When The Sun Shines

All feels right with the world so let's go for a walk. 

The fresh, Spring air, nature dotted with human rubbish every so often.

Bonus if you can see my sons, this could be like the old "Spot The Ball" competitions but no prize, sorry. They did get down, no broken bones, thankfully.

The peaceful, man made loch. The man (company) who made the loch now wants to turn the area into yet more housing, no doubt luxury housing so screw you nature. For now enjoy the quiet, the birds swimming by; I recognise ducks, coots, moorhens and, um, sadly that's as far as my wildlife knowledge goes. No swans, they're off bothering tourists at the Palace loch.

Happy dog had a spring in his step, being able to go for a paddle in not quite so freezing cold water.  Except when he launched himself into water too deep for his liking.  Then he wasn't such a happy dog.

And that was our afternoon.  I'm working on the "spoon theory", or as I prefer to use pebbles in my explanation then the "pebble theory" so I have borrowed heavily for today but as the Easter holiday stretches out then I can take time for a CFS crash without worrying about the boys getting to school or coming back from school.

When the sun is shining, drink it in, take a moment, enjoy the blue skies.

I have never...

eaten this delicacy, I don't think I can quite tolerate it.  Prefer something with a little more bite, more wit I think.

One Year On

Yesterday was the first anniversary of my mother dying.  Six years (at the end of the month) on from my dad passing and you'd think I'd be used to it.  Yet there is a strange difference that doesn't sit quite comfortably with me.

While we all still miss and mourn my dad it sounds almost callous to say that we don't miss mum that much.  No, that's not quite right, it isn't about missing her I think it has to do with how she died.

Dad was ill for three months in hospital, his dying seemed inevitable but because his illness pushed his dementia to the front it felt like we weren't able to say goodbye properly.  I felt cheated, that despite his age (89) I wasn't quite ready to see him go.  Even now there are moments I want to share with him, especially when the boys achieve something.

With mum her downward spiral started in the year after dad died.  She gave up, we weren't enough for her to hold on for and in the last few years she unclipped herself from daily life, ending up in the care home thanks in part to my ME/CFS and thanks in part to the level of care she needed.  I just couldn't carry her any more mentally or physically.  When someone does give up it is extremely hard, impossible even, to help them and once you help them with something you find yourself doing that for them from then on.

Does that sound selfish?  Maybe, but I've spent so long worrying about others, doing everything for them, grinding myself down in the meantime that perhaps I need that sliver of selfishness.

The last week, when mum was taken in to hospital for the umpteenth time, I admit to having been blasé about it.  I'd gotten in to a routine of planning my life around visits, demands, taking her to and from the place.  Realising this was the final time was a shock but in a way I was so well prepared that I was completely ready for what happened next.

That made the difference.

We were used to her no longer paying attention, of being withdrawn and uninterested.  It is still hard to walk past the care home knowing someone else is in her little flat, I think it would be harder if we were to see the flat, all those memories from that last few years.  Does this mean that at some point it will hit me and I will grieve properly?  Who knows.

I don't chose to remember my mother from that time, our relationship had been a roller-coaster and I select the best memories from that but I don't feel the wish to talk to her again like I do for my dad.

Remembering her properly, not as the person she became.  We were on our way to Millport, to pay tribute to my dad, this is the person I miss.

Sometimes It Works Out Okay

A splodge of ink, a sweep and scribble of pastel and what initially was turning disastrous began to look acceptable.  Times two.

The Quiet Room

It has been an odd sort of weeks.  The lurgy came, visited Eldest, me, back to Eldest again.  I took a fantastically graceful (not) dive on the ice that managed to injure both hands, the right faring particularly badly.  Trying dressing without your dominant hand - now try put a bra on.  Yes, exactly.

In the midst of these trivial little daily dramas I got the call I dread at this time of year.  Another of my dad's sisters had died. 
While feeling deeply for what my cousin was going through I realised there is only one of the six sisters left.  Ironically the one who was forever complaining about ailments, as the old Scottish saying has it - the squeaky gate lasts the longest.

I remember being at one of the infamous family gatherings in my auntie Sheila's home.  We were in the kitchen laughing at the volume of noise coming from the living room.  Auntie Sheila remarked that it sounded like they were all speaking at once, they probably were to be honest.

It's too quiet now.

