My anger burns. My heart beats so hard in my chest that I can’t breathe. The night are the worst. All day I can push it to the back of my mind, keep busy, be distracted. But at night, while my lover sleeps so soundly beside me, and the silence pierces my ears, the raging fires light and my jealousy and anger and hurt and bitterness rise to the surface. I often wake up exhausted. I try to be happy and joyful and peaceful and loving, but lack of sleep and my deep disappointment means I’m often snappy, blunt, ‘hard’, and negative. All my smiles are cover ups. It’s a relief when someone wants to share something bad with me as I can think about something else for a while without feeling jealous or like a complete failure. I want it to go away, for the pain to stop, for the raging bitterness to leave me. But it just grows and grows.
The man I live with and do life with, top of the list.
Cuddling with my boyfriend. His arm around me and his voluntary kisses and kind words mean so much to me. I actually find him interesting, fascinating, funny and fun. His steadfastness is life breathing.
My health. I am fit, sort of flexible, able to move my whole body, and I am well. Even when I have a cold I can still function. I am grateful for a free healthcare provision in the NHS, which enables me to ring a doctor without having to pay for the appt/treatment. I’m not worrying about getting I’ll in case I can’t pay. I pay for my prescriptions, but I’m grateful I can get them regularly, and don’t have walk miles or do much to get them. I am grateful my prescriptions keep me alive and functioning well.
My family. I love that I have a relationship with them all. I live far too far away to say that we are super close, but we talk deeply to one another and I fully appreciate the quality time I have with them every time. I try to be present and with them when I am. I’d like to see them more and wish they made more effort to see me. I miss their easy presence and I’m jealous of their closeness. But it was my choice to live far away so I own that. I also acknowledge that where I live is my home, and where they live is their home. I make a conscious effort to visit their home and to see them when I’m down.
My places of work. I mostly enjoy what I do and I care deeply about what I do. I take care of other people’s children in the classroom as if they were my own. I want the best for them. I challenge them. I praise them. I try to think of good ideas to inspire them. I love being able to teach adults and little ones and the in between. I’m grateful to have taught dance, a passion of mine from teen years. I’m happy to have been able to teach beginners through to advanced level through the years. I’m learning still all the time. I’m grateful my job puts food on the table and money in my bank, so I can buy things. I can pay my bills so far, and I don’t over spend so I feel okay.
My home. I have found and live in a wonderful home. It feels like home because my love lives with me. It was an easy place to move to because it’s quite new and didn’t need much work. Perfect for now when we are both working a lot and tired, we just want to cuddle up and enjoy it. And we do. We need to make some small touches to it, and it’s not fully ‘home’ yet, but it might be. It can serve others too, which we might venture towards in the future. It’s in a nice location.
My car. I have one, it works, it’s reliable. It’s comfortable to drive. I am aware there are many that don’t have one. It makes life easier. And we have two options, which is even better, especially when one vehicle can help move a single person and stuff from one flat to another.
My education. As someone who works in education and whom has traveled and seen education in many other countries, I am grateful to have a free education. I was born and raised within the millennium, when Language like ‘you can be who you want to be, anything is possible’ was echoed around. I worked very hard and achieved more than I needed to. I walked into training and jobs, at the right time. I understand and know that for some it’s not that easy. Education isn’t free for all. Freedom of speech and opinion isn’t free for all. Doing the job you love isn’t an option for some. Doing a job at all doesn’t feel like an option for some. Education has much responsibility on closing the gaps between poverty and wealth, and although I didn’t choose where I lived and grew up, I am grateful for the education I had and the opportunities it opened for me, which I chose to take.
My personality. I am caring, loving, intense, passionate, tenacious, deep, creative, driven, disciplined (in some areas) and I can be fun. I bring energy and vigor. I notice that my presence often makes or breaks a room. I can lift peoples spirits, I’m not afraid to make a fool of myself for the sake of others feeling good, and I love building peoples confidence and seeing them light up. I can be desirable, funny, and a good listener. I can learn quickly if I’m instructed well, and I can be innovative. I can lead and I can follow. I am good at instilling harmony to a group, and I can motivate others through speech. I love being a part of something, and my biggest values are being valued, admired, loved for who I am.
The fact that I was born in the top 1%. This is not something I chose, or worked for necessarily. I am grateful that I ‘have’ so much, while acknowledging that others don’t have that. It’s not a boast, or an opportunity to tilt my head with ‘I feel sorry for those that don’t’ vibe, but I acknowledge and am thankful for what I HAVE been given. And it was given. I worked hard, I have given up certain things to get where I am, but I am also riding the wave of MY life as it plays out. Not everything I have was in my control. It wasn’t down to me that we bought the house, it was the Estate agents and the previous owners choice; plenty of others had the money to buy it. It wasn’t down to me that I got a job where I did, it was my employers choice to hire me.
Life is not fair. Some people get money, love, family success, accolades and health all their lives. They might have struggles at times, and their feelings are valid, but they will never know the struggle of others or be able to empathise. Other people experience elements of trauma, sadness, loss, disappointment and failure. Some of these things might happen because of choices they made, but some will happen not for any reason at all, they just happen. Some people live with extreme bad throughout their lives, some are born into poverty, Illness, a life where things aren’t easy. That’s the funny, complex thing about life. We are connected to others and yet every single one of us has an individual life we are living.
