I’m in Wales looking after mum while my sister, brother in law and the boys are enjoying a well earned holiday in Turkey. It’s a full time job looking after mum. You wouldn’t think an 88 year old woman could be such hard work. I don’t feel comfortable leaving her alone for long. Her falls have become more frequent and she’s very frail. She does however have a huge appetite, which is a relief. She doesn’t have an appetite for life anymore though and who could blame her? I suspect she’s in quite a lot of discomfort and perhaps some pain and I’m certain the negative thoughts are on a continuous loop.
It’s day 3. I’ve asked her every day if she wants to do anything or if she’ll come for some air. She’s got a wheelchair now but I don’t think she’s used it yet. It’s parked in the garage, waiting, wheels poised still wrapped in their protective plastic packaging, ready for action and adventure – maybe a couple of hours at the seaside and a Mr Whippy or a trip to the shops. She doesn’t seem interested though so I won’t force the issue, but I’ll offer it up every day. I think we’d have fun.
I went for a walk at midday down to the stream and felt my mood lift after 10 minutes. I feel very unsettled here and it’s hard to get any focus. I need to practice and maintain some sort of routine so I’ve bought quite a lot of stuff and it’s all over the place – nothing’s where it should be. I packed my weights of course and it was arms and shoulders this morning. Did I feel like doing them? Probably not but I’m even more determined to stay strong after seeing how mum’s ageing. It’s legs tomorrow 😮💨 but my reward will be a walk in some picturesque scenery.
Picturesque scenery
I’d walk for miles every day given half a chance. I feel slightly frustrated since Snowdon’s right there, a mere hour away. I asked earlier what time’s best for me to go out – the underlying message being what time are you most likely to fall?!! I have no idea how I’d react if she did but I’d rather be here. I purposely didn’t pack any serious walking gear to avoid the temptation of a longer walk, but the urge is there and it’s strong.
I’m so used to just thinking for myself that it can feel restrictive being responsible for another person, especially an elderly mother. There’s always something to do, even more so than when I’m at mine. Plants to water, bins to put out, animals to feed. I can’t switch off. I can’t at mine either mind you. I haven’t turned the telly on yet. I’d rather be outside. That’s my switch off zone.
I wish mum could see the magnificent hills, feel the lush grass under her feet, watch the sleepy cows grazing half heartedly in the sweltering midday sun, feel the refreshing coolness of the flowing stream water through her fanned (arthritic) fingers. Mother knows best, although she’d definitely benefit from exposure to a few rays of sunshine.
I go to her room and her head is bowed in contemplation. The osteoporosis makes her look like a table top. She went back to bed this morning. She said she still felt tired. I didn’t question it. She had a nap late yesterday afternoon while I was getting dinner ready. 5 minutes before I plated, I knocked but she was fast asleep. She stirred briefly and asked if it was time to go to work. Gulp.
It might be selfish of me but it’s made me think even more about how I want to go. If I had a choice, it’d be by heart attack halfway down Snowdon. Please 🙏
It absolutely blooming categorically definitely wouldn’t be death by cow stampede, which almost happened during my walk on Friday evening. I crossed a field on a well trodden footpath and halfway, a herd of cows took an interest in me. I walked on as calmly as I could. With a third of the field remaining, they somewhat disconcertingly gathered speed. I walked faster. So did the cows. I broke into a trot. They did too! I legged it towards the gate as fast as I could and got there by the skin of my teeth.
I was treated to dinner at Sheeps and Leeks in Caernarfon at the beginning of August. I had no expectations when I saw the quirky shop front hidden away in one of the city’s side streets. Pink neon lighting gave the exterior a slightly sleazy glow. A curious collection of small plants was growing on the window ledge inside the restaurant.
Pink hazePink plants
The kitchen is as open as the atmosphere – the vibe was busy but relaxed amongst the stacked stainless steel pots and pans. It was as though we’d walked into a friend’s kitchen. We were greeted with warm smiles by the team before they got their heads down again to prepare an incredibly intricate collection of culinary delights.
