My year in books – part two

My year in books – part two

 

Now, before we get started, I would like to state that I am well aware that it is now 2017. Really, I should be jotting down my thoughts about resolutions, change, fitness, health or some other goals, but I promised to write about my ten favourite books and I’m no flake…ahem. It was my intention to write the second half of this well before the new year but life intervened in the form of other writing commitments, illness and a little thing called Christmas, lots of people resolve to read more so think of this as a Launchpad for some reading adventures. Now, where were we?

A God in ruins – Kate Atkinson

Goodness me this book was astounding. This was a book set in the same world as Life after Life but was not a sequel, Kate Atkinson refers to it as more of a companion piece. It tells the story of Teddy Todd, younger brother of Ursula Todd from Life after Life, and his experiences as a bomber pilot in world war two and the life of him and his family in the decades following on from there.

I have read a lot of Kate Atkinson, after being entranced by Started early took my dog, it is not often that I really love a crime book, and the two books charting the Todd family and their experiences of the second world war are my absolute favourites. You can read this book without reading Life after Life, it is entirely its own story.

The writing is smart, moving, funny and written with a uniquely magical pragmatism that I adored. The set pieces of Teddy’s missions are thrilling and unputdownable but the small humdrum details are even better. You invest so heavily in these characters that as she brings it all to a finale your senses are just utterly battered. I don’t often cry at books but I would defy anyone to not shed a tear (or belly sob like a loon) at the final few pages.

The tears fell not just because of my investment in the story, but also out of delight at the very clever twist she delivers in those final few pages. It was devastating and delicious. I loved this book and it opened the floodgates for a lot of weeping at books in 2016.

Grief is the thing with feathers – Max Porter

I was in a bookshop a few days before going on holiday this summer and had just spent a lot of money on a big pile of books to take with me, just as I was waiting for my husband to buy some books for himself I spotted this book and started reading, by the end of the first page I was a goner, pulling out my bank card and joining the queue again.

It is a hard book to describe, prose, in a poetic kind of way, fiction, yet with a hint of memoirs, desperately sad and massively hilarious and all about dishonesty and lies but brimming with emotional truth. In fact, it was one of the most honest books I read all year.

It is told from the perspectives of a Dad, who has just lost his wife, his sons and the Crow, who is a macabre, chilling intruder but also an almost Mary Poppins type figure for the boys and a counsellor and confidant for Dad. It is a beautiful, odd little masterpiece. Hopeful, beautiful and very uplifting. If you have loved and lost, read this book.

A monster calls – Patrick Ness

Continuing the theme of death and grief I naturally have to mention this book. It had been on my ‘must read’ list for a good few years but after my sister died in 2014 I decided I wasn’t up for it and retreated into a world of comfort reading. By the time I felt better I had started my own novel about family grief and thought it would be wise not to read it until my own novel was finished and had at least one redraft.

Good grief it’s good. Utterly deserving of all accolades and prizes bestowed upon it. You’ve probably already read it but if you haven’t rectify that immediately. It is the story of Conor who wakes from an awful dream and finds that he is not alone. There is a monster and it wants something important from Conor.

Just a word of warning, don’t read this book in public because you will cry, not graceful, subtle tears but massive, ugly, red-faced, snot heavy sobs that leave you looking like a monster yourself. My very literary nine-year-old expressed a desire to read this book, but when I gave her a brief synopsis, my hard as nails girl cried for about twenty minutes – she’s going to wait until she’s eleven to read it apparently.

The writing is beautiful. The story is simple, like a modern folktale. The truth and compassion that runs all the way through it cannot be faulted. It is a masterpiece.

The last act of love – Cathy Rentzenbrink

This is the second non-fiction/memoirs book that made it into my top ten this year. It is not a genre I usually read but both this and Matt Haig’s book, mentioned in my previous post, are such powerful stories, honestly and beautifully told that my reading this year would have been much less rich without them.

Cathy was seventeen when her brother, a year younger, was knocked down by a car, eight years later he died. She tells the story of their family being lost in the place between life and death with utter vulnerability. She also writes about how to find joy and love and hope in the world even when the world is not how you envisaged it to be.

She writes so beautifully about losing a sibling that I found myself agreeing as I read, folding down corners, nodding and storing quotes away for later,

“Grief is the price we pay for love. It is, we have to believe, better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I had a brother. I learned about love by loving him. He had the first bits of my heart. He died.”