My biggest struggle is comparing what I have walked/been given/worked for/live through with others. I try not to, but it’s really hard. It’s really hard to celebrate with someone who has what you want, and not feel envious of them. And what you want isn’t necessarily about what ‘they’ have. I wouldn’t trade my life story with others, I’ve loved all the great things in my life. It’s more the ease with which they receive all these things I struggle to attain. I know someone who just got bought a top of the range car. They don’t understand what it means to save up for years to be able to buy one. They can say they are grateful, but they wont truly know how grateful they are unless it’s taken away from them. I know many people that have gotten married and stayed together. They may sympathise and try to guess what it’s like to have your partner walk away, or indeed how it feels to walk away from a partner/family, but they will never truly know the fullness of pain and hurt, as they have never felt it. Those that never meet a partner and yet yearn for one will always struggle in the company of those who are together, despite those people being loving and caring. Those with a health defect will always look at those with good health and think, ‘I wish that was me’. Those with children whether helped or not will also slightly annoy and irritate those who desperately want to have children and can’t, and those that do have children, no matter how tough the journey to get there, will still never fully feel or know the pain of not being able to, regardless of how long it took, because they still have the prize now. Those that had and lost children, loved ones, family members, wish they had the altogether family and feel pain, when others are so happy together.
I don’t understand why life is unfair. Not a single person deserves any of it. Not a single person can say, ‘its mine by right’, because all these things can be taken away at any time. Even saying things like, ‘I’m just lucky’ makes it out like you were ‘chosen’, even by luck of the draw to be more fortunate, like having that thing is better than not. You weren’t, it just happened, and you’re not better than others for having that thing. I do also understand that sometimes, having these things causes stress and worry and anxiety too. Money comes with a feeling of not being able to trust others, and they must know that people find it hard to relate to them and they must feel lonely. Having a family is great, but once you begin that journey, it’s life long stress, worry, caring too much, thinking all the time until you die. And you have no control over your children’s life choices. You can only do your best and then hope. But they might choose to move away, to not talk to you, to not sit with you when you’re at your deathbed. You can’t control that.
The only thing we can control are our choices to these unfortunate life experiences. why and how do some people cope better with this than others? Why do some sail through, feel okay, deal with it, and why do others become bitter, hurt, unforgiving? None of these people asked for the outcomes? I’m learning more everyday that these people who don’t have what others do, are much more loveable. They are the ones that ‘deserve’, even though maybe they don’t ‘get’. I just hope I can be a person that will get to the end of my life and say, ‘I loved my life. I loved my choices, I loved what I had, and I lived well through my suffering.
In November 2021, I performed my show pursuit of perfection, to a paying audience at the Leeds Playhouse. Two years of hard work, exploration and discovery completed in one hour, with an intense and completely valued after show talk. This show wouldn’t have happened without YMD. Back at the start of the process, I took my idea to the group and got them to create around the topic. They came up with ace ideas, and inspired me to respond with new material that made it to the stage. Having been so focused on this show for so long I took a break from that and from dancing altogether really for some months. But now as YMD return to in person classes without the blended online approach, I too return to dancing, thinking and hopefully moving forward some more…
A beautiful day. For me, it’s been a long time since I saw these people in person. But as expected, as I arrived in the car park in the beautiful camp hill campus building in Wakefield, I was greeted by smiles and stories, and laughing over the gate entrance, and it was like we had never been away. Many of these people were just beginning to get back to dance class in person too after a long stream of online or merger classes, so we were all entering with a little nerves.
This group has been running since 1947. A group that began by dancers, dance teachers and dance enthusiasts, it has prevailed and continued all this time, not without challenges, but the community feel is tangible and wonderful and one I hope I continue to be part of. And to teach the very first session of the academic year after a summer break was a privilege. I was planned and ready, with a few adaptions just in case, and we began. After two core exercises we were sweating and hot, layers being chucked to the side, faces red, and I wondered if I peaked too soon; settle a bit, plié and stretch. That helped the calm, but after then to lock it up with feet and leg and travel combinations, followed by some travelling. The floor exercise was a real challenge for some, but it’s always magic working with these people as they adapt and alter, and bring new sequences out of what I planned, and it’s beautiful to watch. Discussions at lunch over the fact that many of us hadn’t even ventured to the floor under the online class rule of ‘I can’t see anything while I’m on the floor’, or ‘my room is just too small for floor work, my carpet makes turning impossible and my knees red roar’. We were all in agreement that contemporary dance is known for its movement close to the floor, so the champions adapted or revisited movement they had done before, but their brain was not used to. Something to be proud of achieving indeed. after the class a comment that reminded me of the purpose to this dancing group gave me hope and happiness, ‘it’s was lovely to see and hear you do class with us, and it is clear you are working with us, and part of us’. They were valuable words and ironically they linked my thoughts to the afternoon session where I brought my own conundrum for the group to solve…
After technique we lunched! And this where community really comes about. Dance is about connecting peoples lives, loves, and challenges, and it did just that as we discussed all sorts from diversity to health to our inner personalities. All things we bring to the dancing space without even realising it, that are valued and important aspects that will affect creativity.