Simple elements – don’t be fooled, it was anything but!
I’d never experienced a tasting menu before. I’ve got some catching up to do and this was the ideal introduction. It’s the perfect concept. Sampling such a vast array of tastes and textures was sensational. Each dish had been lovingly conceived and every element was plated with great care and attention.
Fish du jour – beautiful bass notes
I don’t eat cheese but I was told the doughnut was very good. My first dish was an all-in-one-go steel spoonful of luxurious lamb. It was like experiencing food for the very first time. I let it melt in my mouth. My tastebuds danced to the tune of the flavours that developed on my tongue. I could have cried it was so good. Amuse my bouche it most certainly did.
Emotional
Next up was the stand out dish for me – soup! Let’s be honest here, it’s often a dull dish which gets overlooked. Not so at Sheeps and Leeks. I didn’t get a photo – I was too busy enjoying it. The intensity of the flavours was incredible. An unexpected sphere of herby liquid was concealed at the bottom of the bowl. It brought it to life. The focaccia was crusty, light and full of flavour.
The maître d’ was a friendly modest man possessed by a passion for every single plate with which we were presented. His detailed explanations of each dish added another dimension to the simple menu. I’m still in awe of how he retained all the information about each course as well as the wine list.
The decor at Sheeps and Leeks is unapologetically quirky but without an ounce of pretence. The brick effect wallpaper gave a retro feel to the small dining room (20 covers) and photos of chefs and culinary paraphernalia adorned the wallpaper.
Back to the food. The fish was as fresh as the August weather outside (15 degrees), as were its accompanying crab and cucumber salads. The beautifully presented pork cheek melted divinely. Crumbs of crackling were crumbled on top and the meat rested on a pillow of silky smooth aubergine.
More than the sum of its parts – pork, peas and cabbage never looked, or tasted, this good
Every component ingredient worked in harmony together. It was a tour de force of culinary balance.
Spoons
Two desserts you say? Now that’s my idea of heaven! I actually loved the zingy palate cleansing yogurt pre dessert more than the star of the show, which was also excellent. I’d never have thought that 4 such simple ingredients as rhubarb, strawberry, yoghurt and mint could sing together so harmoniously. Wow. No photo again for obvious reasons, but here’s the main dessert to give you an idea:
Work of art
We had delicious decaf coffee which tasted just like the real thing and petit fours to complete our experience.
One of the best things about Sheeps and Leeks is its lack of airs and graces. It genuinely is all about the food. Although it was high end dining, it was a homely relaxed experience. Brick wallpaper and soft lighting does that. I’ll definitely be going back. Meanwhile I’m on the forage for tasting menus here in Yorkshire…
My happy face in my happy place – fine food landPink lily – a souvenir of joyous times
Day 14 – A Walk in the Snow Makes my skin glow I feel nervous at first – Will it get worse? Will I get stuck in a drift? Too much snow to shift? Does ice lie beneath? I grit my teeth I put on my warm hat And that is that.
Once I’m out There is nowt Can stop me From feeling giddy It’s all white It’s alright Don’t fight Snow’s delight
Snow’s amazing At transforming Even a mild Mannered man to a child- like state of play No more grey Clouds today May they stay away For ever and a day
For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin – real life but there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life. This perspective has helped me to see there is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way. So treasure every moment you have and remember that time waits for no one.
Souza
Eira has played a significant role in my musical and personal journey since we first met when she became professor of harp at the RNCM in 1992. I was in my 3rd year when she arrived fresh from her studies in the USA. She made such a strong impression on me with her crystal clear imaginative ideas on the shape she wanted the harp department to take. She was artistic director of two International Harpweeks which took place while I was a student. Both events were exceptional and exciting. It was a big deal to have the spotlight on the harp and that it was happening up North. I was studying with Frank Sternefeld at the time and I learnt so much from Eira. She initiated the RNCM harp ensemble and our smaller quartet, Fir Chlis with Mary Ann Kennedy, Manon Llwyd and Kathryn Rees. We had some amazing adventures and we went on tour in Wales – we were even on Welsh TV!
