On possibility

I currently have six ill formed blogposts waiting on me in my drafts.

Six.

S I X.

So I obviously started a seventh, and here we are.

Those six posts are all on BIG THINGS. Marriage. Motherhood. Patriarchy. Love. Wanderlust. A scrambled mess of all the thoughts and all the feelings. A deep, thick swamp of what I'm working through on a day to day basis, trying to connect it to a bigger picture. To other stories and other lives. It's like walking from my sludge into someone elses, leaving big brown footprints in between. Immersing myself until I need to haul myself out, looking like some kind of swamp monster, then needing to shower and wash it away. Stripped back until I'm squeaky clean, before I can go wading back in all over again.

That's a pretty good metaphor for my mind right now. Add in the swamp monster continually driving around a roundabout at some point, and I think we've nailed it.

I want to get this stuff out. To talk it all over, put it down, share and be shared with in return. Desperately at times. I think it's interesting guys. I think you'd like it. I think it's worthy of conversation, and dumping it out here would feel like heaven. There are pages and pages of words. If only my brain could coherently arrange and edit and spellcheck, and I had built in wifi so I could upload it by merely blinking. The dream!

The reality? I just. can't. do. it. I can't get far enough into any of it. I keep bashing up against a brick wall, so then I start again. On a another topic. Another thread. Another tangent. And in a big way I feel like it's just a very accurate reflection of my inner workings right now. A lot of solo parenting, a lot of contemplation, a lot of reading and taking on other points of view has left me confused. Messy. Overwhelmed. A swamp brain filled with all the stuff.

There are also other reasons it's not working. Some are totally legit, and some... not so much. Shall I list my excuses for you?

• I have children. This feels less of a legitimate reason every time I trot it out.
• I'm not making the time. I could be getting up early in the morning like a good, organized creative person does. Do I? hahahahaha no. I do not.
• I've lost my creative mojo. The ideas are there, but getting past that first hurdle seems impossible. I feel a bit lost, creatively.
• It's hard and requires concentration. I'm not pushing through the uncomfortableness. I'm basically a toddler wailing on the floor at the difficulty of it all, waiting for someone to save me from myself.
• Something else is calling me. That book. This website. Those kids. The bloody dishwasher. All the other things are calling me, it seems.
• I'm not good enough. I wish I was a better writer. Coherent. Concise. No typos. That the words would come and feel like me.

Maybe that last one is the real crux of this story. If I felt good enough at it, good at all, would that make those other excuses easier to kill off? Is it hard because I'm not good enough, or am I not good enough because I'm not trying very hard? I suspect it's a combination of the two.

If that's the case, there is hope.

Finding your own voice in writing is fucking hard, right? It's not easy for anyone, and that's why (as with many endeavors in life) not everyone does it. So often I can't see myself clearly enough in what I'm writing. I can't see the nuance, or humour. Or the playfulness that can fly out of my mouth but feels so much clunkier and awkward in written form. I just can't see me, I guess.

Obviously the only real way to find my voice, to see myself here in these words, is to come the fuck on, Bridget. Write more. More and more and more until out comes me in that sentence, that phrasing, that paragraph, that whole piece. There I am and down I spill. Practice practice practice. To put in the hours. Deliberate practice and blood, sweat and tears.

Really, none of it matters. Or at least, it only matters to me. I only want to be better for me. To know that I can translate these thoughts into something that can exist outside of myself. Worked through and sorted, filed into an imaginary cabinet labelled 'Shit Laura thought about' (new blog name?) I mean really,  is there even any point? I don't know. But I do know that sometimes, I like it. This feeling of 'stuckness'. Of challenge. Of the possibility at becoming better at something. Maybe I will, maybe I won't, but it's possible. And sometimes it's just really fucking irritating.

Oh hi, life.

Making the damn time (aka Women in literature)

Last week whilst trawling Twitter, as I am often to be found doing, I stumbled upon a fascinating article called 'Selfie', written by Rachel Syme. The article is wonderful (please, go forth and read then pass it on), and it immediately made me want to seek out its author - one of my favourite perks of the 21st century, instant 'connection' and stalking ahoy! From her Twitter feed I saw that she was starting a book club. But not just any old book club, a club where books about Women's Lives would be suggested and consumed and discussed carefully, and all online. If you know me, you know how that spoke to me. I nearly passed out with pleasure and emailed her immediately.

.......

