Reflections in a friend

I wonder, sometimes, whether the people I know are people I have got to know because of this, or that.

Because of coincidence or one of us daring to smile to a stranger or because of good chemistry? Because of joint interests or similar ways of thinking? Or because of a desire to understand ourselves and how we sit in the world? Whether I like them because they are reflected, or they me for the same reason, I wonder whether they reflect more because I share my reflections or because together we reflect? Whether the way I think and talk affects the way they think and talk?

What's apparent is that all the people I call 'friend' think long and hard about their life. And I can tell that through years of thinking, and in some cases acting on learning from their thinking, they are moving slowly towards an understanding of what eluded them before. I am proud of them. I am proud of the progress they make, and of the progress I make and of the progress together we make. 

Lucky star

I didn't know it could be like this. I had hoped that it didn't have to be a long, weary drudge, that there might be opportunities for a sparkle in there, but I had no idea that work could bring such a feeling of being impressed by others, of having walked a shared journey, and of pride in the people continuing when our involvement in the project came to a close. I just had the last session with a community group and I'm feeling a little teary-eyed. I know they will go on to build an amazing building (probably with their own and the community's bare hands!) and I can't wait to visit them in their shiny new building in a few years. It has been a remarkable journey from a meeting with two people who wanted to have a building, to seeing the involvement of the community and the engagement of tens of people over a period of months. They truly have impressed me with their aspirations and dreams, and with being willing to take the chance and challenge that this project is.

At the end of the workshop today they all chimed in, saying how the process of working with us had given them confidence that they can do this, that it seems manageable now, that they feel empowered, that they have learnt so much, and all just beamed with the knowledge that they are so on the right track.

This is the joy that my job gives me. I feel so extremely blessed and lucky to have the opportunity to work with people and within a field that can give me a feeling like this and such a sense of contentment. Few dare even dream of having it, and even fewer have the luck to live the experience.

I'll be looking at the stars this evening to see if I can suss the lucky alignment I'm living under.

Jack of all trades

I'm reading a book by Haruki Murakami called What I talk about when I talk about running. Although he's a prolific author and a well-known one, I have never managed to read any of his books before.

I used to read with the thirst for letters on a page like a lonely soul in the desert drinks after reaching a long desired oasis, but that slowly wound down to a drawn-out trickle. In my high school years, and indeed university years, my reading was almost entirely focused on curriculum and research texts. I was going to write 'factual literature', but perhaps due to the nature of my studies a lot the texts I read were manifestoes and creative interpretations of buildings, spaces, cities, and the lives of people. I did read for pleasure, and often much more than necessary, but only extremely rarely a literary piece of fiction.

These days my reading echoes my intake of fluids: I drink only when I need to, or am reminded to by a dull-feeling brain that needs input to clear it up and get it flowing again. I am much focused on doing these days, a capacity that I haven't really felt that I have had a grasp of (ever?), and which I have spent much energy in pursuing. I am succeeding in some ways.

His book is about running, and writing, and his life as a running novelist. He draws parallels between the physical training he needs to run and to run well and the mental training he puts in daily in his concentrated efforts at writing.

A very good friend gave me this book recently, I think as a sort of celebratory gift after I ran and completed my first marathon last month. I had seen the book researching literature whilst in the preparation phase for my race, but never got around to buying it. Symptomatic of me, really. And this brings me to title of this post. I have throughout my life been fairly good at a variety of things. Some have come fairly easily to me (like reading, maths, climbing trees), and others I have had to work very hard and intently at to reach a level that was acceptable to me (like basketball, designing). If I get involved in something I want to be at least decent at it.

I have recently been understanding a bit more of which tasks I am good at and those which I am merely adequate. I think I may have had some sort of subconscious awareness of it (because I am not utterly surprised, rather I am experiencing more and more calm clarity). It is more and more, although there is still a pretty intense ink cloud shrouding my skills from my consciousness, but floaty obstacles are disappearing and I get glimpses of strengths and, perhaps more importantly, areas which are not my forte. Who knew reading about running could help you think about life?

