I would like to buy a bench, said my husband’s Mum.
My husband is a headteacher and had sent out a request for donations towards a lovely garden area for students. It would be a place for them to meet, chat, and enjoy a few moments during break and lunch.
My mother-in-law was very clear that her donation was to buy a bench. It meant a lot to her and I questioned why it had to be a bench in particular?
There was an entire story in her response
There is one thing I cannot declutter
I have absorbed many podcasts, books, instructions, and blog posts about decluttering, minimalizing and clearing your space of the unnecessary. Some are prescriptive, with detailed plans – both helpful and unhelpful; some are a vague set of questions to ask yourself whilst holding that amber cigarette holder and twirling it in your fingers: Well … it belonged to my Grandma, you explain.
I am settling into my version of cosy minimalism and you may have read my thoughts on the benefits of clearing your space. But … there is a weak spot; an Achilles’ heel…
Bear getting ready for photoshoot
I hold the flippy threadbare sandfilled bear in the palm of my hand, stroking its belly with my thumb. I swear it looks back at me, pulling at my heartstrings, opening a well-protected mental box of memories. The once satin label was merely a few strands of thread – now, having been rubbed, loved and sniffed into oblivion, only a delicate spiderweb remained, forming the essence of that bear.
‘Remember?’ The bear seemed to ask, ‘remember the first visit to Tumble Tots?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, gently acknowledging the bear’s quiet plea.
I remember walking my little boy home, pointing at an autumn leaf falling from a tree, a fire engine, blackberries ripening by the roadside … all the nuggets of chat and observations that would become a ritual for many years to come: on walks from playgroups, playdates, birthday parties, primary school…
It was only on reaching home that the catastrophe, the panic appeared on his little face.
Where was bear?
There is little in life that breaks my heart more than the distress of my little toddler, when he has lost his bear, his tiny features crinkled, catching tears as they run unchecked across his face, when the realisation hits you …
We must have left bear at the playgroup!
We retraced our steps back, but no bear was to be found. The hall was closed now, and we would have to wait until the next day. There followed a very long night and day.
Was bear lost? Had another child taken a shine to bear? Had bear got lost among all the other toys and be impossible to find? How would this tale of loss end?
What if bear had been kidnapped?
I hoped the ransom would be affordable; I wasn’t ready to do time for bank robbery (but well … ?)
Oops! Let me try again
Because I am now cradling the little bear in my hand, you can deduce that after many tears and consolation attempts, the story ended well. Bear was reconciled with his little owner. There was joy, glee, and a clapping of small chubby hands …. for two minutes. Then, bear was unceremoniously deposited on the floor and promptly replaced with a shiny red fire engine.
So have you guessed what I cannot declutter?
‘Is it bears?’ I hear you guess;
‘No’
‘Is it … old toys?’ you try again;
Still ‘No’
‘What then … what can you not declutter?’
‘Stories’ I whisper to the bear … ‘Stories’,
and I gently place him back into my irreplaceable box of treasures.
How do you tap into your creativity? Whether we are embarking on a new project, or we are seasoned in our craft, we can often get into a pit of ‘stuckness’.
What should I write about? (or paint? Or sew? Or compose)? I feel like I have exhausted my well of interesting ideas and there’s nothing left to lift my soul, nor that of others.
I have strategies that might help, one of which I would like to share in this post: the focus on senses. This is a deep dive into the juicy pool of sensory pleasure and exploration, focussing on smell as an example.
We have many choices. More resources than ever for whatever we might need. There is an option saturation that keeps us looking and depletes our time.
Finally settling for one choice would help. Only if this didn’t keep us worried about keeping our options open since we might be missing out on something even better.
I was very lucky recently when a friend offered me the use of her woodland lodge for a night. I arrived early and left in the evening the next day. As I stepped onto the balcony and found myself engulfed by trees and birdsong, the emotions that spun through me were palpable. Totally alone, immersed in nature, I could almost hear an almost silent tinkle of fairy-dust showering me with lightness and clarity. The rush of excitement danced with the calm of tranquillity and the blend was a perfect partnership.
If you feel that you will not measure up to your own expectations, be kind to yourself. You may be clinging on to lies about your abilities because that is safer: if you allow yourself to acknowledge positive truths about your potential, you simultaneously risk experiencing the shame of failure if things do not go to plan. So we step back and stay in that safe place. Often, we are our harshest judge and jury, but please hear that someone else will drive that car and have that amazing trip, regardless of whether or not we put the key in the ignition.
What do I want from my life? Have you asked yourself that question lately? You despair that you have not ticked all the boxes in life, or that you have ticked them all, and what now? How do you feel? Are you happy with where you are in life, career, relationships, accomplishments? Are you still waiting for your life to begin?
I love it when someone compliments my writing, or a photograph I took, or the way I have visually curated something. I feel like a child that has been picked out for something special. I feel the pleasure that comes with acknowledgement for something that holds meaning for me, that really matters to me. If I manage to wire a plug, great, it is an achievement, but it is not the essence of me. I do not care to be recognised for being gifted with electrical wires and gadgets.
When I was a child, I drew, painted, made clothes for my dolls, wrote stories which I illustrated. I wrote my own versions of Dr Who plots and sketched new monsters to accompany them. I liked to help with baking. When I grew a little older, I started to sew my own clothes, and write in diaries. I painted flowers on pebbles collected from Scottish rivers whilst on holiday; I made up tunes and song words; I learnt to knit and embroider and stick wooden clothes pegs together to make tiny rocking chairs. I read under the bedclothes until the words merged, I daydreamed. I daydreamed about the worlds I read about in books: the wizards, the fairyfolk, secret worlds held together with magic, outsiders whom nobody understood, and mysteries that unravelled threads of excitement and anticipation.