And because this is my blog I’m going to put in another,

“Somewhere along the way, my grief story became a love story. I have worked out that the only way to be alive in the world is to carry out acts of love and hope for the best.”

Over the Moon – Imtiaz Dharker

My final book is another radio four book and is a poetry anthology. Last year was a year where I looked to the creative process for healing and understanding, in the fiction I wrote and the books that I read. My book choices, especially in this second half, are rather “death heavy” but that is the beauty of all art, particularly reading, it can grab you and show you that you are not alone.

These poems are beguiling and exquisite. A lot of them are written about the sickness and death of her husband and I have found, and continue to find, so much peace, wisdom and beauty in them. These poems are a celebration of love, Don’t miss out! Book right now for the journey of a lifetime, is a favourite and very celebratory in theme and tone, up at the top with my favourite love poems of all time.

If you would always discount poetry, give it a try, don’t try to read it all in one go, but keep it on the bedside table for dipping in and out of. It will not disappoint, all the big things are found in the pages of this book, written beautifully and simply, expressed in a way that celebrates all it is to be human and to love and to create.

“Stab the page. Stab it in the heart.

Find the word that is not a word.

Find the word that is a blade.

Slash the empty space

to fall into the teeming dark,

find the face.

 

Make one mark.”

Read, write, love, create, live.

Hope you get to enjoy some of the ten books I have highlighted in these last two blog entries. Happy reading, may 2017 be your best reading year yet.

 

Tears, laughter and Insomnia. My year in books

Tears, laughter and Insomnia

My year in books.

 

I have always been a reader. I cannot remember learning to read, I can only remember the piles of books that have surrounded me from the very beginning. I remember getting a tin of words to learn from school, and refusing to look at them, on the grounds that they were not stories. I love to read stories.

I read continually, I packed books in my hospital bag both times I gave birth. I read as a student, stumbling in a little drunk at three in the morning and still losing myself for twenty minutes or so as I lay in bed, mascara smeared across my pillowcase, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

There will never be no room in my life for reading. Just the thought makes me sad.

This year I had a bash at writing a book of my own. I had tried numerous times before but would frequently lose my way, stop, find a window to gaze out of and the laptop or notebook would begin to gather dust again.

This year was different, it flew out of my fingers at a rate of knots. Beginning on New Years Day, I had finished my first draft by Mothers Day. I loved it. But I couldn’t have done it without reading. Without reading, you can’t be a decent writer.

2016 has been a good reading year for me and I just wanted to share my favourite ten books that I have read this year, for the first time. They are not all new books, but they are the best ten that I have discovered and loved this year. There were many more that I loved, but sadly I think even ten may be pushing it for a blog.

The ten books are in no particular order (that would be beyond me) and five will be in this post, and the other five will follow in another post. Otherwise this may be longer than some of the books featured, and nobody wants that.

On writing – Stephen King

For Christmas, my husband bought me this book. One that I had meant to read for years.  The ideas for my novel were already quietly bubbling below the surface, but this book turned the heat up and filled me with a passion, direction and fire for my story that I would never have expected. I started it on Boxing day, finished it on the 30^th of December and on New Years Eve, in between cross country trips to visit friends and family, I wrote down what became the first 800 words of my novel. I had my three main characters, my format and my story. For the next three months I wrote at least a thousand words every day.

If you want to write, read it. If you have no desire to be a writer, read it. His story is fantastic, his advice clear and pomp free. Read a lot, write a lot. He made the business of writing remarkably simple, although he did make my day job, which involves teaching children about adverbs, rather more conflicted.

“Being swept away by a combination of great story and great writing – of being flattened, in fact – is part of every writer’s necessary formation. You cannot hope to sweep someone else away by the force of your writing until it had been done to you.” Stephen King

The following books have all swept me away.

All the light we cannot see – Anthony Doerr

2016 was the year I finally joined a book club. This was the second book we read as a group and my favourite (new) book that we read together. It is the story of a young Parisian girl, Marie-Laure, and a German orphan, Werner, and spans eight decades – but is mostly set during World War Two.

It is an epic tale, written with such style, elegance and a lightness of touch which left me occasionally wanting to burst into spontaneous applause. The story was utterly consuming and the themes of light, hope and goodness against the odds were so beautifully realised without veering anywhere close to sentimentality, although I personally adore a generous amount of sentiment more often than not.

If you are drowning in hopelessness at this increasingly horrendous year, you could do a lot worse, these dark evenings, than turn off your phone, light a few candles, grab a blanket and get caught up in this story of love, the complexities of humanity and the small acts of bravery that really matter. ‘All the light we cannot see’ is an excellent anecdote to hatred and despair.