After lunch, a silly game! Followed by solo exploration, using rules and structures. Solos shared, we embarked on creating duets of merged movement from the solos with new rules. Those eventually shared, we fast tracked and split into two, creating group pieces from solo and duet material, and the result was fun, spectacular and comical! The impotence; hope and happiness. The outcome? Community is vital, audience participation a possible, and the everyday the most impactful. If you know what I’m talking about you were probably there. And if you weren’t there I’d urge you to book these dance sessions. Once a month, a chance to express yourself, to meet new people, to challenge and be challenged. And to dance in such beautiful surroundings is a bonus blessing.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I was was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.
Dance found me. And I found these people. And they help anyone who comes to their Sunday sessions be free. Are you up for it?
As a dancer first and foremost, my skills lie in things like how accurately I can execute a grande jete or how elegantly and effortlessly I can lower a lifted leg with pointed toe.
As a teacher of dance, my priority lies in making sure that my students gain skills in dance technique, improvisation, choreography and critiquing dance pieces old and new, and my aim is for them to become better than I in every one of these fields.
I try to exude my passion for moving in the classroom, allowing them to see my vulnerable side very occasionally so they understand the need for me to express themselves, and hopefully drumming up that spirit inside of them to do the same amidst their hectic lives of social media interaction, academic pressures and worrying about what everyone thinks of them. And face to face, visual cues are key sometimes to communicating with children in the classroom, knowing where they are at in their education journey that week…
Cue lockdown. Its like a backward stage performance; the curtain has been up all this time and now its drawn firmly down, the performance halted, the stage dark. Teaching remotely feels like this, the work is still going on behind the curtain, but it’s hard to see the beauty and struggle in the creativity from the pupils. I have to admit, the first two weeks as a teacher felt like I was more like an admin assistant, answering calls from worried parents over the fact that it was hard for them to access the technology, speed learning how to use microsoft teams in order to deliver live lessons and then set assignments for students, and inputting data at such a rapid rate I may as well have got an accounting degree to complete them!
Some lovely things have happened to the children I teach this week – more children have engaged in the lessons I have sent out, and completed coursework I asked for. More parents have been encouraged in my weekly phone calls, that although they are also working remotely and can’t keep any eye on them, that are are making an effort. More children turned up to my live lessons that I had in previous weeks. I found myself videoing myself dancing and sharing it with pupils to copy and critique and adapt, and they did it, some emailing me, ‘I don’t know how to send my video’, or ‘How should I send it to you?’ And children emailed me about projects they would like to get involved in, IN ADDITION to the work we are setting. And I suddenly realised that all new things take TIME to adjust to, but just because they take time, doesn’t mean they won’t happen. It doesn’t mean the children don’t care. It doesn’t mean they hate my lessons. It doesn’t mean everything I’m doing for them is useless. It just means I have to be patient.
I have had more time this week to think outside the box too. Think about how I can contribute to the children’s progress, to how I speak to parents regarding their child’s engagement when they themselves have so much going on for them as it is. I’ve thought about rewards, emails, nominations and certificates to engage those that are contributing every week, or those that have contributed for the first time this week. And I’ve thought about how I challenge those who could be doing more, whilst showing them love and care, in order for them to see that maybe a little more work would be good for them and not more stress. I’ve thought about which pupils I need to lay off of, to ask if they are ‘OK’, to talk to them in whatever means about ‘non’ school things, just to get their mind off the stress and feeling human again. And I’ve created and done that little bit extra for those pupils that need more support, where I can.
AND yet!…I have progressed. I am learning. I am doing it. I have struggled. I have despaired over frustration at getting things wrong. I have felt the full force of the cognitive overload we all keeping talking about in education these days, but I AM OVERCOMING my fears and worries and obstacles and tackling the situation as best as I can. And I realised this week that the children are too.
Here are some ideas I have found that work in my situation. If they are helpful for you then great!
1.prepare emails you send to pupils in advance, the night before or earlier in the day.
2. Microsoft teams is great for setting assignments and scheduling live lessons, and if you can, email pupils prior to sessions so they get up and don’t forget. Those pupils that struggle to read instructions or do work individually might engage better to know they can discuss ideas first.
3. Record your sessions so they can be accessed by any pupils that can’t access the live lessons.
4.Give a range of tasks for each year group using a variety of apps and documents. Longer word questions mixed with short quizzes, google forms and power point presentations allows you work out which pupils are confident with which. Giving pupils choice over how to submit work is also good, so they can use their creativity in whatever ways they can.
5. Obviously WAGOLLS and templates are a given, but can you video yourself and send these via your modes of communication with pupils? A variety of media mixes it up and keeps their interest.
6. In addition to this, narrated videos involving YOU or other colleagues is always going to interest your pupils more than classic YouTube videos with people they don’t know on.
7.Praise, praise, praise! Praise the child that does ONE piece of work as much as you praise the one that is consistently sending work. You never know what home situation each child has, and we all better to encouragement and praise.
8. Challenge where you need to and feel safe to. Use your colleagues to help where possible, and remind children that you have their best interests at heart when you are challenging.
9. Make time for YOU! Make sure you decide on a close off point, shut your laptop aka retreat from the space you were working to another space (if you are working from home). I’ve created a new study area separating some area in my living space, so when work is finished, I ‘go home’ to my sofa area. It has really helped me balance work a little more.
10. Dance! A good dance in the morning, a lunchtime break improvisation session, or a zoom class after work helps to separate tour working day from your personal life.