Start The New Year With Some Sad News

It's a blustery, wet, dark, dank day, the kind that lazy days indoors were made for so productivity here has been zero.  So online and messing around was the order for the day.  Meanwhile in my mind is whirring the cogs of creativity, where can I go that will give me the satisfaction I need.

Off I trot to read some crafty, artistic blogs and I was enjoying immersing myself in other people's inventiveness when I learned of this tragic news.  I had followed and really relished the inspiring influence of artist, illustrator, sculptor and crafter Vanessa of the Do You Mind If I Knit blog.  Many people linked to her crochet tutorials as the definitive way to learn the craft.

It's disheartening and, whatever happened, she will be missed by her readers.  She hadn't blogged in a long while and it was already a disappointment when clicking on her blog brought no new goodies.  I can only hope she knew how well thought of she was and how many people she encouraged.

Some of Vanessa's work:

Revolutions

• Paint more (or pastels, or drawing)
• Dance at least once a day
• Hold strong
• Be true to oneself
• Cross-stitch to relax
• Enjoy the surroundings
• Take happiness in seeing wildlife
• Go for long rambling walks
• Acknowledge the illness
• But don't surrender to it
• If it takes longer to do then it takes longer
• Don't be a people pleaser above all else
• Be kind
• Make a living and then some
• Be confident
• Write for myself every day
• Make a plan not a schedule

Well we're here again...

Those Handsome Boys Of Mine

I make no excuse for being proud of my boys.  We've been through so much and on this day when they've become teenagers, despite driving me mad sometimes, they have turned into a pair of fine young lads.  Unfortunately the behaviour of their father is a constant blight but we manage to get past the games and nonsense with barely a blip.

If I end my days know as a good mum and loved by my boys then that is all I can ask for.  This might be a tough few months ahead but I can think on that to get me through.

We three.

High School Never Stops

I find it curious that behaviours my sons' complain about in their classmates (and probably in themselves too) are still swilling around in people my age and older.

Was discussing a friend who hadn't been in touch for a while, one who had stopped speaking to me soon after my mother's death and had been posting unionist images on Facebook during the referendum while I was trying to put the ideals of independence across yet blanking my worried texts, I took on advice to close the book with an email.  Lord, it's like the letter writing of old only this time there is proof of what was written and when and to whom.

So I sent the email, apologising for any offence I had caused unknowingly.  Then today a reply, and not a nice one.  This from a woman I had been colleagues and then friends with for the past five years, a woman in her early 50s, we had both supported each other through illnesses so the abrupt halt had worried me.  Although I had hoped she was okay I was also hurt that she dropped me so soon after mother died.  Without actually answering what I had done so wrong to reap such a response the email was nasty to the point I am now glad not to have to contact her again.

Bizarre behaviour but perhaps I look too deeply in to why people do what they do - curiosity outweighing the fact I can be a sticky-beak in things not of my concern.  It's enough to drive a psychotherapist to distraction.

That is the end of that.  Now all we need is some hair pulling and playground cat calls with friends taking sides and it would be back to high school.  Some things never change.

I am 42 for only a day more and to be honest, not only do I not have the answers to life, I have more questions.

When It's Cold and Dark and Dank

Now I don't mind the cold; there is nothing quite as refreshing as a crisp frosty morning.  Unfortunately we don't get many of those, instead outside is consistently damp, as though nature has wet itself, and that is not refreshing at all.

At these times I remember the warmth, the oven dry heat, azure skies and Vitamin D drenching sun.  I wonder where my future lies, what is ahead, I can either focus on the darkness past or sunshine future and yes, it really is that way.

The Sands of Time Run Fast

I can't believe that it has been two months since I posted here but then as I'm the only one who clocks in then it's me who gets let down.  It's simple like that.

As I had thought I'd posted some memories of our latest holiday in warm and wonderful Lanzarote, made harder by the fact I did not want to come home at all, there is always that to look forward to doing at some point.  However of late my concern has been lack of time.

I sometimes feel that one of the major symptoms of ME is how much time it steals.  While I slow down the world continues apace and I cannot run to catch up because...well...I cannot run.

I need to develop some way of making a living from freelancing, enough for us to live off of with maybe some left over to enjoy a couple of holidays a year.  My savings are almost gone, yet finding the courage not to have a panic attack at the thought of someone not paying up or things going disastrously wrong is almost overwhelming and naturally there is no help out there to guide me through it, to give me my old tenacity back.