I may need to reread…

I Could Ride all Day in My Cool Blue Train – Peter Hobbs

I adore short stories and was ecstatic to come across this collection in our very lovely local bookshop, in the second-hand section. Short stories are so over-looked, but a great short story anthology is a wonderful thing to possess. This selection by Peter Hobbs was utterly fabulous and caused me the most reading-based insomnia of the year.

They were not stories that you wanted to race through. They didn’t keep me awake because I was desperate to read just one more page. It is the first, and so far, only, book I have read where the beauty of the words, the rhythm of the sentences and the feel of them in my mouth, kept me awake. Let me share with you two of my favourite sentences ever written.

“I live in a town full of rain, a liquid city. We’ve got water up to our gills and I’m having trouble breathing.”

Those two sentences, and the title of the anthology, kept me awake in bed, distracted at the dinner table and quietly muttering to myself around the supermarket. I have never read prose that sounded as much like rap or performance poetry, whilst somehow telling varied, interesting and totally readable stories.

If you never read short stories, give them a go. If this one sounds a bit much then try Joanne Harris ‘Jigs and Reels’ or one of my all-time favourite books ever by a very famous children’s writer, but more on that book another time. Let yourself be surprised by Peter Hobbs, this book was joyous, smart and deserves a bigger audience.

The Poisonwood Bible – Barbara Kingsolver

2016 was also the year that I fell in love again. I started a new relationship and I think it will be for life. I fell in love with radio 4. One of my favourite things on radio 4 is ‘A good read’, listening to that makes tedious dinner prep a secretive pleasure. I discovered this book on that programme and decided to seek it out.

I was intrigued by it, as each chapter was written by one of four sisters, with a few sections written by the Mother. My novel, which had been fully completed by this stage, was written in a similar way, three sisters, a Mum and a Dad. The guests on radio 4 were unanimous in their praise for how distinct each voice was, something I had carefully considered when doing my first draft.

The voice is what I found truly exceptional about this book – the voices, really. From the first line, I could distinctly hear this deep, frail, southern accent, reaching out to me from the pages. The voice was so strong that at times I felt as if I was listening to an audio book, rather than reading it myself. My pace slowed with the Mother and raced with Leah, I meandered with Ruth May and was aloof with Rachel.

By the time I had finished I was more than ready to go back and reread and redraft little parts of my own novel, more acutely aware of the places where my characters voice slipped and stuttered. Reading great books makes you a better writer; it can also turn you into a sobbing, insecure wreck, but it’s worth it.

This would be a great book to read at any time, but if you are off somewhere hot and sunny, this would be a great book to slip in your suitcase for a slightly meatier holiday read. Also, if you are unfortunate enough to dread family gatherings over the festive period, try reading this, I guarantee you’ll appreciate your family more!

 

Reasons to stay alive – Matt Haig

Halfway through my books of the year, and my final one for this post, is this little treasure. A short non-fiction account of the author’s (Matt Haig) depression, breakdown and subsequent success as he learned how to live, and how to live well.

I thought for a long time that this book wasn’t for me, I have never suffered depression, although I do undoubtedly have a very thin skin and am the definition of a sensitive soul whose emotions veer wildly from despair to joy, and everything in between, regularly.  But I eventually picked it up and was delighted that I did.

Matt Haig writes so beautifully, honestly and hopefully about his darkest times that I really think everyone should read this book, whether you have suffered with any mental illness or not. We are all human and this is a book about more than just depression, it is about the essence of humanity, who we are, how we all suffer and how we all can thrive.

I felt that somehow, he had climbed inside my soul and written down so much of what lies within me, so much that I often keep hidden and his writing helped me see the worth, strength and beauty of my flawed personality. Nearly every page is dog eared and marked in some way, I could happily quote the entire book, but then you wouldn’t need to go out and buy it – and you really must go out and buy it.

I will leave you with one of my favourite sections, that exemplarises why I love books, art, music and people.

“People place so much value on thought, but feeling is as essential. I want to read books that make me laugh and cry and fear and hope and punch the air in triumph. I want a book to hug me or grab me by the scruff of my neck. I don’t even mind if it punches me in the gut. Because we are here to feel.

I want life.

I want to read it and write it and feel it and live it.

I want, for as much of the time as possible in this blink-of-an-eye existence we have, to feel all that can be felt.”

