The Tree

(image ©EllaJenkins 2010)

The weather has changed and it has become decidedly autumnal. After a weekend of extreme negativity from external forces, I am struggling to learn the lessons the last few days are trying to teach me.

I have spent much of the weekend gardening, digging, moving soil and constructing flowerbeds. The solace I find whilst up to my elbows in muck is immeasurable! Who would think the smell of soil and the look of a freshly dug flowerbed could bring such comfort to the soul?

Working on The Alan Wood Memorial Garden has proved to be an emotional experience. Some of Alan’s older and closer friends than me are putting hours of back breaking work into the garden. Sometimes when my body aches from digging, I wonder what drives people to create a lasting tribute like this. I love the camaraderie we have. I have turned acquaintances to dear friends since Alan’s death and oddly, I have laughed more in the past 12 months than I had for some time before.

My youngest daughter and I were having a discussion over the weekend about ‘ultimate good and ultimate evil’. Whilst digging I had time to ponder, quietly, to myself.

Out of ultimate evil has grown a tree with every leaf a symbol of goodness. The wind that strokes the leaves of this tree prompts the tinkle of a laugh, the sigh of hard labour or the shudder of regret. The tree struggles occasionally as the roots try to find their way through the dark cloying soil of darkness and disbelief but look up and you will see light skipping and twinkling over the branches and you know that good will triumph over evil.

Each leaf is a personality touched by evilness. There are young, tender branches combined with stronger limbs extending from the trunk and each one stands basked in the light of hope. The autumn will remove the leaves from our tree; they will fall silently to the ground like quiet tears, apparently taking all signs of hope with them. The leaves will die and rot away but the goodness from them will seep into the dark, damp soil. It will go into a state of dormancy, or so it will appear. It is merely resting, guarding itself against the cold, protecting itself from the elements that nature will use to test its strength. We know that come the Spring each one of those leaves will reappear, thankful to see the daylight, thankful to see the sun, thankful to dance in the breeze. As every leaf sings and dances, the tree is a spectacle of strength, hope and regeneration. It takes all the leaves to create this vision, working in unison, fighting the elements together.

So my puzzling over what the weekend had taught me has become clearer. There is strength in unity. Eventually, despite the struggle against what sometimes seem impenetrable odds, good will always form a close and strong bond in its silent battle against evil.

Watch our progress here:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Alan-Wood-Memorial-Garden/128773460507919#!/pages/Alan-Wood-Memorial-Garden/128773460507919

A First, a 21st and a Heart Fit To Burst

It is my son’s 21st Birthday on the 12th of September. It is my granddaughter, his daughter’s, 1st birthday on the 11th September. What do I think of that? Well, I am incredibly proud.

When I mapped out my life, probably when I was about his age, I never imagined I would not stay married to his father for all of my life and that my own child would be a parent before he was 21. In black and white (or on a screen) it doesn’t look good really. I could be classed as a dysfunctional mother with a son that is far too young to be a father. But, I repeat, I am incredibly proud of my son. He has been with the same girl since he was 17, they did use contraception, but a change in the type of pill and confusion over whether it was the pill that caused his girlfriends periods to stop meant that she was 23 weeks pregnant when they knew for sure.

When ‘that’ phone call comes, you just know what is going to be said. Instinct kicks in, your heart starts to pound and if I am blatantly honest, I wanted my own parents. I was too young to cope with being told I was about to be a grandmother, I was too young to teach my own son how to be a father and I was not prepared in any way, shape or form to deal with the emotional highs and lows my child would be sure to experience. I didn’t shout, I didn’t call him a fool, I didn’t castigate him, I just kept saying the words, ‘it will be alright, we will make it work' and even when I doubted it I kept telling him.

My son was terrified of the birth; he has a genuine phobia of hospital. On the day his daughter was born he went to the hospital, he sent texts every hour and then it went quiet. My husband went to bed, I stayed up. I paced the kitchen floor. I made cups of tea I didn’t drink. I sat on the doorstep in the dark and silence. I felt scared and I felt very alone. At 12.40a.m. I received a text, it was a picture text of one very crumbled, very pink, very perfect little girl. A few seconds later, my son rang. I could not hear his words and I didn’t understand anything he said. I could only hear huge, gasping sobs and I was desperate to hug him. I asked the questions and he gasped back the answers. He put the phone down and for a few minutes I sat on the doorstep on my own in the black silence and I cried. I cried for her future, I cried for my son’s future and I cried with relief for his girlfriend.