A compliment for something that I created was the spark that set me alight. That is was I wanted to be best at, to feel that I stood out. Creating is what mattered to me. Whilst I was pleased to receive praise for anything, a maths grade included, it was a pleasure by proxy. If it made my teachers and parents happy, I felt accepted and acceptable.
If someone received a higher grade in maths, or a medal for a sporting event, I applauded them, that was their thing; then I applauded myself if I had improved on my previous performance. However, if someone else’s story was read out over mine, or they achieved a higher grade for English, or a piece of artwork, well, I felt a distinct pinch in the area around where my ego resided. That was inner wisdom speaking to me. That was what mattered.
I went on to choose options that I thought would get me a good job and make everyone happy. I did in fact want to work in fashion, I loved clothes and fashion and styling, but that was not a sensible option. Had I pursued that career path, I might have succeeded in combining the things I loved and become an editor in chief for a fashion magazine? Today I would be working with sustainability and promoting ethical fashion choices. Who knows? I will not put myself in that position again. It is not too late!
“Slowly I looked at stories from my past and used them to patch up the holes of today.”
I followed the crowd because I needed to be accepted, approved of, and liked. I did not have that easy outgoing personality that seemed to be the desirable character trait and so I tagged along, I laughed, I nodded and I copied, yet despite that, I was always different, on the periphery. I continued along this path for many years, aiming to please, trying to convince myself that I wanted power suits, and the title ‘manager’ whilst simultaneously striving to break out, to showcase my difference through my clothes and music choices. I learned behaviours that enabled me to fit in, putting on a show of gregarious extroversion when I could muster it up, but I did not feel comfortable in my skin. I never really knew why. Eventually I learned three things:
1. firstly, that although I am sociable, I am an introvert who recharges in alone time and whose interests tend to be things done alone or with one or two others;
2. secondly, it is OK to be an introvert;
3. thirdly, it doesn’t matter how many people like me; it is not my responsibility to make people like me. It is my responsibility to be kind and to be me.
I have ticked some boxes, the ones that I really wanted and that matter to me. I tried and failed to tick other boxes, but I have never been good at going against my grain and so I failed. I am excited that my ‘husband and children box’ has been ticked, education ticked, but yes, I am still waiting for my life to happen - The me part, the part that is left once everything else is dealt with. As I stated at the beginning, I am truly grateful for some of the wonderful people in my life, my family, and the experiences I have had, but I felt for a long time that I have not started making me. Turning fifty, and it could be any age for you, was the removal of the identity veil; it was the start of exploration and dipping my toes into long-forgotten waters, in what interests me. I began to write, slowly, more and more; I began to take more photographs and learn about photography. I learned how to set up a website. Slowly I looked at stories from my past and used them to patch up the holes of today. The emerging picture is of someone who I now recognise as myself.
‘Hi there, where the hell have you been?’
‘I’ve been inside you … waiting … waiting for the right time to show up, and that time is now. You are ready. Let’s do this! Now, what do you want?’
‘I cannot give you that information, I’m sorry’ the receptionist’s perfect English was soft, polite, and non-negotiable.
‘We cannot divulge details of our guests.’
The excitement that had rippled through her earlier, the energising sunbeams filling her with optimism, and the belief that today she was Midas, hovered overhead like exposed fraudsters. The treasure map lay in tatters, before she had even found the first clue. Voices around her taunted her ears, determined to interfere with any attempt at rational problem solving. The corners of her mouth submitted to gravity, for a moment…
She opened the heavy mahogany doors to her room and was greeted by beams of sunlight cascading through large windows, sprinkling highlights onto a polished parquet floor. Rushing towards the balcony, she turned the black iron key to release the doors, letting the sun unleash its full joy onto her uplifted waiting face. Eyes closed, for a second, she reflected, ‘I love my work, I love this place’. This place was to be her home for the next seven days.
The coffee shop was hot, steamy and filled with the familiar barista symphony of buzzing, frothing and chatting. The audience dance, whirl, and twirl to the orchestra with practised ease as lattes are scooped with long spoons and espressos downed-in-one by the hard-core. The regulars, the rushing, and the late, all pass through this daily concert … all participating in the communal orchestral salutation to the morning. All … but one.
You got it wrong? … try again
(if you got it right! Well done … stay as you are!)
That’s it. You’ve reached midlife, and who knows when that began exactly? The logical conclusion would be that you know yourself, you have found yourself, and you have got your sh&t together. What a neat little package that would be indeed.
All we have left are our memories. Memories can be magical moments and offer comfort when we miss a loved one. In the whirling mist of memories, of moments that mattered, of shared laughter and tears, there is nostalgia for what once was. Yet, when we lose someone we loved, and continue to love, are memories all we have left? If memories are the stories etched in our minds, then I believe that ‘no’, that is not all.
What would you do with your spare time, if shopping were no longer one of your regular hobbies? Yes there is the gym, the library, local choir, windsurfing, cupcake making and thimble collecting. Thank you, but how does that address the pull of the bright city lights? Living where I do, I am in a privileged position where everything is on my doorstep: rolling countryside, woodland, vibrant towns, and cosmopolitan cities. I am also a ten minute walk away from some luxury retail outlets, interspersed with enticing local shops. Staying away is like attempting to resist the sirens’ call, which is a futile exercise.
I do not remember my Grandmother ever decluttering. In fact, her home was a house of treasures. As children, my sister and I loved to explore every nook and cranny in the beautiful Victorian terrace in London. Anything that was off limits, was usually placed high up on some shelf that was frustratingly just out of our reach. This served to ignite our curiosity all the more and these unattainable prizes became our sacred chalices, teasing us in our dreams and dancing in and out of our thoughts.