That is what I love about books, and about life. Come back for my next five gut-punching and beautiful reads soon.

 

 

Out of hiding

Out of Hiding

 

Today, Facebook told me that one year ago I wrote a blog post called ‘In the shadows with Joy’, and I paused for a second and just had to smile. One year ago.  Life was so very different. I was different.

If I could go back and see ‘One year ago’ me, I would give hear a slap on the back, a hug, in fact I would probably jump onto her and cry ‘Well done – keep going’.  I wrote ‘In the shadows with Joy’ just over a year after losing my sister and it charted my journey with God, through grief.

In fact, thinking about the me I was one year ago automatically brings me to ‘two year ago’ me. The loss of my sister, quite rightly, dominating my entire existence, large portions of those first two months after she died are just a gaping, empty void. I remember having the worst back pain of my life, sat in a cinema in Nottingham, trying to act normal. I remember weekends given over entirely to eating my husband’s home baked bread. I remember watching Game of Thrones at any given moment and embracing the darkening nights and chilly days with open arms.

One year on and I had lived through the worst year of my life, but had at least learnt something. About me, about God, about life and love and loss and how all of these things make each one of us who we are. They are what our humanity is made of.

I had also changed forever. There was a feeling within me that finally grasped the utter preciousness of life. I had lived through a season of not just utter heartbreak, but also deep fear. Fears that I hadn’t even realised I had. Fears that couldn’t be brushed under the carpet. Fears that had to be faced, that had to be looked straight in the eye and overcome.

No wonder I was different.

I learnt front crawl. I did a triathlon, I started writing and letting people actually see what I wrote. I started volunteering in my kid’s school. I began to shake off the breadcrumbs, leave behind the duvet and come out of hiding.

So, what about now, what about ‘today’ me? The lady who smiled as she remembered what had gone before. One year, two years on and life is very different again.

After nine and a half years at home, raising my children, I have gone back to work. I’m working as a teaching assistant, but really I am trying to think of myself as an ‘aspiring beam of light’ (Thank you Kid President), hopefully extending the same love, kindness and hope I have known, to the utterly glorious (and beautifully bonkers) kids I work with.

I have been back to college and learnt more about something that fascinates me. I have taken a break from blogging to write my first novel, which hopefully, one day someone will want to publish. I’ve sent it to agents of my literary heroes and had them compliment my writing.

I am out of hiding.

And yet, the lure of retreat is strong. The promise of safety, of remaining unseen, is consistently captivating. It can hurt to be seen, there’s the fear of laughter, of what people might think.

The fear of failure.

But, as I read yet another rejection, or get something wrong at work, or am yet again the ‘wobbliest’ person at my gym and look a bit daft as I try something new, I can only think that the alternative would be so much worse.

I would gladly take 100 rejection letters over never having written my book. I would rather mess up my photocopying, than not be present for a kid who I could help. I’d rather be last in my next triathlon, than never dare to take part in one again. When my family asks me to try rock climbing with them, I’m going to say yes. Who cares if I’m terrible? I can only get better.

I’ve been thinking a lot about a verse from the message translation of the bible,

“You’re here to be light, bringing out the God colours in the world” Matthew 6:14

When we do come out of hiding, then our light can truly shine. There is a time to hibernate, to nest, to rest and to recover. There is a time to be still and to deal with pain and fear and loss, of whatever kind.

But there is another time. A time where Joy and Hope and Light can burst from us and all we have to do is step out of hiding, be ourselves and shine.

There is a singer/songwriter I love called Steffany Frizzell-Gretzinger (buy her album!) who wrote a song called ‘Out of hiding’ and inspired these musings.

“No need to be frightened

By intimacy

No just throw off your fear

And come running to me.”

Come out of hiding, let your light shine. The world is so very dark now, come out and shine.

 

 

 

How long is it now?

 

It was a very exciting Friday afternoon; the last school day before the Christmas holidays.  All the Mummy’s and Daddy’s  and Grandmas and Granddads had come to pick up the children. There were cards to carry, gifts to give and decorations to take home and hang on the Christmas tree.

“How long is it now?” asked Polly, tugging on her Mummy’s arm and hopping up and down on one leg.

 

“Seven sleeps till Christmas, Polly” said Mummy as she pushed the buggy towards home.

 

“Christmas will never come” said Polly.

 

The next day was Saturday and it was a very cold and frosty day. Daddy got some big, dusty boxes out of the loft and then they all put on their hats and coats and walked to the market to buy a great, big Christmas tree. Polly helped carry it home.

