Category: lockdown

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Avoidance

I sat on the edge of my bed earlier and said, out loud: ‘I love you. Don’t do this to yourself’. At the time it didn’t make any difference, as I knew it wouldn’t. But thinking back on it now, and writing it down, it seems significant that even when I was trying to encourage myself, it was framed as a prohibition and inherent criticism.

In my head all this feels entangled with a kind of grief, and the stages of grief (which I’ve heard about so many times, but have only a hazy perception of now and am probably taking out of context). As I recollect there are four main ones: denial, anger, depression and acceptance. I feel as though my whole life (not just in lockdown) is a cycle of the first three, without ever reaching the final stage – or at least, only in a partial way. What feels like happiness to me is largely denial, avoidance, coping, filling life with distractions and temporary pleasures. Bob Dylan has a wonderful phrase for this, I think it’s: ‘transient joys’, but I’m not sure of that, or even what song it’s from. Maybe if I can let it run in my head for a few minutes I can pin it down. Aaagh, no, I’ll have to look it up and I’m not doing that now! There I go, getting distracted again, when what I was really thinking as I wrote that was – maybe that’s true of most of us? That the pleasures we seek out from whatever sources: work, play, art, creativity, writing, reading, entertainment, sex, sport, nature, food, drink and other addictions, maybe even the company of other people – are ways of burying existential sadness? Well, maybe that’s not everybody, but perhaps more people than would admit to it.

But for years I’ve been saying/thinking that all the activities with which I normally fill my life, (swimming, yoga, tai chi, writers’ groups, choir etc) are ways of forcing myself to go out, to be with people, and that I have to bully myself into doing them. At the start of the lockdown I speculated on how I would cope without them. The answer initially was that I was quite happy to have an excuse not to go out – I sit in the garden, I do my 30 minutes exercise/meditation in the mornings, I write, interact on social media, listen to the radio, crochet, etc. I don’t even take advantage of the ‘daily outdoor exercise’ we’re supposedly allowed. I go to the shop once a week when I run out of milk and that’s it.

So why don’t I make a flask of coffee and walk to the seafront, instead of sitting here moaning? Why don’t I at least get off my backside and do some housework?

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Day 22 – Power Tools

After pontificating about poetry in general before I’d had my breakfast, I just came up with two tongue-in-cheek poems one after another while sitting in the garden.

I decided to share this one as today’s contribution and keep the other one in hand for another day!

Power Tools

My neighbour has a chipper –
I think that’s what it is.
It whirs and whines and screeches,
and disturbs my garden bliss.

So many kinds of power tools
that in their sheds must lurk.
When will this hell be over
and they all go back to work?

Linda Rushby 22 April 2020
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Day 17 – Sonnet for An Introvert

Having already trashed the terza rima, I thought today I’d go for another classic poetic form – the sonnet.

Apologies for the longer final couplet, which I found written (as four lines) in my notebook, scribbled there a few nights ago and promptly forgotten by morning, when I wrote something completely different.

I could have used it another day, but I think it sort of fits (and saves me having to think up another two lines to finish with).

If I can write a poem today.
perhaps the world will go away
and leave me in this happy place
of never meeting face-to-face.

I burrow like a worm or mole
and hide inside this cosy hole
while listening to the radio,
relieved I’ve nowhere else to go.

I do the things I like to do,
and never go and join a queue
(not even one two metres spread)
I buy my milk first thing instead.

Life feels strangely normal – or perhaps it’s normally strange?
That same old déjà vu, coming around again.

Linda Rushby 17 April 2020

PS Just thought I’d add Miko as my ‘featured image’, given that this reflects her philosophy on life as well as mine.

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Passing Time

I was standing in the street in my dressing gown, it was 10.45 and I wondered how come I had slept in so late.

Then I was in bed looking at the clock, and it was 5.17, and I realised I had been dreaming. I was reassured, because that made so much more sense.

Thinking of what to write every day is difficult (except when it isn’t, when it just pops up) but the writing itself is easy.

The days go by so fast, even though I do hardly anything, one day after another, hard to tell the difference. The longer it stays like this, the less I feel inclined to interact with people. Life is so much easier this way. I think it will be a shock when external things start up again. I’ll have to make decisions then, do I make myself go out or do I carry on as I have been doing?

