Just Be You

Someone I respect has been encouraging me to just be myself, which is very empowering, to use an over-worked, but nontheless, stimulating phrase.

So, I've been kind of exploring this idea in a typically circumlocutory, tentative, exploratory way, because, even after reaching the advanced age of 58, I'm not quite sure who " myself " is.

And, I say " kind of " because, although I'm not American, I've started to use that phrase more and more, partly due to reading American tweets on twitter, but also because I imagine it reflects my uncertainty succinctly.

I'm not sure about anything at all for many reasons.

I know that you will understand this point of view, even if you are more sure.

To be sure means to be fixed and I want to be fluid.

To be sure means that you have an idea of what truth really is and if I have one fundamental belief, it is probably that truth is an ever-shifting notion that we must constantly pursue and never catch up with.

So, I've been tentatively trying to be myself, which entails a certain amount of trial and error. And recently, I've been thinking about clothes.

Clothes are tricky things. I could probably, along with everyone else, write a fat tome about clothes I have worn, clothes I haven't worn and clothes I wish I'd bought or items of clothing I've lost. These would all tell various stories about us, maybe portray little snapshots of us at significant points of our lives, all of which might serve as small building blocks in the picture of what we might be like now, at this point in time.

I've bought some new clothes and even tried wearing some of my daughter's clothes that she put out for the charity bag. Some of these I have kept. I'm beginning to look like my inner bag lady some days, if that's not too derogatory a phrase for a woman who lives on the street. I have some lovely going-out clothes now and, apart from being a tad too big since I seem to have lost weight recently, I do actually resemble an eighties version of myself sometimes which is nice because I remember feeling quite happy with myself in that era.

I'm a bit of a horder, so although I like to give things away, there are just some odd things I can't bear to part with.

For example:

Each time I come across my wellies, my heart kind of melts.

I've had them since I was 15. They're black, one size or maybe just a half size too small for me now in my post-child bearing, past mid-life female form, but I still cram my feet into them when I need them and they are still quintessentially me.

I bought these wellies because my boyfriend at the time told me to. He was an interesting person, into  fishing and woodworking and other things I thought were nice when I was 15. I'd been fishing with him a few times. My Dad was an avid fisherman and I think I might have borrowed one of his rods. I didn't really want to catch a fish. I just liked the romance of the activity. This boyfriend, let's call him Wyn, was a true outdoorsman. He loved nothing better than to sit, in all weathers, on the bank of our local canal under a huge umbrella and fix his gaze on the float. He also thought it his duty to walk the canal towpath regularly to check for things thrown in the water that might poison the fish. He seemed to love fish. He had a keepnet, but I dont remember him using it. He didn't catch a fish often, but if he did he would handle it very carefully and skillfully, removing the hook from its mouth gently so as to not damage it, inspect it closely, then plop it back in the water.

When Wyn invited me to go night fishing, I was very excited. He advised me to get some good wellies and even told me where to buy them and so I did. They were expensive and I didn't have much spare cash at the time. I had a Saturday job at Littlewoods, a department store in Shopping City, but since working there, my Dad had stopped giving me pocket money and most of my wages went on going to see bands in Liverpool and Manchester.

So, I can remember being a little reluctant to spend a lot of money on wellies. They're made by Dunlop. Black, proper wellies that don't come up to your knees, and it's therefore not surprising that 43 years later, their linings are blackened by water and snow coming in over their tops.

I got the wellies and went night fishing. I don't remember catching fish, but I do remember the moon being bright and lighting the way and the water on the canal. I remember the metallic tang of the cheap beer we brought and drank from the can. I remember the fine rain and the dampening dew of the earliest morning and the smell and shuffling sound of our Belstaffs.

We didn't talk much at all. I had to listen to instruction because otherwise it would have been either dangerous or fruitless. Canals are potentially hazardous places and fish have good ears apparently.

So we spent the night together sitting near, but not next to each other.

We didn't think it brought us romantically together. We didn't talk about our shared experience or passion or communicating without talking if we ever referred to it afterwards. We didn't even kiss, except, as I remember, a little peck goodbye as our ways home parted and I went down the hill and he went off up another.