One thing I would love to do, but lack the talent and time to progress very far, is to be an artist.  I'm filled with envy and inspiration when I see others do what I wish I could.  At the moment this is how well I can complete a pastel:

Errors, errors, everywhere!  I need to get better, not for anyone else but for myself.

Life Is A Lottery

((insert witticism about having the winning ticket here))

No, I am meaning this literally.  Was having one of those chats with a friend the other day - you know the "if you had the money to...?"  Reality gnaws at the truth we would only be in that position with a lottery win and while buying a ticket does greatly increase the chances of that it can be a fun yet torturous game to play anyway.  Want of ambition when we were at school kept any aspiration we had to be great achievers at bay, this is what you end up doing.

Sometime when my mind drifts, and it often drifts, I imagine a world where I have limitless funds.  Oh the things I could do, the places I could visit.  At the moment the idea of escape is a delicious one.  I have a list, I have a plan and I will have the ability one day to put it all into action - I hope!

We're off on holiday in a few weeks, it is desperately needed.

Might as well dream I have the body as well as the pool.

I Do Like A Bit Of Hyperbole Sometimes

It's Over And Done With

Well, not quite.

To put it politely Scotland sent a huge message out to the world, 55% of our dear population bottled it and decided that being part of a broken down union was a much easier option than actually trying to do something different, to make something better.

Strangely enough though the "winners" seem to be the ones with anger while those who were involved in the Yes campaign have grieved (very briefly), regrouped and have collectively decided that damn the percentages;  if you want to live in a progressive society you need to pull up your sleeves and get on with it.

In the week since the referendum, along with interesting allegations over the vote itself (claimed as conspiracy theories there is definitely something that went on) there has been an immediate back tracking over the extra powers promised by the three main UK parties; more cuts in budget; suddenly the oil isn't running out, in fact there's tons of the stuff; fracking that will happen no matter what; benefits that will harm working families are targeted and amongst everything else a nice little war to keep the flags flying.

You couldn't make this crap up.

I've gone from a news junkie to trying to find reliable sources.  Once you've seen how biased a news source can be it is very difficult, no, impossible to then trust them with anything - each minute is spent wondering what is fact and what is tilted so you think how they are wanting you to.  I studied the use of propaganda as part of my history degree, I didn't expect to see the same methods once used in Soviet Russia still prevalent now.

It is embarrassing to know that a majority don't care about the society they live in.  I have thought that we will move elsewhere if given the opportunity but I want to try, why should those who want to make everyone's lives better and make this country fairer lie down and allow the seemingly angry, bitter and ignorant others to have their way?  I know it sounds belligerent, to say the very least, but you have to look at why people do what they do and no, it is unacceptable to allow those who are comfortably off, the "I'm alright Jack" crowd sit back and enjoy their lives while others suffer.

While we sit have Trident sitting on the Clyde, while the House of Lords dare to rule over us "commoners", while the oil money is wasted on stupid wars, the job is not done.

Then The Day Came

For the first time ever voting came with a little thrill as I marked my X against the Yes box today.  A strangely emotional experience knowing that tomorrow we will be independent or have to take the consequences of staying in the UK.

I'm tired, so emotionally tired that I can no longer give reasons why I'm for yes.

Tomorrow I shall sleep and hopefully it will be restful.

A Memory

It has been a warm summer but all it took was a flick of the tail from Hurricane Bertha to sudden bring Autumn.  Someone online mentioned the days of having frost on the inside window pane and I remembered this:

The house I grew up in was 200 years old.  Built by the man who owned the house next door and although meant to be a weavers cottage at one point even served as the jail.  By the time my parents bought it, a few months before I came along, the windows had been enlarged enough to encourage some sparkling patterns on cold days.  The windows were deep set, enough for the window sills to serve as seats.

I had a picture book about Jack Frost painting on window panes during the night, in the morning I would sit by the window and with my fingers I'd melt my own drawings in to the designs.

The Dilemma

Despite reasons for independence for Scotland far outweighing those to stay with Westminster calling the shots there are still far too many voters too scared to take the leap. 