My granddaughter’s mother is a fantastic; she dotes on her baby and my son. My granddaughter is very pretty and obviously the brightest baby in the world!

Nearly a year has gone by. My son changes nappies, he feeds, baths, read to/plays with baby and showers her with love. He went back to University a month after her birth and he carried on his studies for 4 days a week, then he came home and spent time with his child and his girlfriend. In the holidays, he has found work on a local farm, every day he is at work by 7,30a.m returning late in the evening and some days he checks the animals on a Saturday and a Sunday. He NEVER complains, he just gets on and does as he needs to do. Yes, sometimes I regret that he does not have the freedom some of his peers have.

In the past year, I have seen him change dramatically. He is even funnier and even more loving and caring. He works incredibly hard at university, his job and caring for his baby. He interacts with his own family more, he helps in the house and he drives me mad not removing his very muddy boots before he comes into the house, leaving pieces of his car lying about the house and he stuffs the washing machine to the gunnel's and ‘forgets’ to hang it out to dry. He is not perfect, thank goodness, but he is my son. Despite the critics he has had over the past 12 months, he has held his head up, stood by his girlfriend and loved his baby as if his life depended upon it. He enters his final year at University soon, he is doing a degree in Physics, this will be his hardest challenge but you know what? He might just be OK and I just want him to know as he approaches his 21st Birthday that I love him with all my heart.

Lets Start a Campaign

It had been a strange end to the week. I was delighted to discover that the very charming Clare Balding had joined Twitter. I then felt rather guilty at my own joy when I discovered that she had joined, initially, to vent her anger at a recent review of her programme, ‘Britain by Bike’. I shall not summarise the aforementioned review and ongoing tarrididdle it can be found here http://www.thefword.org.uk/blog/2010/07/homophobia_appa

Then on Saturday morning I was astounded to see (via Twitter again. I know I should get out more!) that ‘The Sun’ had an article stating that the young Joe McElderry had decided to announce he was gay. Do not get me wrong here, I have absolutely NO problem with young Joe being gay. None whatsoever. What I have a real problem with is the link between both stories. Joe should not have to ‘announce’ his sexuality and Ms Balding should not have to read disparaging comments and witness name calling in relation to her sexuality (apparently in the name of humour; I don’t see many people laughing by the way). We live in an accepting society. Like hell we do! And more importantly, I truly cannot get my head around what anyone’s sexuality has to do with anything (with the obvious exceptions where that sexual orientation is illegal and or/harmful to other non-consenting humans).

I do not introduce myself in the following way, ‘Hi, I am Mary, I am rather frustrated heterosexual due to the fact I work too hard, don’t take enough holidays and live in a house that resembles a drop in centre for teenagers, nice to meet you’. Why don’t I? Because no one gives a damn (apart from my husband of course) it is completely irrelevant to anything I do. Can you imagine the meeting of Commonwealth Leaders, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Mr Cameron, quite obviously, as can been seen by his wife’s current condition, an active heterosexual’. It would be bloody ludicrous and stir up a right box of frogs.

Humans should be judged by their human content in terms of compassion, kindness and inspirational characteristics. What they do in the privacy of their own bedroom/kitchen/stairway is no one else’s concern. To carry on this outrageous behaviour by silly name calling and innuendo is far more revealing about the ‘journalist’ concerned (and his arrogant Editor) than the article is about Ms Balding’s sexuality. Joe McElderry is a young man and I understand why he ‘came out’, he did it to prevent being ‘outed’ under embarrassing circumstances at some later date. He is 19 years old! What sort of society are we creating?

I know! From now on, we must all introduce ourselves to people at parties/BBQ’s/Parent’s Evenings/on the train etc, by clearly stating our sexual preferences. If we proceed down this line of approach I reckon in 12 months both of the articles I refer to, will be completely pointless as everyone will know everything about everyone. In this way we can get back to the true grass roots of judging our fellow humans – by character, personality and talent. I can’t wait to see my post man’s face on Monday morning when I start my new campaign.