It was just night fishing.

We got engaged eventually.

Then we split up.

And I've still got the wellies.

Along with a couple of other beautiful things he made in wood.

I sometimes look at them and think, yes, they really do reflect a part of who I was and who I am still.

Perhaps I should just shove my feet into these wellies whenever I'm wondering just who am I.

Precipitation

Rain,

Snow,

Sleet,

dew,

a casting down

( of the evil angels from Heaven),

The separation of a solid substance

from a solution,

in alchemy.


Act of falling

headlong.

Unwise

haste.

Rash rapidity.

Friday Phrase

Each child born,

So fragile, yet,

The will to live within so strong.

Not all are nurtured,

They struggle to survive;

HANDLE WITH CARE

Female

We're not supposed to voice our differences,             ( Medusa's shadow is cast upon the wall behind                
                                                                                      us)
For fear of fixing each other in stone;                          as we exchange our gifts;

          those ideas and dreams that we struggle to transform into living, pulsing, moving entities,

All the time fearing their fragility,                                Worrying that they might fragment,

Their potential for being disfigured,                              Into rigidity.



The female power,                                                      The power that is female,

An energy we have labelled,                                       The imagined thing we feel we have identified,

All that it is,                                                                All that it is,

Which remains hidden deep,                                       Within the labyrinth,

It's transforming fire,                                                   Forever flickering,

Perpetual light,                                                            Through perpetual night.



             So here we stand together, shifting shadows on the wall of the cave,

And here is the fire,                                                    And here is my gift,

                                              
                      Feel its weight                     Feel its lightness


                                It leaves a space within me

                                Carry it with you forevermore

A Woman's Gift

We're not supposed to voice our differences,

For fear of fixing each other in stone;

Medusa's shadow is cast upon the wall behind us

as we exchange our gifts;

those ideas and dreams

that we struggle to transform into

living, pulsing, moving entities,

All the time fearing their fragility,

Worrying that they might fragment,

or be disfigured into rigidity.


The female power,

The power that is female,

An energy we have labelled,

Imagining we have identified

All that it is,

Remains hidden deep,

Within the labyrinth,

It's transforming fire

Perpetual light,

Forever flickering,

Through perpetual night.


So here we stand together,

Shifting shadows

on the wall of the cave,

And here is the fire.

And here is my gift.

Feel its weight,

Feel its lightness.

It leaves a space within me,

Carry it with you ever more.

Out of time - a twitter Haiku

Walking alongside,

watching your moves,

feeling like Ginger,

but looking like Harpo.

Out of step.

Out   of
 time.


Success in failure.

Me in a Hat

Picture this; I’m leaning across a pile of clothes in a boutique,

feeling the brim of a hat.  A middle-aged lady, out of place

though not caring,  

so thrilled by the appearance  

in actuality

the re-appearance,

of a hat.

Look again.

I’m on the cusp of old age

I’m familiar with these things

Styles come and go

and come again.

They’re usually in different materials, 

which adds to the effect that

this is not real.

Style as an affectation

It’s an illusion

But this hat,

with its black, slightly wavy brim, silk ridged ribbon round its crown

is the same hat

made of the same soft felt.

Hat incarnate

that I wore throughout my early teens

which collided with the early seventies

(a sepia-toned time when Laura Ashley was queen.

May she rest in peace)

Transported,

I felt its felt 

and thought about the time I travelled

on the train with my friend in the day

to dirty Manchester in the rain.

Me in that hat.

We arrived in the pub

Incongruous in our precarious

Silly elegance

Our two lads so sheepish and cocky in their scruffy best.

I kept looking across to the spartan houses 

with their small high windows,

and their dearth of gardens,

(we were wealthy in gardens),

then across to the drinking men,

mainly men, in the middle of the 

Saturday on the outskirts of grainy Manchester.

We were young, in love with life

A rich tapestry we were told,

To keep us going.

I am nearly old now, 

but I still

get a thrill

out of wearing that hat,

in my garden,

or, occasionally,

On a Saturday,
And usually

in the rain.