It is something that has weighed heavily on my conscience over the past few months.  So much so that, for the first time in my life I actually volunteered to help the Yes campaign.  A decision I will be happy to be known for.  In the face of relentless negative press and media, the unbearable viciousness over wanting to see any and all Yes voters beaten down, I can say I stood up for what I believed in.  I let myself be counted, be open to ridicule because of my desire to live in an actual self-governing country.  Not an add on referred to as a region. 

There are many reasons but mostly Trident, House of Lords and land reform - none of which will be dealt with while we are still part of the UK.  I'm not particularly bothered by oil, I'd rather not have a currency union or for that matter, the Queen.  If we give up this opportunity then how can anyone say they are proud to be a Scot?  We either have the collective balls to manage ourselves or we slink back in to the corner to grumble and whine every time Westminster pass down yet another decision that affects us.

My dilemma.  Having seen the way some No voters conduct themselves, an aggressive smugness that is all about squashing the opposition rather than putting forward a positive vision of the union - if they win then how can I continue to raise my sons in such a society?  I don't think I can.

Scottish Snapshots

For no particular reason, Bass Rock, taken from Seacliff Beach.

The Flavour of the Month

The weather might have turned distinctly Mediterranean,  the sun might be shining on Scotland but despite the light that old familiar darkness has come creeping in.

I can hold it at bay, I need to withdraw further than I already am (isolation is luckily a talent many only children possess).  I shall sit in the sunshine, absorb that good Vitamin D while avoiding the burn.  Quietly, assuredly I will hold my own counsel as I always do.

The flavour of this darkness is irrelevance, I feel irrelevant to all except my sons.   Well I am irrelevant to all except my sons but the trick is to remember that.  I keep my head and heart focused on that one thing that keeps me from being overwhelmed and swallowed completely.  I don't matter to anyone but them and that has to be enough.

Can't See The Wood...

My sons returned from summer Scout camp today and amongst the mountain of washing they also brought this little gem from the campfire -

Each boy is asked to talk for 30 seconds on one subject so if someone says ticket all you are allowed to talk about is tickets.  It's harder than it sounds.

One lad was given the subject "trees" and came up with this

"You can make trees from wood..."

Indeed you can.  Son 2of2 doesn't get why I find that so funny but maybe it's just my weird sense of humour.

D-Day + 1

Yesterday the Western world took pause to reflect on the 70th anniversary of D-day.  It was, considering the way of the world now, a respectful event.  In particular the memorial held in France.

I particularly loved the report than an 89-year-old man, told by his care home staff he couldn't go, snuck out and went anyway.  Good on you mate and shame on the care home staff forgetting they are dealing with adults who would rather risk an all important journey like this than sit vegetating.

Read today that the actor who played the original Scotty in Star Trek was shot six times, losing part of a finger in the process.  He was part of the Canadian forces.  There have been so many humbling yet amazing stories from heroes who never thought of themselves as anything other than ordinary young men doing their duty.

My own thoughts yesterday - the men known cruelly as the D-Day Dodgers.  Fighting an equally brutal battle in Italy.  I think my dad must have been stationed in Bari with the RAF at the time.  He had plenty of tales of his own, rarely recounted but devastating when he did, therefore I know the places he went (Burma, North Africa, Italy) but the only one I could possibly put a date on was that he was in North Africa when the Italians capitulated. 

He recalled lying in a ditch with some of the crew while a large part of the Italian army stationed there marched past.  They didn't know the Italians were going to surrender so spent the whole time thinking that if they were found that would be it.  To experience such things as a teenager and then a young man - he was only five years older than my sons are now when he signed up.

The Strangest Month

As a good part of it is spent on holiday and all routine is thrown to the wind, this does feel like an odd month.  Stranger still is that I realised today there is not going to be a point any time soon when I walk down to the town and don't still expect to go to my mother's flat.

I pass by even though I should turn left and through the automatic doors, greeted by the smells of food from the kitchens as we trot upstairs to the little flat after first checking to see if she was in the common room.

Routine has all gone and things are uncertain.

Mothering Sunday

My competence as a daughter may have been questionable however I am hopeful that I make a much better mum. 

As the first mothers day where I've not had to think of presents or outings it did feel more than a little strange.  My boys put a lot of effort in to this morning, home made pancakes from one and chocolates and a card from the other.  Lovely.