Fast forward some 14 years – I reconnected with Eira during a difficult time in my life and I asked to go and play for her. Off I went with my harp to her studio in Stockport for a consultation lesson. After an extremely encouraging but realistic lesson, she suggested I come to the RNCM to complete a masters degree. I said yes. She thought I was kidding. Thanks to her support, I enrolled at the RNCM as a mature student in 2007 and I was able to dedicate all my energy to the harp and music after a rocky period during which I came close to giving it all up.
FAITH
When you walk to the edge of all the light you have And take that first step into the darkness of the unknown You must believe that one of two things will happen:
There will be something solid for you to stand upon, Or, you will be taught how to fly.
Patrick Overton 1975
I looked forward to my weekly lessons with eager anticipation. Being held accountable was priceless. I was highly motivated and I dedicated countless hours to improving myself as a musician and harpist. We listened and talked a lot and Eira inspired me with her artistic ideas and her faith in my skill as a musician. I studied reams of repertoire and had some exquisite experiences playing solo works and chamber music as well as preparing orchestral parts. Harp class was a very steep learning curve about constructive feedback. Some tough hands were dealt around discipline, and my musical ideas were challenged persistently which led to my growth. She encouraged me to be myself and to express myself with my harp but always at the service of the music.
Eira cares for each of her students – she is empathic and compassionate whilst maintaining a healthy sense of detachment. She was there to congratulate us when we achieved the desired result and to console us when we didn’t. She continues to mentor students beyond the RNCM years and even though we don’t talk as often these days, when we do we pick up as though we’d spoken yesterday.
Happy faces – surrounded by some of my harp colleagues
I enjoyed a vast array of extremely enriching orchestral opportunities at college. Orchestral playing was my true love and Manchester was the perfect base to reinforce that passion. A year long course became 2 years when I realised I wasn’t ready to perform a final recital yet. I was enjoying life in Manchester again, allowing myself to be steeped in that melting pot of music, culture and the arts. I also relished being surrounded by a sisterhood of harpists half my age – they were so energetic and supportive, and their carefree enthusiasm was contagious!
The collage Eira made for me as a leaving gift. A montage of 30 years of musical memories
I was fortunate to work alongside Eira on several occasions, in particular with the Hallé when they performed works involving multiple harps. Performing operas from Wagner’s Ring Cycle under the baton of Sir Mark Elder were pinch-me moments. They were truly awesome experiences where I could observe and learn, and enjoy complete immersion in music. Eira is a consummate professional with great integrity, and her love and respect for music is immense and steadfast. She shares this with her students with open hearted generosity.
It was always a delight to work with Eira’s students and working with Helen MacLeod (1980-2018) was no exception. A true professional, and a wonderful harpist and human being.
“Success is how high you bounce when you hit bottom”
George Patton
Student life wasn’t always rosy and chicken sandwiches became an institution. When times became too tough, it was reassuring to know I could contact Eira and soon be on her sofa with a glass of wine and a freshly prepared plate of comforting sandwiches lovingly made by Steve. I swear they were the culinary equivalent of a homely hearty hug. No matter what challenge I was facing, whether it was musical or personal, our dialogues never failed to appease my agitated emotions.
An unforgettable rehearsal of Stravinsky’s Firebird with the Hallé in the presence of the Queen
Eira’s prowess as a teacher is exceptional and she is held in high regard throughout the UK and internationally. Her ability to adapt to each student is a rare gift. Her knowledge of the repertoire seems limitless and her head was, and still is, constantly brimming with new ideas for her latest compositions and creative projects. Her ability to construct cohesive programmes for recitals, exams, auditions and performances is extraordinary, demonstrating her deep understanding of the performer and the works to be studied.
