Pensée

About ten or fifteen years ago (dates aren’t my strong point) I saw a healer about my migraines.

    ‘There’s a difference’, she said, ‘between triggers and cause. What you need to do is find out the cause of your migraines.’

    I agreed with her. The triggers for my migraines seemed too numerous even to list and I was blowed if I was going to limit my life any more than I did already as a result of the migraines – an almost-vegan diet, minimal social life, working from home. I’d never been to a doctor about my migraines. I didn’t want to be tied to some drug for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to be a ‘patient’. I preferred exploring complementary therapies, doing something for myself.

    Over the last few weeks however – ever since I had my ‘dead dog dream’ (see previous post) – something strange has been happening. In spite of my lovely birthday (because of it?) I’ve been feeling ill most of the time. The only days I’ve woken up feeling well are the days when I had no wine the night before (and before you snigger knowingly, let me tell you that I only ever have one glass – any more and I know that I would be violently sick) and the day I felt worst was the day after the day I’d had some chocolate as well. It was as if something was pinpointing my triggers or as if my triggers were narrowing themselves down in an effort to tell me something.

    ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I shall do without both alcohol and chocolate between now and our holiday in four weeks’ time (and maybe cheese as well as that might be another culprit) and see what happens.’

    I’d been wanting to lose a few pounds before the holiday and this way I could kill two birds with one stone (not that I’d ever want to kill a bird, or anything for that matter – except perhaps a dying dog). I’d been battling with causes for thirty-five years. Just for once, I would concentrate on triggers.

    That was Wednesday.

    It’s as if something fundamental has been snatched from my life. I feel stunned. And yesterday afternoon, as I lay on my bed recovering from the shock, I had a thought.

    Life’s not about doing as much as possible. It’s about giving yourself what you need.

That may not seem earth-shattering to you but to me it was a revelation. Alcohol and chocolate had been part of a lifestyle that was toxic to me. They had propped it up and, without them, my whole life was going to have to change. I could no longer race through the day, struggling to get to the end of a never-ending ‘to do’ list, denying myself what I really wanted (not even eating) and compensating at the end of the day with ‘treats’. Those treats had gone. I was going to have to replace them. I was going to give myself what I really needed instead. And those things were:

    Food and rest.

And I have a feeling that’s just the start. Fun and real pleasure could be added to those two items in due course.

    I want to cry.

    It’s great being sixty.

Dead dog dream

The mangled and bloody remains of what I think is a dog lie in a mound of freshly turned earth. I think the thing is dead but suddenly it starts twitching and writhing. I can’t bear the thought of the pain the creature must be going through but I don’t know what to do. I want to pile earth on to it so that I don’t have to look at it any more but I have a feeling that might be cowardly. I have to kill it outright, but I can’t. I don't want to and I don't know how to do it.

I wake, and realise that the creature is my past – the things in my past that still give me pain but which I can’t give up.

(And thanks to Trish Currie's brilliant blog which gave me the idea for this post.)

Now I am sixty

I do things because I want to, not because I ought to

I am grown-up so more than a match for anyone or anything (even other grown-ups or stroppy spaniel/collie dogs)

I focus on being myself, not Ms Perfect

I leave the past behind

I look forward to a glorious future

I embrace the possibility of change . . .

. . . In other words, I live every day as if it was my sixtieth birthday. And yes, I had a wonderful time. Thank you to everyone who helped make it so.

Sewing B

A couple of months ago I said to Frog, ‘There are all these cookery programmes on television but why is there never anything about sewing?’ And then, lo and behold, a few weeks ago, ‘The Great British Sewing Bee’ appeared on BBC2.
    I’m hooked. Although the programme spends too much time on the sewers and not enough on the sewing (of course), it’s giving me ideas, revealing to me just how much I don’t know, and legitimising a passion that has long been one of my guilty secrets (‘clothes are frivolous’, ‘colour and texture are women’s things and therefore not important’ etc etc).

    Strangely, at around the time the programme started, I had decided to stop writing for a while. It was too difficult to find the time and the space. The dog hated me doing it. I was worn out after eight months of intense concentration. Sewing raced to fill the gap, albeit largely in its ‘making do and mending’ guise – which is something else that has the function of legitimising my passion (I’m ‘saving’ money, not spending it on unnecessary things like clothes). As follows.

We are lucky enough to be going on holiday to a Greek island in the summer and an Ikea bag, I have discovered, makes an ideal beach bag, as it’s a good colour and big enough and light enough for all those essential items for a day walking and beaching – mat, towel, swimmers, book, water, suncream, map. Its straps unfortunately have Ikea blazoned on them and I’ve never liked that. Then I came across some webbing that I’d used many years ago to turn a shop-bought hand-bag into a shoulder-bag. That bag is now defunct but the webbing lives on.

My sunhat is too big. It slips over my ears when I get hot (and sweaty). While going through my drawer of bits, I came across the ties from a long-dead linen skirt. Here is one of them trimming my hat and tightening the brim.

I made a shirt in which to travel (hot ferry but necessity for modesty) but decided it was boring. I’ve tried to cheer it up with some material left over from a dress I made last year. I still don’t like it.

And then I splashed out. I bought two lots of Indian cotton from the newly expanded (and recommended) Exeter Fabric Shop with which to make beach dresses.

One of the patterns I’m using is thirty-five years old. I last used it the year Frog and I married and I wore the dress until it fell apart. Frog has persuaded me to use the pattern again, even though I wondered if it was too young for me (but then of course reusing patterns is so thrifty . . .).

So there you are. B and her sewing. Where it’s all leading, I have no idea. I'll never make my fame and fortune this way. But, then again, I'll probably never make it writing either. And at least the dog's happy now.

Signs of the times

Although late, primroses are putting on an extra-special display this year:

Last year it was the turn of celandines to excel – in both size and quantity – but this year they’re back to normal. Don’t you love their tiny heart-shaped leaves.

The ditch where I saw the frogspawn seven weeks ago (goodness, how time flies) has now dried out. I fear the tadpoles have had it.

    (When I passed by this morning a toad was sitting in the mud. I wish I’d taken a photograph then. What do you think she/he was doing?)

Stitchwort is always the first of what I call the ‘hedgerow’ flowers to appear. I saw this lone clump beside the road on Friday, shivering in the Siberian blast (me and the plant) - hence the slightly blurred picture:

The magnificent shiny trowel-shaped leaves of wild arum (lords and ladies) which are popping up all over the place. Some of them look to be about a foot in length.