kitchen, but I thought you knew.”

“Knew what? You never said.”

“Not to burn the kale, to add water.” At this, she was hard pressed not to cry aloud, thinking that without her to tend to this kind of thing, her husband and daughter would live on pies and bacon and eggs. Her heart heaved with sorrow at the loss of veg. Without her there, he would manage meals in his own way, but would that include any green stuff? It was a worry, of sorts.

Then she recalled her sister, burning onions, and a small, wry, smile lifted her face.  Even the best cooks forget to tell each other, “The soup needs a stir in five minutes, I’m just out to the garden for a moment.” Even the best of intentions get caught up in conversations, as we stand with our backs to a pot bubbling up over the stove. Accidents happen when we have other things to do.

“I’ll tell you, next time I go out.”

“And I’ll try to watch more closely.”

A Different Kind of Courage

A Different Kind of Courage

I forgot to pray this morning – ooops! – and you could say that I am crying now because of it. A sharp email from an unexpected source has cut into me. It wasn’t even anything to do with me, but affects someone else. How embarrassed we can become, on behalf of other people!

I have every reason to be cheerful. I have a family who love me, a life that many would envy, peace, and a place in which I can be myself without attracting disapproval. These are all precious gifts, and I do not take them for granted.

When difficulties come, what can I do with them? Should I walk straight through them, dodge around them or silently ignore them? Probably, at the moment, a dignified silence is the best option, so that if there are any misunderstandings, at least I do not add to them. It is so easy to say what one doesn’t mean, especially with emails.

But wait! Before I go in a huddle of silent martyrdom, is there something more to be gleaned from a niggling difficulty? Is this particular something worth taking the time to master, or am I wasting my time with it? If this particular crux is about learning mastery, then peaceful acceptance may well be best, forcing me to carry on with breathing as serenely as I can, waiting silent in the meantime for life to show me what to do.

On the other hand, spiritual wisdom also teaches us that when the way is strewn with boulders, or we have a stream of constant snags, or feel as if we are always walking on eggshells around a certain situation, this may be a signal that we should be going and doing something else. Maybe a difficult situation is there to remind us that there are other projects and places where being would be easier, more rewarding and more in accordance with our longer-term plans. If we are walking along a rutted road which is bordered by a smooth path, it is idiotic to continue on the road.

If a project never seems to go smoothly, or feels as if it is conspiring against us, that might be our signal to leave. Then the main questions are, is this situation A or situation B? and If this is situation B, when and how may I leave tactfully and with the minimum loss of face to everyone involved. That takes the sort of courage that I am not used to exercising. Perhaps that is my next challenge.

What is Success?

We talk a lot about success these days, and our obsession with sporting wins and losses, with Olympics, Commonwealth Games, World Cups, Six Nations and Wimbledon only fuels our interest in winning, in being the single, solitary best. There is a problem with that take on it, though, because what about the other ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine souls who enter the race? Do they not succeed as well?

Yesterday afternoon I finally took the plunge and sent something off that I have been mulling over for ages. Yesterday – success! – I actually went ahead and did what I had been meaning to do. Finally having the courage to press the send button after months of dithering, that is what I call success. Real success is having the courage to follow through on our hopes, one step at a time. Real success is applying for the job, turning up for interview, not necessarily getting the job.

Success is not always to be measured by the reactions of others – though when other people like what we do, it is very gratifying – but by how our actions make us feel. Put another way, success is what we do, not what other people reward us for doing. Success is having the courage to honour our preferences without investing in the outcome. By that measure, anyone who enters the race, who tries so hard to live with integrity, is immensely successful, and, regardless of their earthly gains, has already won the only race that matters.