I’m not superwoman and don’t pretend to be. But some of this achievement has been because I took a deep breath and said to myself ‘just do what you can’. And somehow, the stress of it all just seemed to fall away. And I found myself saying the same to the parents I spoke to, and I could almost physically feel their shoulders drop in relief that someone else understood. See, we are all going through this, together. We are all apart of this weird theatrical performance we call life, and right now the curtain is closed, and all the work is going on behind the scenes. But the curtain will open again, one day. And the music will play, and the lights will blare, and the young people we teach will adapt again, because that’s a special gift that children have.
I visited Amsterdam 10 years ago. I remember the streets, the bridges, the cafes and Koffee shops, the smell of Ganga mixed with alcohol and perfume. The bicycles leaning against every free bit of wall, the plant pots flowering outside peoples homes and hanging from balconies. I remember the bustle, walking down small dark alleys where bars and girls windows mixed like lurid cocktails, merry men huddled round outside tables with beer while gawping at beautiful, scantily clad women. I remember the rows of shops and paralleled streets that housed shop after pancake eatery after chip take away. It was the first time I’d seen high street shops like H&M sit comfortably next to an erotic lingerie shop with ‘out there’ accessories; with no hint of awkwardness. I remember the water, glistening in afternoon sun, though deathly cold. I remember it feeling like home from home, easy to get to, easy to speak English in, and very similar to the culture and world I inhabited…
10 years ago I visited Amsterdam in the spring. I remember the sun shining most of the time, with the odd shower here and there. 10 years ago however, I went feeling lost, lonely and alone. I followed the person I came with and did as they said. I did things I didn’t want to do, and said little. I can’t remember having exciting conversations or much laughter. I remember there being a lot of paranoia, worry and heaviness on my part, and I can’t even remember what my hotel room looked like, apart from that it seemed dark all the time. I left the same way I came, feelings blown over me, not really with it, and time passing so slowly I was not aware of the preciousness of ‘moments’.
This time, 10 years on, I look older, wrinklier and more weathered. And Amsterdam itself seemed like me. The February cold was bitter, the weather wasn’t the best, and the city seemed less chaotic and youthful. However, this time, the trip went so fast I could hardly blink, I had an amazing time and feel like conversations are lodged in my brain with wonderful colour.
The accommodation I had booked for us was far away from the centre, with only public transport or bikes to help us into the city. It was difficult to locate but everyone was so friendly and helpful and even one driver stopped and pointed us in the right direction even without us asking!! The Polish Viking I came with felt an affinity with the hosts straight away, who were also Polish, and the sun shone as we walked around the place. We took the rental bikes in the late afternoon, not worrying about it getting dark soon, and then walked round Amsterdam in the early evening, starting straight away by finding the top thing to do here in Amsterdam, which is staring at semi naked ladies and heading into sex shops for laughs and giggles at the weird toys. The first time I came I felt heavy and weirded out by this experience, but this time it seemed to just, ‘be a thing’, and I was slightly surprised that my viking didn’t seemed phased by it or want to trudge from street to street that long. It was me trying my best to find the busiest alley way to satisfy his experience, but he just kept looking at me. We stopped and drank in a bar just outside the red light secrets, where I felt no pressure to drink up and leave, and we made friends with the bar staff who teased us and shared their life stories. We found some unexpected salsa amidst the bars and clubs out on Saturday night, and found ourselves salsa-ing at Club Mystique with the Cuban salsa dancers of Amsterdam until the early hours. I chatted with one lady, a Bulgarian, who was about to marry a Peruvian man whom she’d met in Ireland, and they were settling in Holland and planning life together. ‘It does work out ok, this cross cultural relationship thing’, I thought to myself. My viking seemed in his element, twirling all manner of women round and saying loudly, ‘I love this music!’ While always coming back to spin me round the dance floor. We wing-maned each other to spot good people to dance with, and left with big smiles on our faces, until we realised we had biked in, and I had to giggle while we biked back as quickly as we could, racing each other like kids in the February cold, our bottoms and legs hurting when we got in because neither of us had biked this much in years!
Sunday saw a lazy but very tasty breakfast, followed by a trip to the centre via bus, which again was very easy to find and use. Centraal station has one of the most amounts of stained glass on its roof for any city. We wandered through streets to the Lovers cruise, which was more of a historical account cruise with people beside you falling asleep while the audio person talked in your ear piece. The toilet was like a high stool, and the audio played little tunes in between speaking. The information was interesting but for anyone wanting a romantic cruise this was definitely not the excursion. We got off and headed toward the ice bar experience we had pre-booked, stopping off briefly at a liqueur store to buy different alcohol. On our way to the ice bar, as the weather got worse and the cold got to us we ducked in at a spontaneous pub, where we ate delicious traditional Dutch casseroles and steak dinners, covered in flavour and accompanied by local bottled beer and jenever, the Dutch alternative to gin (that came before gin!) the pub had kitch things on the walls and you could play board games while you drank. We hurried along after our meal to reach the ice bar, for more drinks and a cold experience. This was disappointing as cold Experiences go, especially after having been spoilt going to places such as the ice hotel in Sweden, where iced rooms and sculptures lined the corridors with ornate delicacy, space immense. By contrast, this ‘bar’ was literally what it said on the tin…one room they crammed as many people into as possible for about 20 mins, (you couldn’t stand it any longer as you just hadn’t the gear for -10!) with plastic fish and novelty signs cut in ice for the odd picture, but the vodka and the bear ice sculpture was nice.