So here is chubby little me with my ever unimpressed mother at the old cafe near Millport.  The site of the cafe is now where my dad's bench is, where her plaque is in the process of being added.

The Business of Death

Sunday morning my mother gave up her fight against pneumonia.   Getting on with the business of death is much easier than when my dad died but holding off the sledgehammer of grief is just as hard.

Last time it was because I had to be there completely for my mother.  She relied on me entirely and grief was closed away in a box.  Now I go about the informing of relatives and friends, an ever shrinking group - what once took me two evenings now took just over an hour.

Tomorrow I will clear out what I want from her little flat and donate the rest - clothes, books and furniture to the other residents.  I've already contacted the council to get her plaque beside dad's on the bench at Fintry Bay.  It's a machine in motion and at some point I'll get off, clear my head and be able to untangle these confused emotions and think.

We had a difficult relationship over the years but what does that matter?  Next Monday we will see who comes to pay their respects but I'm of the mind that it's their conscience on how they treated her in life.

Spring

It's the first day of Spring today and I can read yesterday's post with mild horror.  No matter how turbulent the emotions are nothing humbles more than sitting beside your dying parent.

And The World Tips Once Again

So it looks highly likely that at some point today I'll lose my mother.

And the worse thing is not that our difficult relationship is making it hard to mourn or that my illness is making it hard to cope.  Instead a huge selfish bug has kicked in and all I can think of is that we're likely to lose our home.

Once again I fail as a mother.  My boys are doing so well at the school yet I know that the mortgage company will laugh at the very thought of letting me pay off the remainder, which in the grand scheme of things isn't much (about £15k).  Ex made sure my credit rating was ruined and there is not one thing I can do about it - and I've tried.

Does that seem callous?  To be thinking of this as my mother lies dying?  Possibly, as there will always be a solution.  Part of me just wants to crumple to the ground, part of me wants to run into the street screaming at the top of my lungs.  We are a small family and since my dad died it seems to have been a run of bad luck.  I just want to catch a break, I want to be able to relax and mourn properly without life constantly kicking me further down.
Please.

Just Because Sometimes...

You didn't see me I was falling apart
I was a white girl in a crowd of white girls in the park
You didn't see me I was falling apart
I was a television version of a person with a broken heart

It's Like This

If your imagination is stifled, not encouraged in any way, then it becomes stagnant and more difficult to access.  As a parent it's a responsibility to let your children become who they are not who you expect them to be.

Let them run; roll down the hill; get their new shoes muddy; paint and draw and forget the mess until it's time for you all to clear up (yes, them too, it's important); bake cakes and not worry if they're inedible or all over the place; write silly stories; sing silly songs; make up words.

That's the jist of it all.

On another note, it's also worthy letting them fail, finding out that the world, that people, are sometimes mean and nasty.  Grow from it, confident that they know how to deal with the situation, that they haven't been hidden away and protected to the point that they can't cope with reality.

That last one I'm seeing a lot of.

Keep On Swimming

It is dark days like this that make me think of restarting the other blog, the one where I parked my negative thoughts during the aftermath of my marriage break-up.  Because once the black cloud has me it is very hard, very hard to force a positive outlook and on nights like this, if it wasn't for the fact I have my sons, I would no longer be here.

That is a scary truth to acknowledge but I fear that for my own sake I must do so.  I'm always "fine", I'm always trying to smile through it but as times it gets so difficult.  I hate to be melancholy and to pick over the bones of what is wrong in an orgy of self pity but I just can't help it at times and if I hold on in there it will pass.

It's like the kiddie film when they say keep on swimming but I sometimes wonder how long I have to swim through the filthy, mucky stuff and when I will reach clear, blue water.

Being Selfish

For this is the year where I feel it is necessary to become a little more selfish without losing that which makes me.

Anyhoose - the West coast of Scotland (as well as the coast from Cornwall right up) has received a battering from the new year to say the least.  To illustrate perfectly -

This is how the pier at Millport normally looks...

And this is how it looked today

And I should really be thinking of all those poor people stuck on the island, stomach churning as the waves get higher, wilder and closer to the front door.  Instead all I can think is - please let dad's bench survive!

Selfish yes but it means so much to have done something for him that he would have been so happy with that I want nothing to ruin it.  And that is that.