Over the last couple of years, people have said to me: ‘You do such a lot!’ and I’ve thought: no, I don’t, not really. When I listed all the external things I did each day: Monday: swimming, writers, yoga; Tuesday: tai chi; Wednesday: coffee (sometimes) etc etc it might sound like a lot, but it was just me, making myself go out, trying to make myself be sociable because I thought that was what I needed. But I wasn’t DOING anything – I would meet ‘the writers’ in the library, but I would never actually write anything. Now I am staying home and writing, but still I’m not actually writing ‘anything’, just spewing out words. Passing time, revelling in the dullness and emptiness of my life. Sometimes crocheting or weaving, but not to make anything – I’ve unravelled this latest cardigan so many times that by the time it’s finished I’ll probably have made it twice, then it will just go in the wardrobe and I’ll never wear it. The weaving and the weather blanket, both completely pointless (though I’ve promised this year’s weather blanket to my daughter, and I gave last year’s to my son). But the point is in the process of the making – it passes the time and makes me happy. And then there’s killer su doku – can’t even pretend that achieves anything.

The same goes (in spades) for the writing, of course. I’m quite impressed that I’ve kept it going for as long as I have – though in the past I’ve done it for years – why did I give it up? Maybe partly because it takes up a huge amount of time, that’s why the mornings go so fast, and afternoons are always filled up with the radio, so that’s the day gone. It’s interesting, though, to reflect that it’s not these things that make me stressed. I’m calmer and happier now, and that’s because I’m doing these things by myself – these pointless, meaningless things – and I don’t feel like I have to make myself go out and be with people.

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Retirement

I didn’t write a long post yesterday (if 500 words counts as ‘long’ – probably does, in today’s frantic world). I missed out my morning routines because I got up and went straight to the shop, then when I got back I made a poem of it and felt I’d done my ‘writing duty’ for the day. Today I feel inclined to do the same, because I had a poem that popped up first thing and then developed while I was in the shower. But I mustn’t keep doing that.

Have I mentioned on here yet about the phrase that’s apparently going round: ‘…if you don’t come out of this with a new skill, you never lacked time, you just lacked discipline’? Bollox to that say I – (but then I would, wouldn’t I, because I’ve always been a lazy, selfish cow who’s never even tried to become a better person… etc etc etc).

What occurs to me is that what’s currently happening to a lot of people (but not everybody, let’s not forget that, a lot of people – including but not exclusively those employed by the NHS – are having to work their arses off) is a kind of enforced premature retirement. Of course, the fantasy of retirement is that you’ll have the freedom to go swanning off wherever you like, and do those things you never had time for, but in reality lots of retired people just don’t have that many options – whether because of lack of money, poor health, commitments to others (lots of older people are carers for their partners, or want to be available for children, grandchildren, friends, even cats and dogs). Even without those limitations (and I speak from experience as someone who retired relatively young and financially comfortable), sometimes you just don’t have the energy or motivation to get out and do stuff.

I’ve always thought of it as the housewife syndrome (apologies if that sounds sexist, but I spent a lot of my middle age involuntarily unemployed/underemployed so I know what I’m talking about). When you theoretically have lots of time to do things that need doing but you really don’t enjoy, and there’s no formal commitment or external authority (like an employer) imposing sanctions (like the sack) if you don’t do them, it’s easy to slide into a mindset where you’ll do anything but, and spend huge amounts of emotional energy and time on finding reasons not to do those things, and by the end of the day you feel like you’ve achieved nothing, but you’re still exhausted, frustrated and bitter. Well, you do if you’re like me (but then we’ve already established that I’m lazy, selfish, self-pitying… see above).

I think many people who are currently on furlough from work are in that position. It’s not an easy adjustment to make at the best of times, and I’m sure that knowing it will end at some point in the future – but not when, or if, or how, or what happens next – exacerbates it.

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Day 14 – Foraging

I ran out of milk
so I went to the shop.
First time in a week.

At 8 o’clock,
there was no queue outside.
The aisles were empty,
but the shelves were full.
I didn’t want much
till I saw what they had.

Kale, a swede and kiwi fuit;
cheddar and brie and mini pork pies
(I always get those).
Parsley and basil
in pots for my window.
Live Greek yogurt
and UHT milk,
so I can make more.

Couldn’t find hummus,
but I got Brussels pate,
two bottles of wine
and two chocolate choux buns.

Dark choc digestives
and dark Choco Leibniz;
cat food, and matches
for incense and candles
with my morning yoga.

No decaff ground coffee,
I forgot the cheese twirls.
And I almost forgot
the milk.