Out in the cold again, we walked as it rained, taking shelter in this little markee that had Dutch tat in it. This turned out to be one of my favourite moments; him standing in huge clogs next to signs that said, ‘don’t touch the clogs’, me taking pictures I shouldn’t of colourful flowers next to signs that blatantly said, ‘don’t take pictures’, and we laughed lots at rude magnets and weird garden flowers. Once the rain stayed off we wandered back, taking a while to get back, and finally reached our room just as the heavens opened again. We watched english programmes on the little tv and drank cheap sweet liquor and I felt all fuzzy. I wanted to tell him how I felt but I bottled it and asked stupid questions instead. Then, later on again, a perfect moment came up but my fear of being rejected again made me freeze and feel silly.
The next day the sun shone through our little cottage air bnb early, which woke us both up with a renewed joy, so we biked in again, this time forgetting to clock where we parked, and trundled off toward the torture museum. We didn’t actually get in for ages, as firstly we got caught in a sudden hail storm and had to seek refuge in a cafe where we ate pancakes and drank tea and dried ourselves under the toilet hand dryers. ‘Welcome to Holland’, a waitress giggled at me when she passed by and saw me cocking my leg up to the noisy dryer while also trying to make my face look presentable. Secondly, when we reached the museum, having paid beforehand to avoid crowds, the guy wouldn’t accept the phone QR code! So we trundled round what felt like a million travel and tourist agencies asking if they printed, to which none except the main office did, before finally getting some printed tickets so we could enter. We fell into a marvel shop and looked at cool t-shirts, and booked tickets to the Amsterdam dungeons as another thing to do along the way. We laughed at huge crowds of people queueing for ‘English chips’, as we proudly ate our Dutch ice cream and held hands, dawdling and acting all loved-up in the now warming sunshine. The torture museum was informative but gross, my viking making it far less serious as he walked on past each horrendous machine used to ‘extract information’ from poor people by tickling me when I wasn’t looking, making horrible torture noises or giving me extra information on the torturous apparatus. The dungeons on the other hand, were funny and well acted by the hosts, and probably my favourite thing we did in Amsterdam, excursion wise, because I both believed the experience and became more informed of the history of Amsterdam as a result. When we came out we hit the pancakes again, getting a few in a row at different places, and I enjoyed my conversation with a Romanian who told us his life in Amsterdam is much safer than that in Romania. (Can’t have a trip with me without the odd conversation with someone who lives there, just to bring a bit more flavour and spice to the experience!) We biked back as it got dark and made it back again just before it poured down, to which we enjoyed snuggling on the sofa while the rain beat down. We finished our trip the next day with another stroll round the city, and stopping at a plush hotel to sample the sky bar, where we got a great view of the city whilst sipping an expensive cocktail.
By our return, my head was spinning and I felt exhausted, too much feeling and trying to analyse it. Our flights were so easy after having checked in at the cafe where we had to dry off, but one of my favourite things of the whole trip was getting back to Viking’s house and being spoilt with making home cooked food even though he was tired, and sharing strawberries and ice cream, plus a funny film! As we sat at the end of our Amsterdam’s adventure in his flat, the valentines card and colourful flowers blooming on the side, I smiled as I thought of my experiences of Amsterdam. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter where you go. It’s the company you go with. Glad I can safely say my view of Amsterdam is no longer bleak and dull.
Is it first sight? A first impression is often a good sign in job terms, and we all go off instinct and gut on that one, so why not a relationship? Is it after a few dates, when you can work out what their core values are and you try to see them meeting your parents and you either think, ‘yes, absolutely!’ Or ‘nah, bit too intense for that’. Is it the first time you’re intimate together? When heat and passion and chemistry and desire all melt together, then either explode or dissipate or leave you wanting more. (That’s a very good one for working out whether you need to ‘try again’, just to be sure). Is it after the first trip away-that extended time together in each others company when you have to share a bathroom in close proximity and can’t hide the morning bed hair or open mouth sleep noise.
Is it when you say, ‘I love you’?
Those three words signify so much in so little time; commitment to each other and vulnerability and openness and willingness to change or move forward. A coupling. Is it on your wedding day if you have one, when you stare into each others eyes and say words that mean nothing and everything all at the same time, in front of a bunch of people you love and a load more you will barely know in a years time? Or is it once you have your first child, or second, or fifth, if you decide to have them? You can finally sit back and say, ‘they are the one for me’, once you’ve shown all these things, like evidence for an experiment.
But the truth is, no one’s story has come back with a formula for the answer on this one. I was walking with a friend just the other week, and she posed this very question to me. I realised right then how far my thinking has come since the teenage middle class Christian girl living in a southern, suburban semi utopia, ‘its different for everyone’ I replied, ‘and that’s what makes love so exciting’.
And it’s true. For some, it’s instantaneous. ‘I saw her across the room and I just knew I was going to marry her’, I’ve heard a friend say. They are still married, with children, and work hard to keep their relationship going, even though it’s not been easy. ‘I hated him to start off with’ said another friend over drinks, her describing how she detested everything he said and did until one day, somehow, detest turned to desire. Now they have 3 beautiful children and make an incredible team, neither of them looking at love like a pill you happen to fall upon that makes life all alright. Another friend confessed that ‘the one’, can not come without the crash bang wallop of feeling head over heels. Not for them anyway. They are still searching. My mum would argue it’s a gut feeling, a ‘you just know’ feeling, deep down. I trust this gut feeling more now I’m older and have experienced a similar thing myself, from decisions I made about my life earlier on, and I associate with the uneasiness of not feeling like something was right. My gut wasn’t ‘all in’. I trust my Mum’s opinion also because she told me honestly she was young and naive and unsure when marrying my Dad, but in having a second chance and marrying again, that second time round she was ‘absolutely in no doubt’. Sometimes ‘the one’ comes with perspective and time. I told my inquisitive friend this as we lapped a field in windy sunshine. She nodded in contemplative chewing.