While I tutored at the Early Music Shop, I worked alongside 2 of Eira’s graduates, Louise Thomson and Alice Kirwan, and we invited Eira to act as artistic director for 2 Camac harp weekends which we organised in Saltaire. She tirelessly shared her love and enthusiasm for the harp and it’s no surprise that she’s in high demand as a guest tutor. Experiencing her deliver tuition with such clarity to a large group of absolute beginners was a memorable sight. Most of them had never seen a harp before let alone play one and I’m not sure they even read music! Most impressive of all was that the participants went away with radiant smiles and a sense of achievement, inspired to continue their journey with our fascinating instrument.
Watching Eira teach is a lesson in itself. Stagecraft is another one of her fortés and you’d never guess she was shy!
I can’t write about Eira without mentioning Steve. Steve is her rock. He’s her husband, personal chef, chauffeur, barista, recording engineer, technical support, sommelier, librarian, travelling companion, the list goes on. Steve is a placid, dependable, calm character who balances out Eira’s creative nature. They work so well together. They’re a dream team, a marriage made in heaven, possibly quite literally!
All packed up and raring to go and make music!
Teaching comes with its own challenges. Eira rarely left us high and dry and after class we would often congregate in the refectory to ease out of teacher/student mode while relaxing with a well earned drink. “STEEEEEEEEEVE”!!! we exclaimed joyously upon his arrival. Following this enthusiastic outburst came a chorus of giggles that resounded through the huge space as he approached his giddy welcoming committee cautiously. He arrived to whisk Eira safely to her next destination. Her sense of relief was tangible. Another long teaching day was nearly done. The atmosphere changed as she became more relaxed, safe in the knowledge that it was nearly time to head home to recharge her batteries and enjoy some quiet time.
Have harp, will travel
Eira is blessed with an inexhaustible sense of curiosity and her musical journey has taken her to a myriad of exciting destinations across the world. She has a particular affinity with Greece and all things Greek. She has taught several Greek harpists, many of whom have thriving careers. An accomplished chamber musician, she loves working with her Greek flautist Anna Mari Rosa and Eira has even learnt Greek. Eira has never lost her sense of curiosity and she’s always keen to learn new skills. Filakia Eira!
Emotional
Inspirational
Resilient
Artistic
Soon after my arrival at the RNCM Eira gave me my Happy Box. Inside was a small book of quotations called The Real Meaning of Success and a small tortoise made of stone. Eira is a fervent advocate of slow practice and she often reminded us of Aesop’s Fable about the tortoise and the hare – the tortoise always wins in the end. I filled my Happy Box during my 2 years at the RNCM and many of those happy memories involve Eira. She gives so generously to her students, inspiring us to be the best version of ourselves as musicians and human beings.
Eira always encouraged me to embrace the journey. I’m so excited to find out what Eira does next on her journey.
Eira – thank you so much for all you have taught me and shared with me over the years. From the Heart – Rhian
A couple of weeks ago my friend and mentor Gareth Boot (Google him) suggested I join the above challenge and I must admit I’ve really enjoyed getting back in the habit of writing regularly again. Gareth helped me kick a 30 a day smoking habit and a month later I gave booze the Boot too! He’s inspired me to walk and run over 1,200 miles for 2 years in a row and we’re revving up for my professional challenge in 2022. The challenge was set by Kate Beddow – thanks for the inspiration Kate if you’re reading this! I much prefer writing with a Bic and a pad of A4 paper but I can’t share those scribblings so here we go. Much of it is stream of consciousness writing. I’m including a few posts written when time got the better of me as well as the half hearted can’t be arsed entries too…
Day 6 – Childhood memories of Winter
When I was a child, Winter was wild and sometimes mild. I often smiled and laughed with my big sister as we played in the snow during the school holidays. We built a snowman and Mam came and inserted a nasal carrot and coal buttons in the appropriate places. She topped him off with my red and white striped beanie hat before marching me upstairs straight in the bath before I caught my death.