Linda Rushby 14 April 2020

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The Guilt-Gremlin

The wind has come back. No breakfast in the garden today. It was always the height of foolishness to think that summer might be on its way before the middle of April. Lovely week to be on the river though. Yes, wouldn’t it, but it didn’t happen – deal with it.

Sometimes over the last few days I’ve been feeling guilty about rushing inside for 3 o’clock, to spend an hour sitting in the front room listening to drama on the radio and crocheting, rather than being out in the gorgeous sunshine. Ah yes, guilt. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, as well.

In the past, I’ve often been asked if I was raised Catholic – occasionally, Jewish – because of my intense relationship with guilt. A few days ago I blogged about how I’m enjoying the lockdown, and later felt pangs at admitting that I was happy in such awful times when so many people are suffering in so many ways. Yet a few days earlier, I experienced guilt because I was feeling so sorry for myself over my missed holiday and non-event of a birthday, when so many people were having it so much worse than I was- enough with the self-pity, count your blessings, be grateful etc etc.

Guilt gets you like that. I’ve always known it, but don’t think I’ve ever seen it so starkly before. There is literally no way I can ever win that argument: if I’m happy, that’s bad; if I’m miserable, that’s bad too. The only way I could defeat the guilt-gremlin would be by putting myself out there on the front line and martyring myself for the sake of others – though then, you might have to question my motives – and I’d probably get it all wrong and make things worse, so there’s the perfect excuse for sitting on my backside and not doing anything.

I’ve heard Buddhist thinkers say that compassion must start with oneself – that until you can love yourself unconditionally, you aren’t in any position to share the light of compassion with the rest of the world. I can’t see my mother having any truck with that argument. Until everyone else’s actual and emotional needs have been met, there’s no question of looking out for yourself. But how can you ever tell? You need an instinct to know what’s best for everyone else (even before they know themselves), and act on it at all times. That’s what being a good person means – you can’t relax and think about yourself until you’ve checked how every action on your part might affect others. And if you’re generally a dreamy, thinky person, not overly sensitive to reading other people’s minds and moods, social interaction becomes a minefield. Where next to stick your foot where it’s not wanted, and prepare to deal with the consequences when they blow up in your face? (See, appropriate metaphor, not just a cliché).

But I’m being unfair on my mother. Can’t go blaming her for my failings.

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Easter Sunday

I wrote a poem yesterday evening, and announced it on Facebook. But now I don’t know if I want to share it – it’s a bit personal.

Seems a waste, though, if it means I have to write another one today.

I haven’t done my yoga etc half hour yet, because when I got up I thought I had something to say and if I didn’t say it, it would annoy me because I’d forget what it was and have to think of something else. So here I am.

It’s just that I was thinking: have I done this long enough to prove that I can do it? Have I done it long enough to prove that there’s no point? I suppose it kills the time – but then time passes anyway, whether I do anything or not – it has no regard for human intentions. Now I remember that when I was downstairs feeding the cat and getting a cup of water – or rather, after that -I forgot to bring the washing basket up from the kitchen.

When you write a journal, is it/should it be about momentous things which have happened, or just whatever rubbish pops into your head at the time of writing? The latter is easier, and sometimes it throw up some surprises. That’s my excuse, if I need one.

I need excuses for everything I do. I feel pressure to justify my actions, even though, realistically, I know that no one cares or is interested. My life trundles along its predictable daily paths, and if it wasn’t for social media, no one would know – or probably care. That’s significant, that I think my actions and thoughts are of no interest to anyone. I am anonymous and invisible, even more so at the moment. If anything happened to me, I wonder who would be the first to notice, how they would notice, how long it would take, and what would they, or even could they, do about it?

My main concern is what would happen to my poor little cat. Anyone else concerned can look after themselves, but I worry about her, trapped here alone and starving. Perhaps she would finally be brave enough to go out through the cat flap, and once out there, she’d probably be a lot tougher and more resourceful than I give her credit for. They’re like that, aren’t they, cats? Someone would find her and maybe take her to a vet, where they’d scan her and get my details from her chip, and try and contact me. Maybe that’s when they’d realise I wasn’t responding, and call the police, and they’d come round and find me? Or maybe not, in these times, when everyone has more important things to worry about than a stray cat – or a stray woman, come to that. One more or less in the grand scheme of things. Who knows what might happen? And I didn’t write about moths. Maybe I should keep that one for tomorrow now.