Every Cloud and All That

I tweeted this morning about depression. Not sure what possessed me. It was uplifting to discover than quite a few online friends were supportive of my comments. I could sense that many of them knew precisely what I was feeling. Beneath the elation, there was a brief moment of sadness.

All of my adult life I have battled with depression. Do not get me wrong, I am not a miserable, down beat sort of a soul. I positively love life and like to think I have an optimistic and humorous view of the world. The problem with depression is it creeps up on you, grapples you to the ground and stamps on your head. Usually when you least expect it. It IS the ghost of darkness and lurks constantly in the recesses of your mind. It has taken a lot of soul searching and watching my response to certain triggers for me to learn to ‘manage’ my depression. That is what I do. I manage it. I don’t control it, I don’t cure it, and I don’t expect it to completely disappear. In earlier years, I battled long and hard. It became a personal challenge to become depression free forever. It was pointless and I accepted that this is just the way I am and that I cannot remove it. I learnt to live with it. The lows can last hours/days/weeks or very occasionally (thank goodness) months.

I call these days my grey days. It can be the brightest, sunniest day but to me the sun is dull, the green of trees and grass is not as bright, I can’t smell the fresh grass, or soil that has just had rain on it. I feel like an ice cube is wedged in my brain. I flit from one job to another, never concentrating on anything and I just want to curl up in a ball in the dark. Everything is a struggle, even deciding what to wear or when to have a shower (if I can even bothered to!). I set myself tiny, tiny challenges each day, one very small step at a time and eventually I get to the end of the day. I try to congratulate myself when I go to bed that I have got through the day, this isn’t easy when you feel like even the simplest tasks have been equivalent of a climbing the north face of the Eiger in a wet suit carrying a tonne of bricks on your back!

These days I ensure I make the time to make time for myself. I grow flowers, veggies and herbs, I bake, I read a fair amount, oh and I use Twitter! My husband is brilliant, how he puts up with me sometimes is beyond me, the first husband never managed it! When I feel I am retreating into myself I MAKE myself visit a friend, a neighbour or spend time with the children.

I have tried medication, it make me angry! I am used to my brain churning over nonsensical things and most of the time I enjoy its busy whirring. I cannot cope with the cotton wool head medicine gives me it is a dreadful feeling. St Johns Wort has been my salvation on many occasions, I know its medicine but at least it is natural and seems to work … sometimes!

I rarely speak about my depression. I try and hide it. I don’t speak about it because even after all these years I feel a bit of a failure. I get incensed when I hear people talk about depression and say, ‘why can’t you just snap out of it, it’s not as bleak as you make it out to be’. It is that bleak. Do you not think if we could ‘snap out’ of it, we would? Imagine how useful and less stressful that would be. When I am at the bottom of my pit of despair, I see you, I hear you and trust me, I am trying to claw my way out of the bottomless pit of dark, clinging, blackness that can and sometimes does, convince me I am mad!

The best thing about depression? When the light comes on, the sun shines SO bright, the flowers smell great and the birds sing such sweet, enthusiastic songs and you KNOW that life is great. You KNOW every day is an adventure. You KNOW that your family and friends love you. You KNOW that all is well in your own little world. If you suffer depression, don’t be afraid to talk about it. You are not mad you are just a bit different at this moment in your life and there are a quite a few of us out there. It does get better; in fact, when you come out of your tunnel the light can blind you. Keep Smiling :O)

Self Check Out Hell

I went to the supermarket last night. Self Check Out, that was what finished me off. I quite fancied playing the grown up version of 'shopkeeper' with a full size check out and till, minus the plastic orange and minature box of cornflakes. Why can’t they let you choose the pre-recorded voice, somewhat like Satellite Navigation? The virtual check out assistant sounds so condescending.

‘Please scan the item’. I AM! It is not my fault the grapes are round and smaller than the barcode making it impossible to scan. ‘Please put the item in the bag’. OK. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE, I HAVE, look, it is in the bloody bag. ‘Please scan the item’ ‘Please scan the item’. I AM! Stop putting me under pressure. I am sweating in fear now. What if the assistant thinks I am trying to steal something by not scanning it? My gestures become extreme as I attempt to prove to everyone watching that I am trying to scan the item. I now resemble a playschool teacher reciting, ‘Wheels on the Bus’ with my overly exaggerated arm movements, whilst trying to look like I am in control and enjoying the whole ‘self check out’ experience. I am not. I am on a fast train to hell and there are no brakes.