They covered the tree in lights, tinsel, baubles and glittery string, and then they stuck all the Christmas cards right up the staircase. There was even some tinsel left to go around Polly’s bed. Polly got to set out the nativity scene on the bookshelf.

As Daddy carried her up to bed, she asked, “How long is it now?”

Daddy yawned, “Six sleeps till Christmas.”

Polly sighed, “Christmas will never come.”

 

On Sunday, Polly was in the Christmas play at church. She had a very special costume, which lit up with real lights. Everyone gave her a big clap and Grandad thought she was the shiniest star of all. Then they lit special candles that were held in oranges and were called Christingles.  Polly and Oliver both liked eating their christingles while the man at the front talked.

When the orange was all gone, Polly leaned across to Granny and whispered, “How long is it now?”

Granny smiled, “Five sleeps till Christmas.”

Polly looked sad, “Christmas will never come.”

The next day was Monday and Polly had a very busy day.  In the morning she helped her Mummy bake all kinds of nice things in the kitchen. They put chutney in jars and Polly tied all the ribbons. They made biscuits to hang on the tree and Polly and Oliver got very messy decorating them to look like snowmen, reindeer and sparkly Christmas stars. They even made mince pies for Santa and Mummy let Polly cut out pastry stars to top them and she even painted them with eggs.

In the afternoon Oliver went to bed and Daddy took Polly out for a special treat. They went ice-skating under all the Christmas lights. Polly leaned on a special penguin to help her balance on the slippy ice, and eventually she was better than Daddy, who kept landing on his bum. That evening Mummy put Polly to bed. “How long is it now Mummy?” asked Polly, breathing in a lovely Christmas cakey smell.

“Four sleeps till Christmas, angel pie” Mummy smiled as she turned off Polly’s light.

“Christmas will never come” said Polly to the darkness.

The next day was an awful day. Polly was tired, Oliver had a cough and Mummy and Daddy were grumpy and busy all day! They polished and hoovered and scrubbed and washed all morning, saying “We must get the house ready for Christmas, we have guests!”

But they wouldn’t tell Polly who was coming.  In the afternoon things got even worse, as everyone had to go to the supermarket and for the first time Mummy filled two trolleys. They were piled high with sausages, sweeties, cake, fizzy drinks, nuts and lots of other treats, but Mummy said it wasn’t for now – it was for Christmas.

“How long is it now?” grumbled Polly in the queue at the checkout.

“Three sleeps Polly” replied Mummy and Daddy wearily.

 

The next day Polly felt bored and lonely. She was watching television with Oliver when suddenly a car horn beeped on the drive. The two children clambered onto the big chair and gazed out of the window. There was Grandma and Granddad and all the aunties and uncles and best of all …”my cousins!” yelled Polly, jumping up and down.

Then all was noise and cuddles and excitement. Polly, Oliver and their cousins made a big nest on Oliver’s floor for them all to sleep on, Mummy turned the Christmas music up loud and everyone ate soup and sausages and cake and custard. Later everyone put on their nice clothes and went out in the darkness to see the pantomime at the theatre.

Polly loved the pantomime; there was a big stage with big red curtains. It was so funny when the ghost was hiding from Buttons and when Cinderella sang and danced with the prince. Polly closed her eyes and pretended she was Cinderella on the big stage.

That night as all the cousins started to fall asleep Polly whispered to them “How long is it now?”

“Two sleeps till Christmas Polly” said the cousins, sleepily rolling over.

“Will it ever come?” Polly asked herself.

 

When Polly woke up on Christmas Eve everything seemed very quiet and very bright. She climbed over her sleeping cousins and looked out to the garden. It was beautiful, covered in bright, shining snow. Polly smiled and then everyone woke up. Everyone had a wonderful day – making a snow family as big as theirs, having a snowball fight and making snow angels. Later they went to the big hill and Polly sledged for the very first time.

When everyone was cold and tired they went home and had hot chocolate and marshmallows and everyone helped Mummy and Grandma get ready for Christmas Dinner. Polly, Oliver and the cousins made name places for the table, whilst the grown-ups peeled and chopped and baked and brined.

When everyone was in their pyjamas Daddy got out his flute and played Christmas carols and Mummy and the Aunties sang and Granddad cried because he was so happy. Then it was time to leave a mince pie and carrot out for Santa and the reindeer and go upstairs to hang up the stockings.

