Category: Meaning of life

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The Way It Was Then

When I was very young, all I wanted to do when I grew up was to be a writer. However, if anyone asked me, I would say I wanted to work with animals (mainly because I’d rather spend my time with them than with other people). I never told anyone about the writing idea, because I knew that writers were very special and talented, and I was far too dull and not at all special, and besides, there was another girl in my class who wanted to be a writer, and she wasn’t the sort of girl I could ever compete with. Also I knew that the main goal of a girl’s life was supposed to be to find a man, get married and have children (although I never really liked children, didn’t even play with dolls), or, if she couldn’t find a man who was interested in her (which seemed the most likely scenario for me), she had to stay at home and look after her elderly parents, and most likely become a teacher (a horrifying prospect). At least marriage and children (if achievable) offered some likelihood of financial security and time to write (when the children started school).

Before you ask, no, this wasn’t the Victorian era, it was the 1960s, but when I looked at my mother, and my aunts, and the neighbours, and my teachers, there didn’t seem much evidence of women breaking free of those stereotypes. The pattern was: you worked until you were married (or, if hubby was particularly enlightened, till the babies came along), then you gave it up, and maybe when the children were older you got a part-time job in a shop, or the Birds Eye factory, or the biscuit factory, or cleaning offices, for ‘pin money’.

As I grew older, I discovered there was a route out of this: university. If I did well enough in my exams (which I would), I could leave home and go away to a place where there would be lots of young people, in a new, exciting town, probably in the sophisticated, even decadent, South, where no one knew me as the pathetic little nobody I truly was, and even I might stand a chance of finding a boyfriend (boys outnumbered girls three to one in universities at that time), and best of all, I could go with my parents’ blessing, and as long as I kept my nose clean in the holidays, they wouldn’t have a clue what I got up to, they might even be proud of me, and at the end of three years I could get married, and maybe a job, and never have to go back again.

Funnily enough, that is more or less how the plan worked out. I met someone in the second summer vacation, when I’d managed to wangle a job in Reading so that I didn’t have to go home, he asked me to marry him, I said yes, and that was that. Sort of.

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Here We Go Round Again

So far this week: last yoga class before lockdown; last tai chi class before lockdown; last trip out in the van before lockdown. I mentioned last week about my yoga teacher being homeless and having to cancel classes – the next day she sent a text to say that someone had offered her a lift, then came the lockdown announcement, so there was a class on Monday evening, and ditto the tai chi yesterday morning, after which I picked up my camper van from the garage and drove to Queen Elizabeth Country Park on the A3 near Petersfield, and had a walk among the trees and a picnic. I love taking the van there, because there are car parks spread among the trees, often empty (on weekdays when I usually go), so although you can’t actually camp, you can get some of the feeling for a few hours.

The weather has turned dry and sunny but noticeably colder than it was, and today looks to be about the same, with a clear blue sky. I really should get out and do some tidying up in the garden, I tried cutting the hedge on Monday but the trimmer kept cutting out. Because it stopped and later started again, it had to be a loose wire. I took apart the connector that joins it where I cut through the cable in the spring, unscrewed the little screwy things inside, couldn’t see anything obviously loose, then got into a horrible dyspraxic muddle trying to put it back together and gave up for the day.

I read some more of ‘Women Who Run With the Wolves’, this time about creative blocks. The author suggests the usual things: keep trying, don’t self-edit, do a little every day, expect to fail, but keep going anyway. This is what I’ve been doing forever. Back to the old question of whether it matters that it never gets me anywhere? Apparently, it doesn’t. Either one day a miracle will happen and I’ll suddenly start writing something worthwhile, or I’ll be gone and someone will come along and wipe my hard drive and that will be that.

Last week I read the poem about the ‘Wild Thing’ to my therapist, and she said I should try to get it published. I haven’t done anything about it. Strictly speaking, I think posting it on here counts as publication, which disqualifies it from most competitions anyway.

I’ve been thinking about Daniel Defoe’s ‘Journal of the Plague Year’. I think this definitely counts as a ‘plague year’, but I don’t think this journal of mine is in the same class.

My current yoga teacher once said that destiny is what has to happen, but fate is what you make happen (or words to that effect). She is not having a great year, even worse than most of us. But she has faith in the fundamental goodness of the world, and I envy her for that. Today, I fear for the fate of us all.

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Second of the Month

My determination this morning took me as far as Sainsbury’s Local (which is not very far, but does mean I have to cross the road – however, the city council kindly installed a zebra crossing last year, so it’s a lot easier than it used to be.) I thought it was raining, but I needed milk so made myself go anyway, and the rain stopped.