My honest answer, that is my opinion only, is that there is no, ‘one’. I of all people am the biggest hopeless romantic, and I earnestly believed at 17 that ‘the one’ was out there somewhere, waiting just for me. This theory is also hugely celebrated in church circles amongst zealous young Christian teens, and can be detrimental I believe in crushing their view of God and love in general when things don’t work out how they expected (spoken from my own experience, and notice I don’t ‘blame’ church here…I built up the notion). As I got older and made my own mistakes and learnt that everyone made mistakes, I guess that thought lapsed into, ‘they won’t be waiting necessarily, but I will at least know’. This theory was again profusely rebuffed when I married the man that I genuinely thought at the time was ‘the one’ (I even ripped out the last few pages of my ‘romance encounter diary’ once we got engaged as I thought that part of life was well and truly finished), only to be so unsure myself of my own theory throughout the entire time we were married and spending most of my 7 year marriage trying to hide my fear from everyone, and him. (I did genuinely believe at the time that I had found ‘the one’. I made a pros and cons list and everything!!) ultimately it caught up with me, and so my view of ‘the one’ was quickly and loudly quashed along with my confidence in love. It has only been in listening to others stories of love and lust, desire and companionship that I draw my own conclusion; the one for one is one. The one for another is many. For another it’s God, yet another it’s all. It’s simply how you define ‘the one’. Another walking friend told me that I was asking the wrong question, instead arguing that the real question is, ‘what is love?’ Everyone has a different opinion on this topic, so maybe that’s the greater question?
Does this person have to be the one you end up with? Are they the person who taught you how to love? (If we’re acknowledging this idea, then my grandad was ‘the one’. He remains the man I learnt about love from to this day, and I’m grateful for his advice and role modelling to me in the way he loved and treated his family). Are they the one you know you would never be in a relationship with (because they were dangerous or a mess or attached or mentally unstable), but they were the one that made your heart beat so fast you thought you might take off? Are they the stabiliser; the best friend, the one you never end up with but know you only ever gave your whole heart to them, and you can’t do that again. They remain instead your closest friend, or a distant memory that you often think of but no longer know. I know for me right now, that I’m experiencing ‘the one’ as someone very different to what I imagined all those years ago. I’ve had the sensible, cheeky, charm offensive adventurer, who has all the right words at the right time. I’ve had the ‘oh my gosh I can’t breathe because I feel you’re the one’. I’m now experiencing the slow burn. The ‘show me you’re the one’ kinda experience instead of words or feelings. I’m not saying that any of these are right or wrong, but they are all different. Maybe that says something about my journey with my thoughts of ‘the one’, rather than what or who I believe it is?
The only thing I can be sure of, is that NOTHING lasts. Planting flowers in this lockdown, I am taking every moment I can to go out and look at, smell and take pictures of the beautiful signs of colour in my garden while I can, because I know the open, colourful beauties will not continue to do this all year round. Some will flower again, but some will die, only to be replaced if I put the effort in to go buy more the following year. Some last two weeks, some keep going throughout the year, or years.
And so it is with love. ‘The one’ in my mind, is a fantastical concept we have dreamt up to give us hope. Or to remind us that the decision we made was the right one, for better or for worse. Or indeed maybe, as in my case, ‘the one’ was not a positive, but I took positive from it because I now know better what values and attributes I hold the most dear when engaging in a romantic relationship. I now totally believe that ‘the one’ can be both temporary and permanent. It can be a lesson and a hope for the future. It can be a soulmate, a long lost unrequited love or a friend. It can be God incarnate, the 3 in 1, who releases me to love in the way I need to.
It’s June. It’s raining. It’s not particularly warm. The sky is grey, and my mood is bleak. My saving grace is my garden. My auntie last year planted a whole load of new plants in my garden, and I followed suit by planting some pot plants and hanging some pretty things.
I’ve just finished teaching. It was a brilliant class; the young people so engaged and smiling and laughing, but at the same time working so hard the sweat was pouring and steam was starting to emerge on the windows. Leotards looked drenched and for them, muscles were worked and they left with smiles on their faces, knowing they had given their best and enjoyed the experience. Their whole lives are ahead of them, their future unknown, but at the same time So full of possibility and hope and good.
And I stand at the corner of the studio and I watch them leave one by one, smiling and waving and saying ‘thankyou’. Some a consistent ‘thank you’ the politeness of their lives as they are now, some more thinking on what they’ll eat for tea. Some wanting to tell me of a show or two they are in and ‘can they have that music we did for tendues?’ Inspired by my choices and hoping I’d be honoured by their remarks. And then they’re gone and I’m alone. And the music continues to play and I feel sad. Happy that they have left happy, and that I in part was responsible for that. But I’m lonely and alone and in need of that encouragement I just gave my students. And I know there is no one waiting for me at home. No one to kiss or caress or miss me or want me or long for me. No one to have cooked me tea or taken the bins out because I hate that job and they want to bless me. No one to tell me that even though I feel this void in my inner being, it’s okay because tomorrow is another day and sleep does wonders. No one who asks me how my day has been. No one that persuades me to bed, where we can pull close together and feel each other’s warmth.