The group of people who also saw and replied to the book club announcement was immense - emails starting hitting my inbox from all around the world, all the time. Women (mostly women but not exclusively) from different backgrounds and cities, with crazy interesting jobs and lives. It was amazing to see them there, standing up and declaring their love and support of other women. The volume was a little intense though and I started debating (with myself and with my husband sat next to me) whether I could keep up with reading a book a month plus the conversations around said book. I have two small(ish) kids, and finding time for most stuff is hard these days. Plus? When I commit I want to commit, and do it properly..

So I was telling my husband about the book that had been chosen and how it had made me realise that I hadn't read any biographies of women. And the only memoirs I'd read were contemporary. We talked about Sylvia Plath and The Bell Jar, which was sitting in front of us on the bookshelf.

Me: "Have you read many female authors?"

He paused. A little side eye and a shift in his seat. I recognised the look on his face, when he senses a broader subject or discussion approaching in the air. Usually a feminist one that he wants to take his time to navigate.

"Well, of course. Yeah."

He listed a few, but then tailed off. I stared up at our bookshelf and our combined books from over the years, the majority being his, given his 11 year head start in life. Glancing over the spines it took all of 1 minute to see that easily, 80% were written by men.

Me: "Shit. Even our bookshelves are predominantly male."

Husband: "But I don't chose a book based on gender of author, but whether they interest me"

This kicked off a discussion about the problem with that statement. I'm not going to lie, I got a little simmering feeling in my chest, a little flustered. The passion floods in when I feel strongly and want to make sure I can find the words to make my point elegantly rather than just shouting 'YOU'RE WRONG, DUDE'. I'm a work in progress. To me though, that argument just doesn't hold up. Take our bookshelf for example. If you walked over to our books and decided to choose a book not based on gender, but what interests you, you are still choosing from a pool of work that is 80% male dominated. Statistically you are going to choose a book by a man. And even if you read them all, 80% of what you've read was written by men! And as on our bookshelf, as is life.

The not choosing based on gender argument just doesn't take in to account (I mean, so many things) but mostly, opportunity from the outset.

In 2013, The London Board of Review revealed that only 8.7% of books reviewed the previous year were written by women. And the reviewers themselves are predominantly male, as are many of the editors at said publications. On and on it goes. In response to that study, Jenny Turner said:

"Ask the editors and they'll tell you, time and time again, that they'd love to have more women working for them but the trouble is, the women don't come forward. Or the work of the few women who do just isn't good enough. Or both," Turner continued. "What's happened is that the sexism has gone underground, so the editors are completely unaware of how discouraging to women they are. And worse, the women writers don't even realise they are being discriminated against – they just think it must be true, they're no good at this sort of thing, and so they just give up."

I tried to point out the bias, the deep imbalances, big and small. I brought up J K Rowling and the sexist bullshit her publishers trotted out when taking on Harry Potter - that 'boys wouldn't read books written by women'. So she is J K and not Joannna to this very day, and still writes under a male psyudonem. Because reading some words that you know come from a female brain would be ewwwww! Right boys? And you can just keep drilling this shit down. Historically women weren't educated to the same level, or allowed to express opinion in society let alone with words on paper, or had to write under male pen names to be accepted. All of those 'historical' examples are true to some extent in many places in the world today, by the way.

We talked about how this underlying and deeply ingrained sexism is the case with almost anything we consume - films, TV, books, music. These industries are dominated by men at all levels. They are writing and producing and publishing and green lighting and running the God Damn Show. Cut open these establishments and they will bleed white men. The fight for equality and diversity is happening across the board. As a (white) man, everywhere you look you are represented. Imagine that! 'Should we read more male authors?' is not A Thing. I highly doubt it ever will be. 

My 6 year old son was quietly listening to this conversation. I thought about his books, and what he's being exposed too. So far it's pretty 50/50 - Enid Blyton and Rhoald Dahl and JK herself. But going through the younger books, the picture books my 19 month old daughter has and WOAH. The balance is less so, and many of the characters are boys.

I went in to that conversation and stream of thought with a simple 'have I got time for this book club right now?' hanging in the air, waiting to be answered. At the end of it though, I just didn't see how I wouldn't have the time. I'm making the damn time.

My book is on order, I'm re-reading The Bell Jar and I'm about to do this thing. I've even been researching books for the coming months and discovering stories of women I never would have looked into before. I am stupidly excited.

Time to make some space on my shelves, and make way for the women.

This is Water by David Foster Wallace

>THIS IS WATER - By David Foster Wallace

from The Glossary on Vimeo.