It’s the second today, and the second and the seventeenth are important days with regard to the weather blanket, because they are days for starting new rows (because there are sixteen squares in a row, and obviously each day’s square can’t be done till the next day at the earliest, because it’s done on the basis of actual conditions, not forecasts). The first row for each month starts with a square indicating the name of the month, followed by 15 days (or 14 and one indicating the year for February), and the second row has 16 day squares, or 15 and a filler square at the end for a 30 day month (or the other half of the year, 14 days and a filler square or 15 days if it’s a leap year.) The other thing that happens at the ends of the rows is that I add the next bit of the border to the new one and the one immediately before (which was completed the day before, because the dates run left to right for the first half of the month and right to left for the second).

That might sound confusing, but it’s really simple in practice, and it means that today I need to do a square for yesterday and one saying ‘Nov’ to start the next row (I do them in that order for reasons which are a bit too technical to go into here), and then extend the border over the end of the previous row and the beginning of the new one.

To anybody who doesn’t at least know me on Facebook the above will sound like complete gobbledegook, but hopefully the illustration will help.

Before I went to Sainsbury’s I filled a jug with cold water to fill up the coffee maker then knocked it all over the counter, and had to move the spice rack out of the way, which meant that quite a few of the jars fell out, though fortunately nothing smashed and no lids came off.

Shit Happens – the First Noble Truth of Buddhism.

‘When the demon is at your door/In the morning it won’t be there no more/Any major dude will tell you.’ Steely Dan, Any Major Dude. I guess the Buddha was one of the most Major of Major Dudes.

Cause and effect – everything happens for a reason – or a complex of reasons, in the sense of the set conditions which cause it, but not in the sense that it has a purpose. Purpose implies a guiding consciousness – and on the question of an overall consciousness/purpose for everything, the jury’s still out.   

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Running With Wolves

The deeper I get into the book I’ve been reading, ‘Women Who Run With the Wolves’, and the more I relate it to my life, the more I can see how broken and bent my life has been. I know how melodramatic this sounds, I can hear the voices telling me all that stuff: how lucky I am to have had such a (materially) comfortable life; that I should stop whining and practise gratitude; that I should stop reading books that make me unhappy; that I should stop thinking so much and simply be.

I was never cut out to be a nice, good, well behaved girl, but I tried, I really did. Some of my struggles in that regard were clearly related to my dyspraxia, interpreted as clumsiness, untidiness, laziness, carelessness, not listening, not paying attention, all those traits of the ‘difficult’ child. I wasn’t deliberately ‘naughty’, in fact I tried very hard to avoid it, which still holds to this day – needing to know the ‘rules’ so I can stay on the right side of them always, never causing trouble, never making waves – except that doesn’t always work, isn’t always possible, there were/are/will always be times when through carelessness etc I overstep the mark, or get trapped in a situation where to please someone upsets someone else and so I keep falling over my own feet (metaphorically as well as literally) and bringing down judgement on myself, which is why, as you must know by now, it’s easier for everyone if I just keep away from other people as much as I can.

The book, written about thirty years ago, is a Jungian analysis, illustrated by myths and fairy tales from all cultures, about how girls and women are socialised into conforming to culturally required feminine norms and roles. The author’s main thesis is that by trying to live up to those norms and roles, many women suppress their creative spirit, or ‘wild nature’. I gave up on it the first time I tried to read it, two years ago, because her writing style irritated me and it seemed related to New Age ‘Goddess’ cults, which feel a bit whacky to me. Now I’ve persevered I’m more impressed by the psychology behind it, and anyway, it was recommended by my therapist, and I have great respect for her academic credentials.

And, as you can probably guess from that description, the idea of the ‘wild nature’, the alternative female archetype and alter ego of the creative spirit, whose suppression can cause great harm and distress in women’s lives, struck a mighty chord for me. Hence the posts over the last few days about the Wild Thing who lives caged inside of me: self-destructive, resentful and raging as any caged beast has the right to be, but only ‘evil’ if seen from a specific, limited perspective.

I sat down to write almost in tears because I didn’t think I could find the words to express this. But it happened anyway.

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Leaf Upon the Water

Poem today. Not sure why. Sometimes it happens like that. Feels like this is the first one in a while

The photo was taken in the water lily house at Kew Gardens in 2015. The flowers and small leaves in front are lotuses, the large leaves behind are from giant water lilies. I was tempted to use a photo of a water lily from my old garden pond, but thought some smart Alec might point out that it wasn’t actually a lotus (that’s the sort of thing I’d do, anyway).

Also ‘The lotus flower grows from shit’ is only one of many interpretations of the mantra ‘Om mane padme hum‘ but it was the one explained to me by my first meditation teacher, and it makes for a great metaphor.

