On Monday morning I arrived at my offices early as part of a suite of conscious March actions I am taking to do things that are less comfortable and therefore better for me. An existential spring clean, if you will. Getting dressed for the day to go out and interact with other humans in a physical workspace rather than isolate myself and work from home in soft clothes is a very good example of something that challenges my comfort in these post covid years. As I was early, I took the opportunity to plonk myself down in an armchair that was positioned in a pool of sunshine streaming through the picture windows to the rear of the building. From a seated position, the view outside is of the skyline and upper floors of the sandstone townhouses opposite, but below this are back courts, parked cars, bins and mews houses scattered along this particular stretch of West End cobbled lane, in the vicinity of Kelvingrove Park. I am not a lover of cat’s but I imagine I’d make a good one, finding the best spot on the sun path at any given time of day, sleeping, purring, allowing myself to be stroked when the notion takes me and left in peace when it doesn’t. The sun was warm and comforting and I had to tilt my head in line with the wooden frames of the sash windows to shield my eyes from the laser-like glare of the spring morning light and brilliant blue sky. It felt cosy, and I imagined I was running my hand across sun-baked cat fur, but my peace was disturbed by a familiar gnaw of something situated in my solar plexus. It’s an odd sensation of foreboding, like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Someone once remarked to me that I look for something to worry about before anything worrying has happened. They’re not far off the mark, I scan my mind for things I’ve done wrong, or might be in danger of doing wrong in the future for which I could be reprimanded. The reality is, no-one is examining what I’m doing or not doing on any given day or situation, as I am pretty intimate with all my life admin and adulting responsibilities. If there was someone, they don’t matter, at least that’s what I tell myself intellectually. The problem is my sub-conscious mind often wins out.
On the car journey to work, I had lifted my phone to find a London Grammar playlist I have saved on Spotify. Hannah Reid’s vocals have a nervous system soothing effect on me and I often like having it on in the background so I can be swept up in the familiar comfort of it. However, by some fluke, Radio 4 was tuned in and as I turned on the car, my attention was caught by a voice reading from the book ‘Iris’ by John Bayley (1998). I made a decision to drop the phone in the cars centre console and have a listen instead. At first I was keen to see how the author had crafted this piece of non-fiction. If the prose was lyrical, poetic or matter of fact and compare this to my own writing to see what I might learn, but in no time I had forgotten that and the story pulled me in. I quickly learned that the protagonist, Iris, was an accomplished author of twenty six novels and academic texts on philosophy. Her husband, who was the books narrator was recalling a memory where she and he were preparing for a swim in a lake after having cycled to the waterside on a baking hot English Summer day. Both now in their seventies and having been in love for over forty years, Iris was suffering from Alzheimer’s and he was caring for her. While there were struggles, like Iris’s childlike resistance to being helped out of the clothes covering her bathing suit in preparation for a swim or bewilderment at being asked by an admirer of her writing to sign one of her books, there was also joy. Like not having lost her proficiency for swimming so that the couple could indulge in their open water passion that begun four decades before, or catching each other’s eyes in an expressionless gaze before dissolving into a fit of giggles. As the story flowed it described a partnership where fun was prioritised among hard work and accomplishment. Listening, I had felt a mix of emotions. I was jolted to remember that life is fleeting so to live it to the fullest and that to do so I must get out of my head, into my body and focus on the good stuff in the present. But I also felt sadness from the lack of someone in my life with whom I can share a passion for being outdoors in nature and who will take care of me through illness. My marriage ended in June 2020, however my decree absolut was given its official court stamp last month on the 11th of February, bringing with it closure but also an exciting sense of new beginnings. I have dated in the intervening years but not much and I haven’t met anyone in that time who felt like a fit. I have been consciously creating a beautiful life for myself and my son, I write, he draws, we see friends and loved ones and we travel, in between the responsibilities of my work and his school. But I am craving the intimacy and nurture that a romantic relationship can offer and I feel I’m ready to build a life and future with someone who can match me in drive, passion and accomplishment, and with whom I can practice reciprocity. It’s definitely on the cards, I often have dreams where I am kissing a bearded man on a Lochside while the Scottish landscape does it’s dreamy thing, so I’ll accept that it’s a vision of the future and leave it to divine timing.
Before my commute and work and worries on Monday morning, my son, the Lion Cub, reminded me that I promised we’d take an early morning walk to the park near our home to see the daffodils. We first started doing this five years ago when Boris told us we all had to stay home and only venture out for one daily walk. On our stroll up to the park, I reminded the Lion Cub that the centre of the daffodil is called a corona and how I had immortalised our lockdown morning walks into a poem. We walked together laughing, counting our steps and taking turns reciting lines from the Gruffalo. Present in a joyful moment as we appreciated the nature on our doorstep, calm and very much loved.
Daffodils
We know they are there, camouflage in a sea of green blades bolt upright to catch the light, photosynthesise as we seek and hide in the dewy day break.
Each morning, empty breakfast bellies, we check again.
Maybe this day they’ll burst like an orchestra of trumpets or push forward a soloist to greet us instead a corona of confidence in this disquiet.
We don’t mind we’re here, anyway, stealing these days from the morning commute to
be, to breathe, to take time
as nature conducts.