‘Please enter the barcode’ WHAT! Oh struth, I can’t see it, where are my specs? Handbag! That is where they are. Putting your handbag on the scan screen is not a good idea. ‘Please scan the item’. It is my handbag, it is Italian and I refuse to pay for it, it was a present from my mother. ‘Please enter the barcode’. I am getting my specs, for gawd’s sake! Why is it that now you find the arm of your specs have broken off and that the only way of getting them to stay on is to put your head is at an angle of 45 degrees? ‘Please enter the barcode’. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a mother with two toddlers methodically working her way up and down the aisles, she is obviously shopping for the whole of Stamford. Head on one side, trying to read a 20-digit barcode, whilst holding item in one hand and typing with the other, praying broken specs, stay on nose is not a look conducive with a seasoned ‘self check out’ shopper. Three attempts later, ‘please put the item in the basket’. Yes, haven’t we been through this already? ‘Please scan the item’. The customer at the till next to me, smiles sweetly (as he is paying) ‘try wiping the screen’. I have turned into the store cleaner! I resist the urge to ask, with acidic undertones, ‘am I allowed to spit on the tissue first, it always worked with the children?’

Several items later, wonky glasses have now developed a precarious stance as they drift towards my left cheek. I am sweating as if I have just run a marathon. ‘Please wait for an assistant’. WHAT! I haven’t done anything. I look around for the assistant who is helping a 4-year-old reach the card payment machine; they obviously have a better clue than I do. ‘It says I have to wait for you’, ‘Yes dear, that is because you have alcohol, ooh are you having a party?’ ‘No, it’s been a hard day’. Look of horror quickly replaced by sympathetic glance from assistant.

All items eventually scanned and in the ‘Bag Area’, ‘How would you like to pay?’ What a daft question! Well, do you know what? I do not care. Have my credit card, here have the contents of my purse, re-mortgage my house and take the proceeds, I don’t care just let me go’.

Mother with toddlers is now passing through the exit doors with monstrous trolley full of shopping, packed and paid for. I, meanwhile, am considering returning into the supermarket to purchase a Gin and Tonic in a tin; with any luck, I could have drunk it before I reach the trolley park. Perhaps not. I am exhausted, stressed, broken out in a hot sweat and humiliated beyond belief by my own ineptitude. Sod it. I am going home. I shall grow my own food from now on; it could not be more stressful, could it?

The General Election 2010 - Runners and Riders

Gordon Brown
Evens chance of winning if his nemesis, ‘World Recession’ doesn’t threaten his position on the outside rails. Trained by Tony Blair, who had an unbeaten run of 10 years, Tony lacked staying power for the final race so opted to quit whilst ahead, hoping to avoid a Stewards Enquiry over his race fixing with George Bush. This became unavoidable when the owners of ‘Iraq Enquiry’ lodged an official complaint. This left Gordon Brown to take up the reins on hard going. Has moments of stamina, but tends to flounder when the blinkers are removed, leading to running off track and has been known to take completely the wrong course on occasions.

Will have to watch runners from his own stable who have been known to hamper a clear run at the fences. Notably the filly ‘Harriet Harman’ who would not be averse to seeing her stable mate fall at the final fence. Another insider threat ‘The Prince of Darkness’ trained by Peter Mandeleson who has fought back from 3 or 4 behind in the field previously and was the joint trainer with Tony Blair of the once bright, young filly, ‘New Labour’ who appears to have disappeared from the scene and been put out to grass.

Gordon Brown has unproven form in the General Election and it remains to be seen if he can stay the course over rough terrain. Would be well advised to avoid excessive use of 'Chief Whip' to secure a good result as this may also result in a Stewards Enquiry and a lengthy ban from future races. Unlikely to romp home as a clear winner.

Update on Chances

Fantastic News. The youngest has been offered a place at her school of choice! The Bursary awarded met with my ex husbands approval and it has been agreed that she will be able to attend.

I am not sure my openness, honesty and soul bearing had any effect on the decision. One day I may find the courage to ask, in the meantime, I am just so very relieved. The school is exceptional and has all the opportunities my daughter could ever dream of. Now it is down to her to learn, dream and live the chance she has been given.