Leaf Upon the Water

The lotus flower grows from shit,
the silt of a thousand fishes, living
and dead, their shimmering scales,
dulled and darkened,
sinking through the cloudy waters
to the home of the scuttling things,
sliding into and becoming
the black, unspeakable ooze
that clings and clods
and welcomes into its bitter embrace
the scattered seed
that cracks and bleeds
in its agony of birth,
sending its silvery roots into the darkness
to trap the rotting death-food and to grow
new life that rises,
green and fecund
to break the surface,
unfurl its leaves
and open its lovely face towards the sun.

I am the leaf upon the water,
held in the magic of the meniscus,
I will not struggle
I will trust the power of the water,
I will lie back and let it hold me
until my season is done.

Om mane padme hum.
The lotus flower grows from shit.

Linda Rushby 30 September 2020

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Along the Way

Back again.

This does feel like a chore. I seem to have slipped back into that demotivated state where I really don’t want to do anything. Maybe it’s the heat – doesn’t help, that’s for sure. That’s quite an odd phrase for me to use: ‘for sure’. Slipping back thirty-odd years into Dallas-speak – maybe it’s the heat – though it’s nowhere near as hot as it was there, but then nobody went outdoors at this time of year, they stayed inside and froze in the air-conditioning.

This morning, doing my exercises in the spare room with the window open, I felt stifled. Usually I have a high tolerance for heat, but this is getting even me down.

Taoism – must’ve been in a pretentious mood the day I mentioned it. How about Existentialism? Let’s throw that into the mix.

My yoga teacher said (a while ago now, must be, because we were in the Community Centre at the time, not the park), that the difference between fate and destiny is that Destiny is the true purpose of your life, what you should be doing if you allow everything to happen as intended (by whom? The Universe, or God, or whoever). But Fate is what happens to you anyway if you’re not following your Destiny. I liked that, I thought it was a nice distinction, even though I don’t believe there is such a thing as a ‘True Purpose’ to the Universe that underlies everything that happens. Why should that be? I suppose, to my ‘left brain’ (if we want to go back to that cliché) it’s quite clever, because it allows an ‘out’, as positive-thinking based philosophies often do: ‘Oh well, things didn’t turn out the way you wanted or expected, but that’s because you didn’t want it deeply enough, or you didn’t believe in it enough, or because the Universe has a different plan for you, which you can’t see right now, but one day you’ll see why it happened this way.’

Looking back over life, or history, it’s easy to see the Way that brought us here, the turning points, the (sometimes) tiny events that can trigger enormous consequences. We look back, and we construct a pattern (because that’s what humans do), and we can see that, well, that had to happen for this to be the way things are now. But we can’t know what would have happened if that point hadn’t turned, or had turned in a different direction – we can speculate, perhaps, but we can never know.

The example that just popped into my head wasn’t ‘tiny’ at the time – in fact, I’ve always thought of it as a tragedy, until just recently: the fact that my grandmother was widowed with five children at the age of forty – but if she hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have moved from Manchester to Cleethorpes, and my parents would never have met – pretty fundamental, from my point of view (and my children’s and grandchildren’s).

More along this thought path another day, perhaps.

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No Pressure…

Wisdom of a lifetime, accumulated from what I’ve read, been told and learned from experience:

  • I think too much;
  • I never think;
  • I feel too much;
  • I am selfish and don’t have enough consideration for other people;
  • I care too much about other people’s feelings and what they think about me;
  • My expectations of life are ‘through the roof’;
  • I don’t expect enough from life – I should dream more, decide what I want and go for it;
  • I need to get out more and meet people;
  • I am happier on my own and should keep away from other people because being with them makes me stressed and frustrated;
  • I need an occupation that will give purpose to my life and focus my energies;
  • I need to do less and stop running myself ragged all the time;
  • I need to try harder;
  • I shouldn’t have to try at all;
  • I need to write every day – doesn’t matter what about;
  • I need to be focussed in my writing and finish what I’ve started;
  • I need to tidy up after myself, because how can I focus and be comfortable when I’m surrounded by chaos?
  • I need to stop beating myself up about the chaos and learn to be happy as I am;
  • I need to organise myself, make lists, set goals and get some structure into my life;
  • I need to take each day as it comes and be spontaneous;
  • I need to sort myself out;
  • I need to be less self-centred;
  • I need to be more self-disciplined, to stop floundering about and getting nowhere;
  • I need to stop being so hard on myself.
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One Day

Second poem from yesterday, as mentioned last night on Facebook – written yesterday evening just before I went to bed (I’d had a night cap of Becherovka with my hot chocolate, and was quite merry).

One day I’ll leave this house,
walk to the bus stop,
catch a train to the city,
or anywhere else,
under the sea,
and into the sunrise.

Or go like a snail,
with my home on my back,
to the forest, or the marshes,
or into the sunset.
To friends, and memories, and new beginnings,
talking and laughing and dancing and singing.

But today I am here,
and here is my home.