When I run I have time, calm clear time, to contemplate the challenges and contradictions I'm facing. I spend my running time with a certain freshness and clarity that tends to evaporate when I stop running. My runs give me space, a sense of achievement, and connect my otherwise un-noticed body to my over-thinking brain. I had no idea how important running would become for me when I started. I needed to do some exercise, I needed to create space for me, and that's just about it. Now it forms an important side of my mental health and of my self image and understanding in addition to those initial goals.

I wonder if I will continue to run always. Right now I think it'd be a good idea.

Long-distance friends

The weak sun warmed our bodies as we walked and chatted today in East London. The darker bits where the sun didn't reach us felt chilly and were endurable because we knew that in a moment there would be the novel sensation of spring and warmth on our faces again.

The things we talked about were the usual - boys, jobs, flats, sickness and health, family things. It's funny how the topics are the same as ever, yet we all felt a marked "grown-up" feel to our chat. I think we today simply noticed that eternal morphing that takes place as time passes and we change, feel, grow, learn, overcoming challenges and pursuing hopes. How lovely to have friends to share life with!

For some reason or other I was reflecting on the friends I have across the world, and how lucky I am to have strong bonds with such a variety of people, all incredibly talented in each their way, lovable, amazingly warm and caring. Knowing that love and warm thoughts last even when there is no direct contact pleases me to no end.

I miss all of you out there, but I of all understand that where you live simply comes down to how your life plays out. I appreciate the friends who live nearby for the daily love and care, and my far-away friends for the enduring bonds that may change, as we change, but which seem built to last with a bit of care. Thankfully, friendships that emerge as paths cross in a moment of our lives can be as strong as friendships developed over years, even over distance.

I may be terrible at staying in touch, even with people I love dearly, but the moments when people appear in my thoughts at the most random of times remind me that we have something enduring.

I miss you all, but with a smile and a warm thought.

Inside

A basketball rests on my window sill, together with stacks of disused ID cards from every step along the way. And a pod that says "Hello, ancient friend!!".

Sometimes I wonder what people make of me when they meet me. They don't know that I've played ball for many years, or that I've lived overseas, or that I have a crazy little friend who's addicted to pods.

The image we present of ourselves to others, coloured by our own perceptions of ourselves, and of others, and of how others see us, only reveals as much as we can and are willing to convey. There will always be an internal knot of *me*, which never sees the light of day. Even allowing people anywhere near that is scary.

Life on the go

I feel like I'm being jostled around, a little boat on an unruly sea; weathering the storm, but taking in water. I'm lonely in here. Working as hard as I can, but it never really stacks up. What happened to those quick wins that give encouragement and perspective on a long hard slog? What happened to sharing those passions with someone else? What happened to daring to give a bit of your vulnerable self to someone else?

What happened to me?

Making the connection

It was easier, oh - so much easier, to see him as a relative living in a faraway land. Not that he isn't still living far away, but he's becoming so much more to me.

In a more and more insistent manner my family history is pressing itself into my life. Actually, maybe I am seeking it out, becoming more aware of the little signs in my everyday life. Who knows how these things happen.

My family's history has always been something of which I was proud - the diversity, the amazing stories of exotic places, adventures, and survival. My grandparents have lived lives that are inspiring in so many ways, and their stories have never seized to amaze or enthral me. I have listened to endless repetitions of journeys to China that took months, life in suburban Long Island, and once in a rare while second hand stories of those moments that are too tough to be spoken by those who experienced them.

The history that has been nearing my consciousness is the life of my maternal grandfather. Granpa's is perhaps the most difficult to deal with and understand, and I have a feeling that the signs I have been sensing over the last while are sparking some kind of consciousness within me, pushing me to, if not be able to understand, then at least reflect on the importance his life holds over mine.

Since moving to the UK three and a half years ago I have learned of a distant relative. I am sure my mother or aunts have spoken of her before, but she never registered in my world until my mom arranged for her to meet up with the whole family, who had come to London to visit me. She seemed lovely, a bit feisty, and certainly a very self-confident woman who rested in an awareness of herself. I was going through personal issues at the time, and was in no way interested in taking up her friendly offer of coming to stay with her in Devon. "What, me, visit some woman I've just met in the middle of nowhere? I don't think so. I don't care that she sees some obscure family link. Besides, I'm upset and confused and hurting right now."