"But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear talked about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving .....The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.'"

'In 2005, author David Foster Wallace was asked to give the commencement address to the 2005 graduating class of Kenyon College. However, the resulting speech didn't become widely known until 3 years later, after his tragic death. It is, without a doubt, some of the best life advice we've ever come across, and perhaps the most simple and elegant explanation of the real value of education.'

This speech by David Foster Wallace, and video (made by The Glossary) was exactly what I needed at exactly the moment I needed it when I stumbled across it yesterday. Do you ever find that? You have questions in your head and unexpectedly you find something that helps answer them? These words can really be applied to many situations, so maybe if you have some questions floating around your head, you could use them too.

Let There Be Light

I've struggled through this Winter. The grey skies have been too relentless, varying in shades from stormy to pure white, but mostly that dull smoky grey that holds no light and no promise of anything better.

Then one day, the sky opens up again. All of a sudden the sun comes and brings with it blue skies that only happen in the colder months; not the deep, summer blue that makes you feel warm from just seeing it, but the crisp, pastel hue that leaves you in no doubt - Spring is coming. We're not at the stage where this is an everyday occurance yet, which seems slightly cruel. The house is momentarily full of small pools of light, warm and inviting. If we had a cat, she would seek them out and make them hers. Yesterday, I sought them. I padded around a quiet house, catching the light and memorising it for those days when the grey is all too present.

.

Made by Good Fucking Design Advice. You need to check out their website.

Change

Recently, a light came on. In my head, in my heart, I'm not sure which. Probably both. I realised something about myself. I saw it like I was outside, looking in. Does that ever happen to you?

Since moving I have felt happier than I have in a long time. I feel lighter. Content. Calm. Don't get me wrong, it hasn't been without it's, shall we say, challenges. But overall, I feel different here. In a good way.

And I couldn't work out why. It's been bugging me, actually. Why haven't I been missing the places and people we said goodbye to more than I am? Why has the thing that I have been fearing for so very long, actually felt quite....good? It wasn't just that it wasn't as bad as I expected, it was more.

Out of the blue, as these things tend to do, it came to me. I realised that for the past year, I have been forcefully, with my whole body and heart, resisting. Nearly every thought that I had about this massive change that was to come, was negative. It was tiring me out. Draining me. Clouding every judgment I was making about everything. About the time I still had there, and the things we would plan for here. Colouring everything a shade of grey that was hard to shake off.

But the thing is,  I didn't know it at the time. Yes I was sad, but actually trying to push the notion of change out of the way completely?  No way! I'm open minded! I understand that everything changes! Well, it turns out that I wasn't being as open as I thought.

When we finally got here, it was almost like being set free. Free of that little cage of resistance I had locked myself in. Those thoughts of 'I don't want to, you can't make me', were no longer relevant. I no longer needed to think like that. Those thoughts were replaced with mostly silence. With an openness to this new place and what we might find. Letting go and quietly embracing the here and now. 

Just being.

Lesson learnt universe. Next time change is a-coming and I'm not being as open as I should, I'll check myself (*before I wreck myself)

*Oh yes I did just drop an Ice T lyric on y'all.

Photo by me, here.

Moving

Just over a month ago, we moved house. Moved city. Moved our lives from there to here.

Just over a month ago, there was a very long day. We moved in two stages due to the distance, so Friday was a full on day of packing and sorting and cleaning and keeping the toddler out of trouble. We woke up early and tried to prepare ourselves for leaving. It came upon us all of a sudden. You know those days that are always there, hovering in the distance, and then BAM, here there are and away you go?

That's how the whole day was. On a practical level, it felt like a hardcore move. We were very lucky that as it's a move due to job, M's company paid for a removal firm to pack and move our shit. Of which it transpires, the three of us have a LOT of. We thought having people who would pack it all up would make it much easier, which to an extent it did. But we forgot to factor in S. Guys, moving with a toddler? It 'aint easy. He was an angel all day, but still. There is still a small person ready to jump into anything and everything, just wanting to talk to the removal men, trying to help and generally being a little tornado of excitement. Kid loves people. And moving house it seems!

People were coming and going all day long. Stuff was everywhere. An insane amount of chaos before at 6pm, it was just us. Just the three of us in our empty house as the sun was setting outside. We moved into that house just the three of us too - I was 6 months pregnant.