“How long is it now?” asked Polly as she hung her stocking on the door knob.

“It’s Christmas Eve” replied Mummy, “only one sleep left. Tomorrow is Christmas.”

Polly smiled.

And the next day? All was magical. The stockings were opened in bed, and everyone ate their oranges and some chocolate coins before going downstairs to see what was under the Christmas tree…

Piles of presents wrapped in shiny red and green and gold paper.  Whisky for Granddad, perfume for Grandma, smelly bubble bath for Aunties, music for Uncles, a new jumper for Daddy, a beautiful necklace for Mummy, games for the cousins, a space rocket for Oliver and for Polly…?

A new shiny bike, which she rode in her dressy gown and welly boots round the snow-covered garden, until it was time for lunch.

 

In the shadows with Joy

Before we go any further I should warn you, bright and discerning reader, that I am an optimist, an idealist, an old-fashioned  soul. This week alone I have engaged in all sorts of illicit and strange behaviours. I have danced a public jig during a successful mission to a pound shop, I have sung in the rain, I have snorted tea out of my nose, engaged in many conversations with strangers and had occasional face ache from smiling.

These behaviours, though strange to some, are normal for me. I see life as good and kind and full of wonder. However, I can also be at the other end of the spectrum, life is not always sunshine and lollipops. Sometimes people are rude and dismissive, sometimes I make mistakes, sometimes I cry in the rain (or sun) and I regularly stamp my foot and have a ‘middle-class mutter’ over something not to my liking whilst food shopping.

The fact of the matter is that sometimes it is easy for me to be happy because life is often easy. I am married to the greatest man in the world (fact), have two great children, a roof over my head, food on the table, access to water, live in the country that created the NHS and salt and vinegar crisps. Life is good. Some things aren’t perfect, there is not often money for holidays, I am 32 and still have no real idea of what I want to be when I grow up (or how to achieve it), our conservatory leaks and our floor is curiously uneven. But if my life had a gratitude dial, mine would be up towards the top.

What happens though when life throws something truly awful at you? When relationships fail or sickness invades or people die. Can we know Joy in the shadows?

When my big sister died just over a year ago life changed immediately. I realised something profound quite early on. I could look at my faith and beliefs and relationship with God and dismiss them or I could choose to really believe. I could choose to blame God, deny God and be bitter or I could turn my face towards him and say If ever I loved you, it’s now.  I chose to turn to God and cling on and I found that over the past 13 months I have learnt so much, about pain, fear, peace, comfort but most of all about Joy. In the darkest season of my life I found myself on a journey of discovery about what real Joy is and what it’s not.

Joy is not about smiling. It is not about life feeling like a musical. Joy is about honesty. This year was dreadful but Jesus is wonderful. Slapping on a fake smile, putting your life through a filter and ‘successfully managing your presence on social media’ is not Joy. Joy is going for a shout in the woods (choose carefully, we don’t want to scare people), smashing a plate, talking honestly with someone you love and feel safe with and coming close to God and trusting him with our sorrows.

Joy is not flighty. My cheerful persona has sometimes led to people misjudging me as frivolous and flighty, maybe I can be but real Joy is anything but flighty. Joy is a serious business. When I say serious I do not mean complicated. Joy is serious, yet straightforward. Darkness can either consume you or you can use it to illuminate just how bright the light is. In the first few months after my sister’s death I almost constantly listened to a song called ‘Joy’ by Rend Collective. I could happily quote every lyric in that song but these lyrics particularly spoke to me

“You’re the joy, joy, joy lighting my soul

The joy, joy, joy making me whole.

Though I’m broken, I am running into your arms of love.”

Seriously simple. I am broken. I am running to you, not away from you.

Joy is not unintellectual. Joy is full of wisdom. Sometimes it can seem as if the more serious you are, the more important you are. The more you puzzle and reflect and ponder life and death and God, the greater your understanding and knowledge. Whilst I believe that critical thinking and self reflection are vitally important, I also know that there is simplicity in Joy. Joy doesn’t mean you have all the answers. Joy means that you have peace with the unknown.

The most important thing I have learnt about Joy is that it is most apparent in the darkness. For me, my journey into knowing the depths of Joy show me the extent to which God’s love is unstoppable. The bad things that happen to us in life are not evidence of God’s cruelty or lack of existence. They are just life. A mixture of Good and Bad. God’s love for us, the comfort and peace he brings, are greater and more powerful and brighter than anything else.