Over a year later my mom came to visit and arranged for us to go to Devon to see her in the countryside. It was lovely. I then realised that my mom's side of the family are her only surviving family. My grandfather's cousin was her mother, which I think means that she is my second cousin once removed. The vast majority of her family succumbed during the second world war, which makes sense. So did most of my Granpa's. This link is seemingly obvious but never the less to me this link was hard to make initially. She is family. I just didn't know her.

We had a lovely time, and I have stayed in touch with her since, visiting her a couple of times. I like to think that we are building a warm relationship. I appreciate her a lot. I even dreamt of her and my granpa recently. Since then I have finally managed to join her for a meeting of the group of second generation holocaust survivors she attends. I snuck in as a third generation, as I had been hoping to over the last year.

Two days later Granpa had a stroke. The frequency of connections made in my head to my grandfather and to the hardships he has endured are becoming denser. I wonder if it's because I am "ready" now to deal with this now, or it is because he is getting older. Or because the very presence of her in my life is a reminder of the preciousness of family ties, and she sees the connection between the holocaust and our family's development. It's horrific to finally be opening up to realities my grandfather faced, only to realise how vulnerable and fragile the memory of it is in his hard worn body. Who will know his hardships when he has passed?

Today is Holocaust Memorial day. I have never observed this before, but it strikes me and strengthens my feeling that I am pursuing something of great importance to me. My family history. A history that reaches beyond me and you, and touches on something deeper in all of us. I'm sorry to say it, but it's love, darling, and hope.

Family matters

It's as though I've reached the cusp of this long dark slog, nearing what seemed to be an airy, bright time. But an ominous dark is spreading throughout, grey and laden with tears.

My grandfather has had a stroke. He lives on the other side of the ocean, overseas and over land. He lives yet. He has taken his numerous sets of pills many times daily for many years now, it's hardly a shock that something more serious has happened. His body is old, and worn out with working long, hard hard hours; some for others under force, others for his family. Life as a labourer takes its toll. Life as a persecuted man, however young and strong he was, has taken its toll. My grandfather is a large man. His body is hard, even where roundness has added to his bulk. His legs carry him still, but every step he takes is so painful he winces. It's been like this for years, but slowly the decline is reaching new lows.

His daughters are there, with each their own burdens to carry, each bringing a bit of misery and a lot of love. They congregate as his broad frame feels frail, distraught, heavy.

And I am far away, finally beginning to realise the importance of roots, the depth of lives lived, and the impact of our history on our lives. And there is nothing I can do.

Year's end

Back in London the frost is biting the little skin I allow to be exposed to the air. It's clear. Cold. Sunrise is the most amazing time of day: at around 8am the skies finally relent to the meek sun and pink hues colour the distance while a blood red sun slowly lifts its head. My 9th floor flat does have some benefits that go a (little) way to make up for the current lack of heating.

I'm going home for the holidays on Monday.

This year is ending with what feels like a sense of conclusion. I can sense a lot of reflection being pushed ahead - "I'll think when I've got time", seems to be the way. Knowing myself this will happen in the little thatched house in the bosom of my family between Christmas and New Year's with cold walks in a foggy, barren forest, talking to myself, the horses by the forest ranger's house, the dunes, the gnarly trees in the "troll forest", the sea. And so I keep on going on. Year's end always has this effect on me, but where I last year was confused and worried, I am now ready to take a look back at a year of changes and achievements, pleasures and confusion, worry and hope. You'll all be in those thoughts. My friends drive me forward, reflecting with me on our thoughts, giving me perspectives to consider, hoping with me, and worrying with me.

So, to all - happy holidays. I shall be thinking of you over the next weeks, with a smile on my lips.

M

status quo

We had wine and we had good times. It's remarkable how family members are so familiar, comfortable, easy, and at the same time so remote and self contained.

Most of the time I feel that I understand exactly what's going on, but then she heads off on some tangent (much like I have a tendency to do) and I sit, shaking my head and thinking, shit, I don't get this - what's she on about?!

But life moves.