The hat in question
Mam was something of a tyrant. Well she had to be with 2 unruly feisty characterful girls to bring up while Dad worked away. Dad wasn’t around much when we were small, much to my regret. Mam was nicer when he was home for 2 months, then he went back to sea for 6, and I wished I could go with him with every bone in my body. I was Dad’s girl, still am. Dad was fun. Dad was funny. Mam was stern and never shy with a sharp slap when we were bad. That’s what she said and I believed her, and I often thought Dad stayed away because I was bad, because I was naughty. I give her credit, she raised me to be a good girl and after several bouts of counselling and therapy, I’d say I’m getting there, although I have my moments.
Dad’s girl, see?
Now where was I? Ah yes. Winter. My sister and I revelled in a delight of snowball fights but I almost always came out worse off as she’s my senior by almost 4 years. On the rare occasion I did try to retaliate when I caught her off guard (tactics!) I inevitably got in trouble with Mam and I’d take refuge in the safe comforting darkness of the cupboard under the stairs, right at the back behind piles of toys and books, hidden behind a jumble of long coats. “Rhian! RHIAN!!!” her cries crescendoed. I knew I was for it.
My sister was slim and incredibly athletic and she could be a bit of bully. We fought hotly and I remember the time I drew blood. It was an oral wound. Mam went ballistic. Life was unfair. My sister was never in trouble with Mam. So it seemed.
Dad was the household chef and when he was home, we ate like princesses. In Winter we ate steaming bowls of simple vegetable stew punctuated with luxurious nuggets of lamb that had been gently simmered for hours, creating a delicious watery broth full of flavour. Small globules of fat glistened invitingly hinting at how much flavour lay within the liquor. The tender meat melted in my mouth. Everything did. It had been cooked for such a long time. A pretty plate of fresh bread and butter accompanied it and I always pleaded for the crust, my favourite bit, slathered with lashings of butter. Good job nobody else liked it. On a good day I got a pair of heels.
Dad’s food tasted of love.
I remember he had a tub of spice rub for chicken, a recipe shared with him by one of the Indian cooks on the ship where he was chief engineer. My juvenile palate couldn’t handle the heat and I’d regretfully peel the appetising charred reddish brown searingly hot skin away from the flesh leaving it to one side. After he died we scoured the house for that recipe to no avail.
Sometimes Father was home for Christmas and the aromas emanating from the kitchen were divine. He made a big fuss of the turkey and he started simmering the giblets on Christmas Eve to make his flavour-full gravy. On special occasions we ate in the parlour with its draughty bay windows and Christmas was fun. We’d pull crackers and laugh as we enjoyed the most important meal of the year. God I want a turkey sandwich now and I don’t even like turkey! But I only want one made by Dad.
After our meal we retired to the comfort of the living room, cosily huddled on the sofa as close as possible to the gas fire. The smell of hot polyester was alarmingly comforting. I was brought up in my mother tongue, Welsh and one Christmas, after a particularly enjoyable escapist film I uttered my first 2 words in English – “The End”.
The sofa
NB – I had a fantastic childhood and this blog post is in no way a tirade against the way I was parented. I dare you to show me perfect parents or a family that isn’t dysfunctional in some way, shape or form!
At work on Monday, I chased a shoplifter out of the shop. The fact he’d already stuffed his jacket with steaks is irrelevant. I’d spotted him on the CCTV monitor and buzzed for the manager. Seeing him make his way towards the doors, a surge of adrenalin sent me running along the aisles beyond the safe boundaries of the shop. I grabbed him by his sleeve. Behoodied, he turned and gave me a sideways glance before running for the bridge in the town centre. What would I have done? Tackled him and pinned him to the floor? Unzipped his jacket to liberate him of his precious meat? I half expected someone to help but it was too late. He was gone, along with a share of the profits. What fuelled me to risk life and limb for a rare bit hunk of rump? Anger actually. It flared up and when he turned to look at me, I wanted to scream at him to get a f**king job like the rest of us.
When I was about 10, I stole a sweetie necklace from the petrol station. I’ll never forget it. I was racked with guilt. I clearly still am.