I do my exercises that I hate, but that I know is good for me because without them these days I can hardly move. I daydream and dawdle to my car, only marking to make me go Home and that isn’t getting done because I can’t be bothered tonight. I drive and I cry, and then I enter my home, the sanctuary of solitude that I’ve built up over the 4 years I’ve lived here, and I say a small prayer of thanks for the one thing that keeps me going. My house. It’s lonely but it’s never cold. It’s dark sometimes But never un-inviting. It’s hidden but oh so safe. And I go out into the garden, in the pouring rain. I stare out at the plants my auntie bought and how blooming they are. I look at the acer tree I bought in memory of my Dad and how much it’s grown. I stare down and talk over the peonies I planted last year that never sprouted, but that this year have flourished and started to bud. I lift my eyes to the rain, and I talk to God. I moan and I petition,and then I’m silent. And in the silence I feel my shoulders grow heavy, just as if he is pressing his hands down on mine from behind. I look up at the tree next door and am reminded that in the rain there is growth. In tears there is healing. In sorrow there is reflection and revelation.
I have insistently and increasingly felt worthless, meaningless; a forgotten person in a huge sea of people who cease to matter, because I haven’t found ‘the one’ or given more life to the earth. I stand in my garden in the pouring rain feeling a failure to society, a failure to my family and most of all, a failure to myself. For not hitting the life goals I expected, the goals everyone expects the average woman to hit by my age. For not being important enough to matter to anyone at that moment. The weight of failure tumbles all Around me and the failure of ‘not having it all’ weighs down on me, taking my heart with it into the soil. I get in this moment why people choose to finish their lives. Or choose to give up. I physically feel the pain they feel, the emptiness and worthless and futility of life. I look up at the dark sky and into the rain, now drizzling, the big tree at the back of my garden swaying like its dancing. I vow to myself to keep going, ‘just one more day’, I say to myself. I don’t know why, and I certainly don’t feel any better for standing out in the rain. I turn my back on the darkness and retreat to the warmth of my lamp-lit living room, shut the door and lock it. I carry on existing.
2020
It’s June, and we are in lockdown, in the middle of a pandemic. It’s really sunny. It’s windy but one of the warmest days we’ve had so far this year. The sky is a translucent blue, and my mood is post-dance class animated. My garden is blooming with colour, oranges, reds, yellows, pinks and whites. My boyfriend planted a whole load of new plants in my garden, and I have followed suit by buying a lot of fairy lights and sun loungers, as holidays this year seem out of grasp, and the garden is the nearest place we are getting to a summer holiday this year. He has amused himself by planting some pot plants and hanging some pretty things. I come home to him watering the plants, with the smell of barbecue in the air.
I’ve just finished teaching. It was my first ever zoom online class. It was nerve-wracking to begin with, and I found directions weird without mirrors and with 20 people all performing the same thing in front of me. As we got into the class however, I let go a little and relaxed, and my body took over, and I started to remember why I love teaching so much; the adults so engaged and concentrated, working so hard in their kitchens or summer houses or gardens. Muscles were worked and they left the meeting with smiles on their faces, knowing they had given their best in the space they had and some commented how much they had enjoyed the experience after such a break. The future for dance is so unknown, but at the same time also full of possibility and hope for good. The world of dance is looking very different right now.
I had waited in the empty studio and I watched each participant leave the meeting one by one, smiling and waving and saying ‘thank you’. And then they’re gone, but I’m not alone. I take silly pictures with my musician and chat outside with the boss for a bit. I feel happy to be back in the place I chose to study in many years before, and that I in part was responsible for changes that happened in the place. I openly share how I was in need of that encouragement from the participants, seeing as its such a different way of teaching, and I feel encouraged by my boss. I feel happy with my efforts and with the sequences I have taught, and I get into my car and drive home; I know there is someone waiting for me at home. Someone to kiss and caress me, who misses me and wants me. He’s not cooked me tea because I’ve already done it, but he’s blessed me in taking care of my garden. He lifts me up in my kitchen and I feel this excitement in my inner being, it’s okay because he’s got me and he won’t let me fall. He asks me how my day has been. He will follow me to bed, where we pull close together and feel each other’s warmth.
I don’t do my usual exercises after class, because I already did some earlier and my body feels tired but good. I sit posting on social media in my car, and go directly home. I drive and I smile, watching all the young people that have come out in the heat to get take away. I enter my home, the sanctuary of solitude that I’ve built up over the 4 years I’ve lived here, and I say a small prayer of thanks for how far I have come. My house. It’s breezy with the back door open, but never cold. It’s dark sometimes But never un-inviting. It’s hidden but oh so safe. I go out into the garden, in the haze of the summer days sunshine. I stare out at the plants my boyfriend is tending to and how blooming they are. I look at the acer tree I bought in memory of my Dad and how it’s still growing. I stare down and smell the peonies I planted two years ago that never sprouted, but that this year are open and blooming whites and pinks, and are smelling like perfume. I lift my eyes to the sunset sky, and I talk to God. I thank Him and I smile, and then I’m chatting away about my day. And in the noise I feel my heart swell with love and excitement. I look up at the tree next door and am reminded that in the sunshine there is beauty. In laughter there is joy. In joy there is pleasure and passion.