It's an unsettling feeling to see someone you love in a place that you know she doesn't need to be in, somewhere that doesn't do her good. It makes her money, good money, it keeps her from thinking about all the things that would pop up if she were to stop op and give her life a thorough once-over. But it's hard work, life happens, and she justifies it happening to her by saying that she is making a choice to earn the good money (and she is) and ignoring the fact that she's, well, ignoring.

Sometimes I wish I didn't have this ability to see other people struggling. That I could also ignore and just get on with it.

A whirlwind brings me home, too fast, I wish I could stay on my bike, feeling the cold air, and hearing people look at me. The cherry trees are blooming, it's very confusing, here in late November. Buses and taxis flow by in a steady continuum, young girls show their belonging to different social arenas. Some flash all they've got in shiny sequined, skin tight, mini-what evers, others cover up in woollens from the 70s and wear the trilby, sign extraordinaire of a middle-class twat.

And I go home.

When serious things come a bit too close

This evening I was returning from a design training in Bristol. We worked with several groups of young people, one of which was a group of 5 boys from a challenged school. They were pretty disruptive to each other and the rest of the groups, but their responsible adult kept stressing that they were very well-behaved for kids from their school. Apparently Bristol's a pretty harsh place in certain areas.

Settling into my seat on the train back to London my eye caught a headline about ..youths.. shooting.. London.. I thought to myself, oh, another one. Then I looked a bit closer and saw Stoke Newington in there. I flipped to page 11 and there was the name of my road in the text, a description of the boys that always hang out around my tower block, and a mention of the community centre that's nearly always closed and looks so sad with it's windows barred for protection.

3 young people have, while I was away, been shot just moments and meters away from my front door. My flatmate was home, and just like everyone else, he assumed the bangs were just the ubiquitous fireworks, and the group of kids just the kids that always hang out a the foot of our building. He didn't realise that 3 14-15 year old kids had been shot by a rival gang.

It's a bit scary, really. I've noticed lately that something's going on with the kids. There's been more of them, more often. And there has been more police presence on the estate, too, in the form of officers slowly patrolling the area, but certainly also in police vans chasing kids on scooters (only to get caught up by the lovely 60s urban design of the estate). This didn't happen when I first moved here a year and a half ago. I stopped a couple of officers on patrol just the other day to ask why there seemed to be more police, and they told me that they were just establishing a presence in the area in response to the young people here, nothing to worry about, ma'am.

Yeah, right.

What kind of places are we living in, where children have access to guns and shoot each other? And why the heck am I living in the middle of it all? And why is nothing being done to the physical, emotional, social and financial deprivation of my estate and of others around the country? Estates that encourage and enable behaviour that is not for the best of the community. Estates that do not inspire people to dream that their lives could be different of the lives of their parents, estates that are not legible, not accessible, not fit for purpose. Estates that have been built in one fell swoop, or estates that have developed piecemeal to a hodgepodge of disconnected spaces, linked by a series of non-places. No, I don't mean the Marc Augé ones; I'm on about the appallingly unpersonal and unwelcoming concrete leftover spaces that incompetent planners and designers failed to address in an appropriate manner. I'm talking about seedy concreted spaces that are fenced in and used for littering, broken curbs, a horrid back alley used for parking and dumping of all sorts of garbage and large household furnisings, narrow and poorly lit alleys and walkways, derelict green spaces, etc etc. Just outside my front door, and so many other people's.

As ever, my dear two readers, I hope you're doing well. Today I'll add in another hope - that you are and will remain far removed from gun-toting, balaclava-wearing kids on bikes.

Ode to Saga

The seasons are changing. I keep repeating that to everyone, but foremost myself. It's clear; the air nips at my chin if I don't keep it tucked into my scarf, and full days of rain remind me that my outerwear is not water proof. Clear skies shift and are replaced with a lucid cover of greys. Soft and mellow anticipation of blustering winds comes and goes with the arrival of gust lifting surprisingly long strands of hair into the air, like antennae.

Shifting into a space that is open and inviting, however challenging, maybe inviting because it is challenging, challenging because it is open. Engaging seems just ahead.

___


Sometimes you meet people and they make an impression. Sometimes you meet people and they hardly register as a blip on your radar. Sometimes the briefest of encounters stay with you forever, and occasionally a seemingly meaningless meeting turns into something of longevity.