Life’s been less eventful than last week. My wrist feels much better (thanks for asking) and doing very little practice was a wise move. I had an extremely fruitful fayre on Sunday, restoring my faith in them as a good business investment, the pinnacle being taking a deposit on the day. There’s no better feeling after a long hard day’s work flogging my wares, trying to convince potential clients that my harp and I really are the divine heavenly perfect finishing touch missing from their big day, and why wouldn’t everyone have live music at their wedding to make their day complete? Music is, of course, the proverbial cherry on the proverbial wedding cake but not everyone feels the same way I do about music and at the end of the week I often have to dig quite deep to keep my performer/saleswoman persona going. I miss my regular practice and, with fayre season in full flow, I’m going with that. There’s a lull until November and more paid playing work coming up, thank god.
A sense of play is fundamental to my wellbeing. I liken myself to a bowling ball swaggering playfully along the hardwood alley towards the ten (Twenty? Thirty? More?) pins of my life. Striking a few of them each week is a win. Today my focus is on socialising and my creative work. The cleaning can wait. Last night involved the cooking extravaganza I’ve been promising myself and I used up a lot of the veg I’ve been hoarding, some of it rather the worse for wear, bulk purchased to be incorporated into a mouthwatering menu of exciting exotic dishes. Running out of steam by 7pm, I made a jaw poppingly hot curry. The stew recipe I want to try will stew until next week. As for baking, I’m sure I’ve got a free rainy Sunday coming up. My current obsessions are food and exercise. It’s all about balance.
To socialising then. Last week I invited an interesting customer for a coffee. On Saturday I went on an 8 mile hike with 30 complete strangers. Once past the flush of inadequacy and awkward hellos and as long as I’m not the centre of attention, I’m fine. I’m really trying. Maybe I’m trying too hard.
Looking out this morning at an exquisite sky the colour of parma violets, I’m feeling ok about this time of year which can be challenging for many of us. The nights have drawn in and daylight comes at a premium. With less playing work than I’d like and significantly fewer gigs than last year, I might need to take on some extra shifts at the shop. Most of the time I’m ok with that and I veer between excitement and fear about exploring the new possibilities ahead of me.
Every time I cross the bridge over the stream that leads me to the shop, I pause to watch the ducks. Wearing a face like thunder, I lock my creativity safely in my car for the journey home which involves ranting and singing loudly after a few minutes post shift solemn silence. I watch the rowdy antics of my funny feathered friends. I listen to their comedic cacophonous quacks, and solemnly remind myself of the alternative – motorway journeys.
Have you ever worked on a shop floor? Looks easy doesn’t it but let me tell you it’s really hard work! My concern is always my hands, swiftly followed by my head. At times, I have to stop myself from nutting some customers and I’m learning not to take things personally at work.
I’m not much of a taker but I’m a thief too. I thieve from nature. I thieve from the handful of customers that vibrate on a higher frequency and I absorb their energy to power me through my shift. I still remember the man in a pink shirt who came in on a miserable September day and radiated joy and good vibes. We need more of that. My aim at the shop is to dish that out more generously than I receive it.
M came in and as I was chatting away with him, conscientiously doing his packing, we heard a woman’s voice. I checked my mobile and it wasn’t pocket phone. Was it the voice of god? Was she a woman after all? No. I’d been propping myself up against the till and had obliviously pressed the button panic button on the safety device I have to wear around my neck. Speak to her! exclaimed the manager. Slightly freaked out after my eventful day, I did and apologised. False alarm. Oops. I always worry I’m going to get sacked for being too slow and talking to customers too lengthily. My paranoia led me to believe somehow HQ had seen I hadn’t followed the protocol I learnt way back when I did my induction. For f**k sake.
And so it happened. The thing I feared most since I started my Proper Job happened. I jammed my hand between the wall and a heavy roller cage laden high with cases of beer, wine and spirits. There’s irony for you. I was heaving and hefting, huffing and puffing to get the bastard thing up the ramp into the fridges and, assisted by K, got my hand jammed just above my wrist. Time froze, as did my wrist afterwards, plunged into ice water in the canteen sink. Lightning quick thinking from K – thanks. The shock and shooting pain brought sorrowful sobs from deep down inside. Five minutes later, ice pack on wrist and dosed up with ibuprofen, I was back at the tills. With over 2 hours left of my shift, I asked if my role could be limited to lighter work, a more desirable option than going home and having to call someone in. Being busy helped keep my mind off the disaster that befell me but as soon as there was a lull in traffic, tears started pricking my eyes as I saw what’s left of my playing career wash down the drain. Don’t worry, it’s just bruised and a bit sore today but I can play a bit. I love a bit of drama me.