If you are in the Shadows I know that Joy is there with you. Whether you realise it or not, Joy is waiting for you, to show you that when the pain hits, you are not alone.

Joy is beautifully simple and so vital. Look outside of yourself. Turn your face to the one who is bigger and brighter.

New boots. New seasons. New adventures.

The seasons are shifting. The sun has been shining, waterfights have been had, but my flip flops have moved from permanent fixtures to sharing accommodation with my trainers in the shoe basket. The chill is coming on the air and the view from my bedroom window has a sepia tint to it. I have a sudden craving for new boots.

The academic year is so ingrained on me that September often feels like more of a fresh start than January. January is often a time of frugality, of powering through the cold and dark towards the spring. September makes me feel expectant. Ready for a change or a challenge. New hair is not enough and I secretly know that new boots won’t do the job either.

This year I feel it more strongly than I have in years. A yearning for something new for me, a way to satisfy my itchy feet. This housewife is ready to shake of her apron and try…what?

I’m struggling to  elucidate what I feel. Usually when I write I feel like I am engraving on stone, today I feel like I am trying to write on Jelly.

So what can I actively do? Follow the path before me. Say yes when asked. Trust the one who is leading me.

I feel like I have been getting ready, the spray tan is on, I’m covered in sequins and although I’ve been practising I feel like getting up on that dance floor will show up all of what I don’t know. All that I have missed out on in my nearly 9 year baby break.

Maybe you can relate? Pulled between exhilaration at the prospect of challenge and breaking out of your comfort zone and terror at the thought of falling flat on your face.

But we all know the truth don’t we? We have to try.

I don’t know where my path is heading. I don’t really know what I want to do let alone how I can do it. But I do know that I can follow the path before me. I do know that the spray tan and sequins aren’t for nothing. I do know that I can say yes when asked to dance.

Do I know the steps? Nope. Do I trust the one whose asking? Yes. Does this mean I won’t fall flat on my face? No way. But it does mean that even the fall would be worth it.

And if I don’t fall…that would be the greatest adventure.

A glimpse…

Note – My husband and I have recently celebrated our 11th wedding anniversary and I found myself writing this as I reflected on our relationship…a bit less of a splurge…more of a love story…

A glimpse

Do all the great love stories start with a glimpse?

Their eyes met over a crowded room…

The brush of her hand against his…

A ‘Richard Curtis’ style collision outside a second hand bookshop, in the rain, obviously…

Or a less dramatic glimpse, a sudden yet gradual realisation. A way of seeing someone in a new way. A glimpse of a soul like yours?

We were playing twister…

We were talking about who we loved the most…

We were laughing at robotic lemons.

And the glimpses deepened.

We talked about family.

We sought out each others eyes and smiled those deep, private, gentle smiles that make the world suddenly appear in HD.

We tickled and flirted.

We went out.

I wore my tippy tappy boots and you heard them tippy tapping down the hall as I came to open the front door…and you knew. Later you took my hand over the corner table as Mama Cass serenaded us.

Night breezes seem to whisper I love you.

Glimpses turn to conversations, kisses and dates every night.

Kisses that last for hours. Conversations that break for sleep and last for months. Still the glimpses remain…

A glimpse of a kiss in a white dress.

A glimpse of a conversation that lasts for a lifetime.

 

And so, the white dress became a reality and was quickly relegated to history. But still the glimpses remained.

A glimpse of the Father you would become.

A glimpse of a world waiting to be discovered with my love.

A glimpse of strength that is always extended and shared.

People will say that the glimpses disappear. To be replaced by companionship, apathy, even dislike…not here. Those electrical glimpses still surprise and delight me. A glimpse of holidays, teenagers, grandchildren. A glimpse of joy and despair shared and carried together.

A certainty of being part of the greatest adventure.

A glimpse of glory…

… and I’m still craving your kiss.

A love letter to the real Jesus.

My lover,

I have not written to you before. Yet today, I suddenly wanted to. The world can seem so dark sometimes, 24 hours ago I sat on the sofa crying into my husbands shoulder, my cry was, “Everybody dies and everyone forgets.” The grief wave had surprised me again. The news of the premature deaths of two old friends in the last three weeks in the midst of my own journey this year seemed too much.

But…if I know one thing it is that my cry of despair is false. And so, today my heart sings.

I wanted to thank you for all that you are to me. All that you have been and all that you will be to me, forever.