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Happy Days

A couple of weeks ago, a friend said to me on Twitter: ‘This must be a good time to be alive for people who don’t like to go out’. Which incensed me because what I’d been saying was that I need to make myself go out and interact with people, because otherwise I’m worried that I will close down and disappear inside myself. Anyway, who was he to tell me how I was feeling?

But, strangely enough, I am enjoying life at the moment – well, I know I wasn’t a few days ago, but that was for other reasons. The relief of not having to think: ‘It’s such and such a day, I need to be there by this time and be with them…’ is actually helping me to relax and accept life. My simple routine is starting to sort out my days. I aim to do my half hour of exercise and meditation, feed the cat and let her out, and be at my computer with a cup of coffee by 8 o’clock – it doesn’t always work out that way, but I don’t beat myself up if it doesn’t. No one is expecting me to be anywhere else.

My health is good, my finances comfortable, my freezer full. The sun is shining; I have breakfast outside every morning after I’ve finished my 500 words – sometimes it’s as late as 11, but it doesn’t really matter. Last week there were three times when I connected with people through Facebook, Zoom or Skype: for meditation, tai chi and my weekly session with my psychotherapist. The fixed points of my routine are more frequently dictated by the radio schedules – 1 o’clock on weekdays for the half hour drama serial on 4 extra, and 3 pm every day for an hour of drama on 4 or 4 extra (though I can always catch up online). I’ve had to go out to the shops on four days out of the last seven, but for now I’m fine, until the milk runs out, which will be about Tuesday.

Having reduced housework to the level of: ‘I’m out of clean knickers, better put a load of washing on’, I’ve caught myself once or twice spontaneously tidying up some small area just to make my living space more pleasant, rather than because I’m frantically looking for something vital – yesterday I even started weeding the garden, and found myself enjoying it – I think partly because it’s quite satisfying to be pulling things out, rather than trying to coax them to grow. I crochet and weave – I tried something new in my weaving the other day, which didn’t work out, so had to undo it, but that’s ok because now I can do it again but better. My paper crafting stuff is all over the kitchen table and has been for weeks now – I keep thinking I’ll do something with it. Might even revive the idea of making a book from the haikus I wrote for NaPoWriMo in 2018.

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Any Other Day

Trying to write a poem – the first line came up as: ‘Any other day…’ but nothing after that.

Maybe writing a poem about trying to write a poem? That sounds about as mad as the idea I had of trying to write a novel about trying to write a novel… another non-starter.

Any other day… and it wouldn’t matter so much. Why not? Come on, it’s just a day – a Tuesday, in fact – tai chi day, in normal times. Except it wouldn’t have been ‘normal times’ anyway, because I wouldn’t have been here, but on a narrow boat called ‘Teasel’, pootling about the inland waterways around the Hampshire/Surrey border with my son, his wife and their dogs.

I keep telling everyone -especially myself – that I’m fine with this lockdown thingy. Missing a holiday and spending a birthday alone are nothing in the grand scheme of things, nothing compared with what others have to deal with.

So here I am, putting all that to one side and getting on with it. Trying to write a poem – or failing that, just 500 words of any old nonsense, nothing too whiney, nothing too self-pitying. Do some gardening – I’ve been putting that off, till I realised that weeding could be quite appealing, it’s destructive after all. But I might miss the postman, there might be a delivery, so I can’t go in the garden until after then.

Waiting. Waiting for an indeterminate period, for an indeterminate outcome. Waiting for Godot. Beckett on failure: ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better’. Story of my life.

Late this morning – in fact, it’s just turning into afternoon as I type. Awake half the night, early enough to fall asleep again and sleep in till 8.30, then do my morning stuff and it gets later and later, and my sister rang to say happy birthday, and I tried to call my brother (his birthday too) but couldn’t get through.

So, having made my mind up to do some weeding, I thought about the possible delivery and decided to wait in the front room, and in the mean time to do the writing that I didn’t do before breakfast. Waiting.

It’s not so much the activities that I do to break up my weeks that I miss so much as the café-sitting. It’s a habit I picked up in my flat-dwelling years – in Bedford, Ramsey, Prague and here in Southsea – and the months when I was travelling, when I would inhabit the public spaces – cafes, parks, seafronts and riversides – rather than sitting in hotel rooms. Now I have a garden, and the weather (at the moment) is good enough to be out there. But hunkering down in your own space – however appealing – can become a trap.

Just been interrupted by a phone call from my brother. It was nice to hear his voice, but has broken my chain of thought. We don’t always get on very well, but good to know he’s there.