Out of two potential relations, what then makes one relationship last, and another falter? How can maintaining a relationship with someone on the other side of the world come so much more naturally than staying in touch with someone just up the street?

___


It's all about movement, now. And daring. Moving, and daring.

trial and error

"To avoid situations in which you might make mistakes may be the biggest mistake of all."
- Peter McWilliams

Although a rudimentary google search reveals that the quote above is by what seems to be a relatively 'low-end' self-help guru this may be one of the biggest truths that I ought to listen to these days. For the sake of the argument, let's just disregard this quote in relation to my weakening resolve to my current weight-adjustment actions and think about it in a bigger perspective.

As my vertically challenged friend pointed out to me - does this mean that one should not avoid situations where knows that mistakes will be made? Cue the 'might' in the quote. It indicates an uncertainty about the future. It indicates avoiding risk taking, avoiding trying things out, avoidance of living life. It's so banal when I write it like that, but, at least to me, it holds a pretty deep truth. I do avoid things that are scary to me, situations where I feel that I cannot predict what will happen. And this despite the fact that I obviously can absolutely never predict what will happen. We live in a world where most of the things that happen are beyond our control. We naturally have a fairly great impact on our existence, but we are all at the mercy of each other, and the place we hold is subject to the actions of others and the effects these actions have on ourselves and our reactions to these actions. The free flow into which we plunge ourselves every day drifts along, and we can labor to make a mark or we can flow, following the patterned path laid out for us.

Making a mark requires risk taking, this much I have learned.

Musings

When things start coming together and it seems the clouds are parting

Why do I fear that the breeze that carries me along gently now

Will turn into a storm, weighing me down, again, so heavily?

___


A drink on a hilltop, and everything's changed in an afternoon. We laughed for hours, before turning serious. Slightly intoxicated by the wine, and even more so by a tickling sensation of someone who understands. Open minds are allowed, and seem to feed on the skyline on the horizon, and a girl on a tightrope laughs as she aims for the tree at the end of the line.

The power of positive thinking

So, I went to this taster course for becoming a life coach, during the weekend. It was really very interesting, and it's funny how having someone to be accountable to can make us do things we wouldn't usually feel compelled to. I'll for sure be trying to apply some of the thought patterns to myself.

Positive thinking, for one, is extremely useful. Who doesn't beat themselves up for making a mistake or 'the wrong choice'..? I certainly do, even though I know it's neither helpful nor healthy to do so.

A bit of objectivity might be useful too, instead of becoming entirely engrossed in some obscure detail that seems so important to me right now. Taking that step back and reflecting on the issue.

Actually creating an 'action plan' for those things that all to often lurk at the back of my mind is also one that I'm going to try on for size. I've done that before, but with my new awareness of the importance of breaking it down into small, accessible and doable bits might actually mean that I'll follow through!

So yep, it's yet another addition to the list of 'things that'll save me'. I'm liking it.

on loneliness

One thing that I am realising is that cyclical experiences and movements define my life. I'm sure it's the same for everyone, but let's just for a moment allow me to keep focus on me. Right.

Cyclical. Round and around, passing through the same emotions of hope and disappointment, love and loneliness. I think I'm arriving at the space that people have lately been asking if I was at. A lonely place, a faraway place, a place where days are long and I rarely utter words to people I know. A place where having no deadlines or set times for meeting with people leaves a malleable void that is just so. The walls may be tested now and again, but there are no breakthroughs. And the dominant experience is loneliness. Not just the emotional and mental loneliness that I have (oi vay!) become used to and am working on accepting, but a physical loneliness, suspended in which I crave a physical, bodily touch and contact. A hug from a friend. A squeeze of the arm, a kiss... Contact through a screen gives an intellectual and in some ways emotional connection, but not the bodily aspect. Maybe I should start playing ball again, although the others might get the wrong idea. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should leave my comfort zone once again, pursuing hopes. And maybe I'll end up disappointed once again in this same place of me, me, me.

Forgive my glumness, but it strikes me with clarity today how easily we fool ourselves into leading lives that do not, and will never, grant us what we hunger for. In my case, searching inward on a quest for knowledge and experience of myself, when what I perhaps need to do is to find that knowledge through and with someone else.