I wanted to thank you that although you are one of the most talked about, written about, sung abut, painted about men. You are also unique to me. That your name is known by Billions who all have a unique image of you. That you are loved, hated, tolerated, despised, shrugged at, not thought of, dwelt on and a million other reactions. But to me you are everything.

Thank you for your strangeness to me. Thank you for your amazing ability to be two conflicting things at the same time. It makes me feel better about my conflicted personality…maybe my oddness is God given too?

Thank you that you are always there and are never far away. You are close, your presence can be felt. Thank you for that Sunday after my sisters funeral when I just sat and rested my head against your chest. I left church with a crick in my neck but my heart was lightened, my body wrapped in a spiritual cotton wool. Thank you for the miracle of feeling you next to me and needing nothing else. Thank you for the crazy reality of that.

Thank you for your beauty. How I can see it everywhere. In the world, in my family, in my friends, in kindness, laughter, in a great meal, in strangers, in people who don’t believe in you.

Thank you that when the pain does hit you are constant. Always faithful, always loyal, always loving.

Thank you that somehow you provide what I need before I even know it is needed. Thank you for the amazing life you have given me. So full of love.

Thank you that you are not some sort of permanently unsatisfied, judgemental prat. You are unshockable and thank you that when I need to I can shout, rage and swear at you.

Thank you that all you want from me is myself. You just want a relationship. A real, honest relationship…of course I sometimes shout at you. Thank you that you meet all of that with more love.

Thank you that you are real. That I know you and I love you. Thank you that there is no hatred or division in you; they are man made creations. Thank you that you are without agenda.

Just….. thank you.

My true love

My Sun and Stars

The one my heart longs for.

Your Gillian x

Bravery and Body Image – Slaying the beast

Over the last four years I have dropped between 4 and 5 dress sizes and gone from struggling through a Zumba warm-up to competing in my first triathlon. Sounds great doesn’t it? It is. My life now is much better. I feel better. I sleep better. I look better.

I look better. Initially this journey was all about that goal. Looking better. But when I got to my “Goal weight” about two years ago it suddenly wasn’t enough.  All I needed was to lose another 5 pounds and I would be exactly 5 stone lighter than when I started. That 5 pounds…

That 5 pounds made me lose sight of everything else. The amazing achievement of successfully changing my life suddenly seemed worth nothing, because of 5 pounds. I was exactly where I wanted to be, healthy, strong, making good choices. But I was letting all of this count for nothing.

After feeling increasingly sorry for myself I put on my ‘Northern head’ and spoke a bit of truth to myself. I had set a goal weight for a reason. It was the right place for me to be. I looked at myself in the mirror and I made a choice, a choice I have to keep choosing.

I will choose to look at myself uncritically. I will choose to accept that the best way to beat this body image beast is to laugh at it when I can. I choose to go for strong, fit, healthy, secure. Not deprived, scared, yo-yoing, insecurity.

My daughter was 4 when I started to change my lifestyle. I never wanted her to see me consciously ‘dieting’. We eat the same meals 95% of the time. I never skip breakfast or Lunch. Now we sometimes run together. It’s perfect. If I can teach her anything it would be to love herself, to have confidence in her own ability. To not look around her to see what she should be, but to look inside of herself and know who she is. That she is loved, that she is strong, that she is more than a number.

She was my inspiration to do a triathlon. The swimming made my shoulders bigger. The cycling firmed me up but it really didn’t slim me down. The running terrified me, but training next to her made me go out with my head held high.

On the day itself she was so excited to see me. I swam in lycra leggings and a sports bra. Everyone saw my size 14, two children, Nigella devotee stomach. I ran anyway. No one cared. Even I didn’t care. I stood chatting to two men before the race as we set up our things in the ‘transition’ area. Mid conversation I slipped off my cycling t-shirt, in preparation for my swim,  and carried on chatting in my sports bra.

That was the moment I defeated my body image. Things have been different since then. I no longer count myself out of things. I don’t see super slim people and instantly feel terrible about myself and I also don’t hold it against them.

We are all created differently. We are unique. Please don’t be a slave to numbers on a scale or the size of your jeans. Don’t think yourself a failure for having a weekend of buttered toast, cheese and wine. Please, please accept your imperfections and stop punishing yourself. Find something you love to do and do it.

And please, please, please don’t be afraid.

Don’t strive trying to be something you are not. Thrive on the journey of knowing who you are and finding out who you might become. I went from the girl who was afraid of sports, to an honest to goodness triathlete.

Just try. You will almost certainly surprise yourself.