We wandered around and all I could think of was the morning, two years previously when I went into labour. I have the strongest memory of being in the living room, about 3am, a pregnant ball of excitement and contractions, whilst M was in the kitchen making sandwiches and us giggling hysterically. One of my favourite memories. And we filled that house with many like them.

By the end of the day though, we felt done. Ready to leave the house, to say goodbye. Seeing it empty, I felt pretty much the same. No sadness, just happy nostalgia. We had outgrown that house, and despite loving it dearly, it really felt time for the next chapter. We stood outside and took one final photograph. 'This was your first home Sachin'.

We traipsed across London with bags and baby, and got the train to our new city. We were both exhausted, physically and mentally. Sachin was raring to go. He entertained a packed train of commuters for almost 3 hours, and took our minds off everything, except that moment. M and I spent a lot of time just smiling at each other. Reassuring, comforting, excited and tired together.

At about 11pm, we loaded ourselves on to the tram, ready to make our way to the hotel we were staying in (our new house wasn't ready) until the following morning. That's when it hit me. Full in the chest, a sudden wave of emotion, and tears in my eyes. Whenever we'd been here before, it was always fleeting. Running around the city for a few days, hunting houses, barely having enough time to take it all in. Imagining living here, but knowing that once we were exhausted from it all, we'd still be going back to London, going home.

This time, there would be no going back to London. No going back to that home. A new home to make, and new nest to build. Exciting, scary, and completely overwhelming all at once.


{photo credit - http://blog.canterandcave.com/2011/04/shanghai-street-life/totems7/}

Hells yeah - Let's Dance

Dave Hill via Design crush

Plans, and the funny things that happen to them

There are times in life when things don't go according to your master plan. Something happens and you realise that actually, you can't control everything. You can set things in motion, move in one direction, and then, BOOM, something else happens and off you go, a different route is taken.

We never really had a plan that was set in stone, but we had map that we plotted out early in our relationship. M and I met here, in London. I had just moved to the city, knowing that it was a place I wanted to live from an early age. I was 20 and wasn't looking forward to where I wanted to be in 5, 10 years time. I just knew that this is where I wanted to be now. M and I moved intogether 6 months later. We made London ours.

During those early days, he took me to his favourite place. His seaside town that had been home to him during his uni days, a placed he loved and wanted to share with me. Well, I loved it too. It felt like home. And so, another plot on our map was born.

'One day, when we buy a house and have babies, we'll do it here, beside the sea'

And that's how it was. We planned our journey back to the seaside. We got engaged a year after moving in together. We thought about getting married in the town by the sea. We didn't live there yet though, so maybe not. But the chatter of when we would move got more serious. On weekend visits to the seaside, we would conspire. We would look in estate agent windows. We thought seriously about how the commute to London would work out with M's shift work, and whether I could find work there.

Then the BOOM happened. We found out that M's job was set to be relocated. Not to our place by the sea, but around 266 miles north. This was NOT our plan. M and I both work for the same company. His department was moving, mine was not. It was complicated. But at the same time, this was all due to happen a few years down the line.

'It will probably never happen'
'Another job will come up, and we won't have to go'
'We'll definitely win the lottery before that move comes around'

We told ourselves these things over and over, and got distracted in the meantime by the wonderful wedding and building our marriage and having a baby. Friends would ask us 'When's the big move?' and we would frown and pout and push the question aside. Denial is a wonderful thing.

Then in January this year, it hit us. It is happening. Another job is very unlikely to come up. We have not won the lottery. Our plan has changed and not at our request.

Getting used to something you never envisioned is probably the hardest thing of all. We never thought of living in the city we will soon call home. In fact, we'd never even been there. A few weeks ago, we had our second visit, to scope out areas we might want to live. It's a cool city. There is countryside on the doorstep. There are lovely areas we could call home. We have a few, great friends who will make us feel like we belong. But on the day we left, wandering in the rain, I felt homesick and took solace in my husband.

'What if it doesn't feel like home?'
'It will. Because I will be here, and you will be here, and that is what home is. Wherever we are'.

My husband says all the right things.

It's so easy to look at what we are losing. But in actual fact, there is a lot that we could gain. The move holds opportunity. Big, shiny chances to chase dreams and make changes that wouldn't be possible in the big money sucking capital of London. The chance to explore a new place, meet new people, have new experiences. A new place to add to our map.

And whilst our planned journey has changed, maybe the destination will always be the same.

Photograph via Flickr

Wise Words.

Edwin Land, inventor of the Polaroid. Dude knew what he was talking about.

Print from here.