---

A good thing coming from all this is that I've recently been exploring more creative endeavours. I've finally constructed a pinhole camera from a set I was given over half a year ago and have taken a few photos, and am dabbling with all sorts of media, digital and physical. Perhaps, if some of them turn out well I can share them with you at a later point. I have a much greater degree of freedom in my art these days, sort of "oh, I don't care!", something I have always lacked. Maybe one day I'll become 'liberated' and can be able to express myself the way I'd like to.

Something in the air

The Danish national poet, or at least one that you'd have a very hard time not knowing about if you lived in Denmark, Klaus Rifbjerg has published yet another book. Was reading a review today and fell over this quotation from one of the poems:

Man må ha en skid på for at
klare ensomheden
den anden marts

...which translates something like this:

You've gotta be sozzled to
handle loneliness
on March 2nd

Which is why I too have embarked on a form of escape (not the one at the bottom of a bottle) in this reverberating space, where spring all but sings in the air, warmer and warmer still, the cherries blossoming, and around me couples look deeply into each others eyes with that passionate longing you have for something you've already got.

Me? I go running, I go out with friends, drinking and dancing till morning, I write down thoughts on who I think I thought I imagined I was and am. And there's a spring to my step as well.

Story time

**

A couple of years ago I went to an eerie ghost town, somewhere in the winterland of Death Valley in California. It was incredibly foggy when I was there, and the thick, gray fog obscured visibility more than a couple of meters ahead. Crunchy gravel beneath my feet, ramshackle buildings with deteriorating weatherboard cladding, and a few subtle but distinct indications that people had actually lived there set the mood to pensive, heavy, loaded. The sensation of lingering remnants of activity stopped short was multiplied by the way sound failed to travel through the fog, almost as though water in the air hampered the sounds we made, and rendered us alone, singular individuals, in an eerie space of memories, abandon and erronious directions. There was once life in this place - intense, hard, gritty life - and an awareness of yesteryear hung in the damp air. As I intruded this space of the past, tiny pieces of broken glass were pushed deeper into the ground under my feet. Alone in a solitary space, I heard muffled sounds from others, here too to seek the thrill of long past desertion and deterioration. Now and again the muffled cones of headlights appeared as phantasms, just beyond my capacity to see.

**

She walked down the street, wrapped in a haze of thoughts obscuring her to the surroundings. Or at least so she hoped. In fact her eyes, downcast and fleetingly seeking a way, attracted attention. They had a deep expression, intense, begging for acknowledgment, convoluted in a dark openness that hurt her as much as the next. The pale skin of her face accommodated this sharpness. She pulled the brim of her hat down to provide as much cover as possible to her face and breathed in the cold air piercing her lungs. Her presence was at once a meek shadow seeking to repel glances to achieve anonymity, and a strong expression of hope, challenging with dignity and perhaps even self-importance others on her way.

What had happened to the hopes she held? All her dreams? Around her people hurried from one place to the next, in a never ending series of places to go and things to do, whilst she seemed to have stopped in her tracks.

She felt the movement of all around her and floated in nothingness.

**

Rules

I've really tried to not follow the rules lately, to do what I really feel like instead of simply complying to norms.

And here I am, following 'the rules' because I'm guessing that that's what's expected of me. And lo and behold - they are not being 'followed back'. What rubbish. Maybe it's time for me to break them again, just to make a point. If nothing's new by tomorrow I will.

*

Did yoga and meditation again this morning, which was good. I'm finding the yoga bit easiest - focusing my mind is extremely difficult. There are SO many things to think about all the time.

When dreams are lost

..then what is left?

I've come to realise that much of what ails me stems from broken or lost dreams, hopes and aspirations that weren't to be.. For an idealist and dreamer like me it makes a whole lot of sense that this would hurt, and it truly is painful when some wonderful idea bursts. I've done much thinking over the last months, and some things are starting to shift into place, or at least settle down enough for me to get, if not a hold, then at least a good, long look at them.

We're talking the big ones here. Who I am, what I want, what I can give, what's important, who are important. I have no answers yet, but one tiny step at a time I inch forward.