(Photos taken from the t'internet)

Reboot

So at midnight tonight we get to put the clocks forward a year.  Tomorrow won't really be any different from today but it will *feel* different and that's the point.
Who says they don't believe in psychology obviously doesn't make any resolutions - to be broken within the first week - it's tradition!  Even those who promise not to play resolution roulette (which one will it land on? Congratulations, you got "Lose Weight" *audible groan*)  I know I do.

Twelve Years Ago Today

At just after 2 p.m. my life changed forever.  While the memories might be blighted with the realisation that who I had married would always let me down and the annoyance that I still made excuses for him "because of his upbringing" (which was a big old lie like everything else) there is this shining light.

Because no matter what, I will forever have this and that is worth diamonds and gold:

Happy birthday boys

T'was The Night Before Christmas....

And noms through the house...

With All The Best Intentions

I have been looking in to the world of art journals and the superbly organised and dedicated people who can and do fulfil their little books with alarming regularity.

As this blog testifies it is an evasive talent and one I wish I could capture and so, once again, and now in my 42nd year I tentatively look to achieving similar in both my art and my writing.  One each day, it doesn't seem too far fetched (she says now.)  I do promise myself this every year, especially around now as Christmas is knocking on the door and the year in about to reset to January again.

I need to work on both to improve, the art soothes my soul and I can even, on occasion, quieten the angry spirit that rises on recalling just how I was so easily discouraged and turned away from something that means so much.  Same goes for the writing.

It is a mistake that as a parent I am determined not to make.  Hell, maybe I might end up good at something for once.  I can do this and I want to do more:

It's Been A Heck Of A Year

My favourite month, the month of my birth, my sons' birth, Christmas and all the Yuletide festivities and each year gets a little further away from that magical place.  Yet there is still something about December and the dark days (that suit my mood of late). 

I'd much prefer for a cold, frosty month than the wind and icy rain of today.  The skies are so clear, cerulean blue sharpness.  

I feel sad the boys do not experience a large family Christmas but then again the ones I went to were never that good anyway.  I suppose if invited, they would experience whatever happens at their father's new family home with her family but they don't want to.  Youngest is very particular with what happens and I love that about him.  Eldest pretends he isn't that bothered but truly is.

We have a small family and it has been another year in the washing machine, but when we come out the other side we will still, no matter how much more we have to take, we will still be rich in love.

Little Bites

Hearing of someone who got so tired they spent over a minute trying to get into the wrong hotel room.

Picturing the poor sod in said wrong hotel room, covers pulled up to chin and staring into the darkness, as that minute stretched out into a *really* long time.

Sometimes it is the daftest things that make me laugh.

Inspiration From What Is Around You

While spending a very short week in the sunny splendour of Lanzarote we visited the house of the late Cesar Manrique, an artist born in Lanzarote who returned to his homeland in order to save it from the high rise horrors plaguing other tourist spots in Spain.  For that they should be eternally grateful and eternally proud.

I looked out over the football field behind my house today to see all the trees have been mown down to make way for yet another identikit road of houses.  Oh for the power of Manrique to have kept that little wood safe from the greed of developers.  I guess the heron, fox and other wildlife can get lost as long as they make a profit with their "exclusive" houses.

Anyway, stop wittering on.  Cesar Manrique built his house within the volcanic bubbles, while also ensuring the volcanoes remained protected.  He also took inspiration from the landscape and although modern art isn't really my thing I can see and appreciate works like this for the power and beauty they show:

And how many art galleries allow you to happily take photographs, to truly enjoy the art and take home the memories?

Wonder and the impulse which leads us to observation are the secret of analysis. ~ Cesar Manrique

Wish You Were Here

Never mind that.  Wish I was there, wish I'd never left.

Strange experience, either it is the amount of crap I've been dealing with of late or just the overwhelming situation I find myself in but unusually I did not want to return home after our yearly trek to absorb enough sunshine to last the winter.  I love greenery, I love the crisp winter mornings such as this morning brought yet I had a huge desire not to come back.

By the end of holiday I am normally ready for my own bed.  I cannot explain it further but one month from our departure and I'm still feeling the same.  Life trudges on and I'm left in limbo.  This isn't the holiday blues, this is a wish to escape completely.

Colours that have my watercolour palette itching to open.

Step outside the hotel and boom, there's a volcano (dormant)