Proof that running makes your legs longer?
I’ve never taken my hands for granted. I’ve always been super careful but this year I’ve taken more risks. I’ve become more active physically and pushed my swimming harder, starting weekly lessons on top of my pool fitness classes in July. It’s a time saving idea, so I get a double session in twice a week which saves time fannying around in the changing room. This also gives my callouses time to recover and I think the chlorine hardens the skin on my fingers. With a very wet Autumn upon us, weather is no excuse since it’s often drier in the pool. The irresistibly addictive endorphin rush is the main reason I’m hooked on swimming, as well as running and walking. I often arrive at the baths grumpy and ridden with angst about the future. An hour and a half later I’m a hyperactive gregarious mass of energy, giggling as I bounce out of the leisure centre, whooping in my car as I drive home to get back to my work.
In September I completed my 100 miles walking and running. My friend and mentor Gareth instilled the idea in me, and getting so close in August with 87 miles in the bag, I decided I’d give it a go. No pressure as I had a lot of work to do, but the idea was niggling away in the back of my mind. Feeling a bit aimless about my career, having a target and anticipating that sense of achievement made me want to get up in the morning. So on the morning of 30 September, I notched up 100.9 miles. Think about that. I don’t think I drive 100 miles in a month these days, and that’s another story. I would have bettered my 100 but I wanted to celebrate my achievement with a flask of coffee by the res and a slow ceremonious absorbent stroll.
Hip flask
It was a spectacular morning and my elation was immense. I was at peace.
It’s difficult to describe Gareth Boot. He’s a bit of a chameleon. With his generous support, coaching and mentorship, I’m now almost 2 years sober and smoke free. I’m fitter than I’ve ever been and with his support, I feel equipped to face life’s challenges. If you need assistance with any aspect of your wellbeing, take a look at garethboot.com and drop him a line. He’d love to hear from you so long as you’re not an arsehole! With his lovely partner Sue, they run a company called Better 247 which focuses on all things wellbeing. Sue does a gorgeous banana cake too, amongst an ever expanding range of other delicious vegan recipes. Gareth took me on a run earlier this week and I notched up 10.34 miles. Me! It wasn’t pretty but that doesn’t matter. I did it. That’s what matters.
Mr Boot in full flow at YSP
Since the incident at the shop, I’ve really got my head down and started to face the issues I’m avoiding around getting creative work. I can play the harp. I can write. I’m good at languages and I can cook, and clean if I must. The bigger issue is telling people about myself and getting people to hire me. My business skills are improving but I’m not a natural saleswoman. I’m aware of my talents and my weaknesses and that’s a good starting point.
What a day this has been. What a swell mood I’m in, and it’s almost like being in love with life again. My day started beautifully with a 20 minute 2.2km run (yes, you read that right, this former heavy smoker/binge drinker never-exercised-in-her-life couch-potato) around the reservoir.
Yesterday evening I had another stunning res run, more of an indulgent 4km dawdle really as I took in the flora and fauna and the incredible scenery I’m so lucky to have right here on my doorstep.