I still feel worthless and meaningless sometimes; but in that moment I thank God for how far I have traveled in my mind and heart. I still honestly don’t know if I have found ‘the one’, and I am still unsatisfied that I haven’t given more life to the earth. I stand in my garden in evening light feeling a mixture of happy calm and slightly panicky over time. I may not have hit the life goals I expected, the goals everyone expects the average woman to hit by my age, but as my Mum has reminded me this very day, I have done so many other things and achieved so much so many haven’t. And I might not matter as much as I’d like, but I do matter at that moment. To me. To my family. To my class participants. To him. The feeling of peace wells in my spirit, and I’m proud in this moment that I didn’t choose to finish my own life. Or choose to give up. I physically feel relief, the peace and calm and thankfulness of life. I look up at the sunset sky and into the darkening blue, the big tree at the back of my garden still and full of leaves in brilliant green like it’s just eaten. I vow to myself, ‘remember this day’. I don’t know why, as it’s certainly not any better a day than the one before. I turn my back on the twinkly fairy lights that have just come on and retreat to the noise of my TV lit living room, my boyfriend following along behind who shuts the door and locks it. I make tea.
I haven’t written in a long time. The last post I wrote was before 2020 began. I usually reflect on each year and last year, although reflective, I didn’t feel the need to reflect on the events of the year. Since the beginning of the year I have often wanted to write, but have found that I can’t put letters to the computer. I have wondered why on and off, and I think I can conclude this is because I am HAPPY! Some of the reason I started this blog was to vent some of the sadness, frustration and hurt and anger I felt, for the way things had turned out, in a cathartic mess of words. When the mess is no longer there, the words won’t flow. That’s often why the best artists are the most tormented – it makes creativity grow.
And so as I sit in my perfectly groomed garden in the spring sunshine, mulling over these thoughts, I smile. A blog is great way of looking back at the way one felt over the months and years, and I’m happy that my story has turned out this way. I’m happy because I’m happy. I am happy alone, and have been for 4 years. I am happy with someone else, and have been since the start of this year. Although 2020 has brought with it a surge of disaster, famine, illness, unemployment and a stopping to what we all thought was ‘normal’, it has with it brought new creativity, new friendships, new ideas, a new way of working and playing and doing life. 2020 is bringing in the new, and in the midst of the darkness that we can’t yet see clearly in, there is light and hope. The cherry blossom shows this. The bees demonstrate this. The birdsong in the morning instead of the rush of cars sound this. The silence speaks.
I have been isolating with a man for the past 4 weeks. A man who I met over 3 years ago. A man who was ‘just a friend’ for a long time. A man whom I never looked at in that way, until he made me laugh. A man who took a risk on me one night. A man who was in the right place at the right time. He is not my world. He does not complete me, for I am already complete. Yet he enhances every part of my day, and is a pleasure to be with.
Today is his birthday. He is happily playing with his jigsaw, making birds come to life on the floor in colourful pieces. I think how happy I am as I bake blueberry muffins, something I’ve not tried before. And I’m not panicking, as I would have in the past. I cooked dinner last night, a dish I just made up from scratch and had never done before, and I wasn’t fearful if he didn’t like it. He was so complimentary, and grateful. I’m doing yoga in a bit, and he’s not worried or fussed that I’m not fussing around him for his birthday. He takes time to be with me, but also lets me be. I feel my heart swell with gratitude of this man, who’s taught me to bake bread based delicacies and planted flowers in my garden. But I’m also grateful for my story, as it’s only now, coming out of the darkness for a time, that I can see my journey has given me stories to tell, with lessons I have deeply appreciated now I can look back. I didn’t realise or see at the time, because when you can’t see its hard to believe. You can hope, but you never really know.
I’m also really glad for this time, as it has meant we have had more time to get to know one another. Rather than our usual,’see you at weekends’ kind of schedule, we have crafted a different routine together, learnt to live among and with one another, and have begun new traditions and rituals of our own. Had I been working, this would never have happened to the same extent. New life is literally springing up from the death of working for a while.
I hope all of you reading can find the hope and light in this period of weirdness. Whatever it is, breath it in. Maybe for you it’s how to work differently. Maybe it’s having the opportunity to spend more time with children. Maybe its learning a new skill, or picking up an old skill you have let lay dormant (as I write this I can hear the sweet song of someone who’s singing and playing keyboard, and she has a beautiful voice. I’ve not heard that at all in the 4 years I’ve lived here, good for her!) Maybe it’s putting to death something or someone you thought you needed but you really don’t. Maybe it’s saying goodbye to someone you love, or hello from afar to someone you think you might love. Maybe it’s walking, or baking or writing. Maybe it’s dealing with the demons that you have swept under the carpet, ready to usher in new hope. Maybe it’s navigating the life you have been living, exactly as you like it, with the added weirdness of supermarket servers wearing latex gloves and speaking to you behind a screen as you stand 2m away.
Whatever it is, find your feet.
I’m finding mine.
For me, it’s having the space to discover a life shared, rather than isolated (ironic!) and it’s appreciating the extra time I probably will never have again. It’s time for a new story.
Lou's Ponderings 