Linda Rushby 19 June 2020

What follows is a few lines I jotted into my notebook after I got into bed – they’d popped into my head as I was getting ready for bed, and sort of follow on, but are a bit different. It was actually after midnight at the time, so I added today’s date.

While there are:
Books left to read.
Words left to write.
Waves to listen to.
Gulls to fly over me.
Songs left to sing.
Wine left to drink.
Places to return to.
New ones to find.
I am glad to be here.

Linda Rushby 20 June 2020
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Non-attachment

What will I write about today? Therapy day. What will I talk about? I have two blog posts to read out, at least.

Is anything shifting inside my mind? If it is, it’s probably due to the lockdown, which has given me peace and space to be by myself. But it can’t last forever. How will I cope when I have to start engaging with the world again? Well, I have some control over that. When I first moved here I felt I needed to get out and make contact with other people. Now that seems less important. When I was a child I was told that shyness and introspection are things to be conquered, but these days I can see my self-containment as a gift. Am I getting any better at managing my response to and interactions with other people when they do happen? I suspect not, but I’m more comfortable about avoiding them, and less concerned about ‘missing out’. I can look back on memories of happy times with friends without feeling an urgent desire to repeat them – which is a good thing, I see that now. I can have my own happy times,

Trying to explain how I feel about that at this moment, I’m grasping for the right words. Contentment, maybe? No, too mealy-mouthed. Maturity, a feeling that I am on a mountain top, where I can look back and see my life and the things I’ve done, experiences I’ve had and people I have known laid out below me – no that sounds arrogant, which isn’t at all what I mean. Enormous peace that I can be who I am. Gratitude to all those people who have loved me and whom I have loved, forgiveness of those who’ve hurt me and of myself for hurting others, and knowledge that I no longer have to seek after love, but can be whole and by myself. Non-attachment, not detachment.

Well, what a wonderful epiphany for a Thursday morning – one which won’t last, I realise that. But it is there, and might return. I want to sit with this, be bathed in it, but also to keep writing, to complete this task, this daily commitment to myself, if for no other reason than that I can then get dressed and have my breakfast.

I’ve just expanded the sentence about being on a mountain top, and it’s brought back to me a quotation I first read almost fifty years ago, when I was a student and I have to admit I got it from the cover of a Strawbs album, but I think it was originally from Lao Tzu (a name which would have meant nothing to me then). I will have to look it up…

For once Google let me down, but I did manage to find the album on my shelf and scan it in – and lo and behold, it’s from the Buddha. Doesn’t quite say what I wanted though.

I expect Lao Tzu would have said it better.    

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The Ultimate Question

Just heard the national weather forecast which said more sunshine and a degree warmer everywhere today, but it’s pretty grey out there. My handy ‘Minutecast’ says ‘No precipitation for at least 120 minutes’, but ‘mostly cloudy’ and a high of 17 for the rest of the day. I spent some time yesterday sitting outside, but it was pretty chilly.

There I go, talking about the weather, clearly I’ve got nothing of importance to say – no change there. Not even any reflections on mirrors today (ooh, sorry! No I didn’t mean to say that, it was just the word that popped into my head. I wonder if that’s what happens though? That subconsciously my brain made that association and that’s why it gave me that word before I’d had time to think it through properly?)

Woke up thinking I had nothing to say, but then got to thinking (partly inspired by a response to Sunday’s post) about the Why Are We Here question. I’m sure I’ve said all this before – know I have, or at least thought it – but I’ll say it all again (maybe in a different form) because I haven’t got any other ideas today.

Do I believe we’re here for a reason? Yes, and that reason is cause and effect, ie we are here because our parents had sex and conceived us – maybe intentionally, maybe not, maybe they raised us, maybe they didn’t – some of us might have been conceived by IVF so the above is not strictly accurate, but whatever, it’s certainly true that we came from the conjunction of sperm and egg (unless there are any clones or aliens out there that on one’s told me about).

Do I believe we are here for a reason in the sense of having a purpose? No, except insofar as our parents chose to have us for their own reasons – to make them happy (a high risk expectation), complete the set, pass down the family business or whatever, or the evolutionary sense of passing on genes to another generation.

Am I an atheist? Yes. Do I believe in life after death? No. Does that bother me? No, because if I’m dead there won’t be a ‘me’ around to be bothered about it, or to regret the things I have or haven’t done, so why should I care now? Do I feel a responsibility towards my children? Yes, enough to have prevented me from attempting suicide in the past, and to know that I won’t in the future (as long as life is still physically bearable, but I’ve arranged for them to have power of attorney, so in extremis they can make their own decision about whether to keep me alive).

It’s amazing how little I can say in 500 words once I get going. Am I an existentialist? Am I a nihilist? As far as I understand those terms I would say: yes to the former, no to the latter.

Can I see myself ever changing these views? No.