Sunday – stormy weather. Spot the lapwing
I’m still incredulous at the effect physical exercise has on my mental state. On Monday, I was flaky to say the least. Forgetful could periodically become my middle name – did I mention I left my house keys in the door overnight recently? My mood dropped on Saturday night as I felt worse and worse about myself and became isolated, condemning myself to seemingly endless hours of solitary confinement. It’s all about work really. I had a rough shift with rude obnoxious drunks (talk about pot/kettle/black – I feel a sense of regret, even though I was labelled a funny drunk and mainly drank alone at home) and I keep letting work affect me. I’m in a transition phase in which I miss music so much but I no longer crave the lifestyle I often enjoyed 5 years ago. I don’t want to sit in my car for hours on end. I don’t want to stress out about not being offered work. I have no ambition whatsoever to be Principal Harp with an orchestra. I want to share my love for music and creativity in different ways, through performance, teaching and perhaps writing. Maybe it’s normal at this stage in my life where I’m probably peri-menopausal. As I review my life and my choices, I regret a few things which I realise come down to living quite a nomadic life. Yes, I’ve travelled a lot. I’ve seen some amazing places and lived some life changing experiences, but I was always so focused on my work that my personal life was left by the wayside. I was never really a tourist at my destinations.
True, that Who’s that?
As I approach one big L of a birthday benchmark, living my life to its fullest has become my priority. I want to enjoy myself. I want to have fun. I want to meet new people. I’d love to meet a significant other. I want to finish my house off and get it looking and feeling like the dream home I envisioned when I bought it eight years ago. It might yet happen. I can see it a lot of the time, more and more as I write. Words become flesh.
Combining business with pleasure really works for me. This morning’s run took place before my 4 hour Wednesday shift. I saw oystercatchers and curlews and the weather was wonderful. I got so excited about my day! I had my long awaited picnic in the sun and basked barefoot before heading for the bakery scented air-conditioned shop. My mood dwindled gradually as the endorphins rushed away and by the 4th hour, my focus was drifting big time. I made a mistake, at least I thought I’d made a mistake. I’m still not sure but to be on the safe side, I called the manager and ‘fessed up. At the end of my shift I was called into the office by the other manager as he started his shift. We discussed events, and I felt worse and worse as I tried to make sense of the contributing factors which led to my hesitation. Dear readers, I cried. I couldn’t help it. It was out of guilt at the knock on effect my error has on others. I admit I’m slow and I lack confidence because I truly am a bit out of my depths. I feel like a fish out of water. Shop work isn’t my ideal job and I don’t think I’m cut out for it, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being on the dole and sponging off the state. I’m enjoying learning new skills and I LOVE meeting people, engaging with them and if I can and if it’s appropriate, bringing some cheer into their day. I suppose they call it work because it’s just that. Unfortunately, I find it hard to see it as just that.
I processed things before collapsing in a sleepy heap on the sofa for an hour and I decided to leave it all at the shop. I’m not carrying that round with me until my next shift. I likened my situation to that of let’s say an unmusical manager having a hundred hours of harp lessons and having to play for a wedding. I rest my case.
I have no playing work until the end of August (make that the end of July actually – oops!) which gives me ample time to sort my shit out and do some serious planning around my creativity and the life I want for myself. In many ways, I’m lucky not to have the burden of children but that brings with it an almost all consuming engulfing sense of emptiness. My cat is great company but she can’t satisfy most of my needs.
Thumping the pavements and grass verges around the village and its environs gives me headspace, and the meditative state I enter is a very positive addiction. I WANT to get up in the morning. I still feel fear around getting lost, falling and failing but that soon passes with the passionate pumping of my increased heart rate. I used to avoid exercise out of fear for my hands and feet. Breaking something would mean loss of income and not surviving. That’s gone and I mock myself a bit as encouraging phrases like “she galloped gazelle-like past flaming gorse on a scramble through burnished broom, brazen bramble and nettle” stream through my head, huffing and puffing, red-faced with exertion. When it’s not words, it’s music and lyrics. Just now, I was preparing a hard boiled egg for lunch and “Peel It” by Michael Jackson popped into my ears. It’ll be there all afternoon if I’m not careful! Does it ever stop? I’m not sure and I find that reassuring. I’m learning to manage my creativity in new ways. I’d say my resilience is at an all time high.
In the pool last night, I watched my buddy C get out and ogled her sculpted left buttock. She goes to spin class. Hmmmmm. I wonder when I could fit spin in…
Rare Bit Blogging 