For my Husband on his Birthday, NaPoWriMo, April 6th

For my Husband on his Birthday, NaPoWriMo, April 6th

True love is commonplace.

It's in the paintings that 

grace the walls of caves, ships,

Chapels, turrets, in the

Whispers of underground

Bunkers, behind rustic

Shutters of isolated

Woodland cottages and

Fifty shades above street 

Level. Find love in the

Shape of lips, delicate,

Curving, lifting, pressing

Against, giving life to

Words that hold hearts dear. Hear

It in the music of

A washing line in the

Wind, a kettle's whistle,

A baby's wail, silenced

By a warm nipple in

A sleepy bed. Taste love

In birthday cake crumbles,

Chocolate kisses and

Spaghetti wishes, in

The damp spot behind an

Ear after bath time, and

On a finger-full of 

Raw, sweet dough. True love is

In the letterboxes

Living in the copper

Wires, echoing across slow 

Oceans, broadcasting in

Outer space. In poppy

Strewn mountains and shadowed,

Grassy valleys, in dank 

Marshes and knife-edged plains,

In sweaty ballrooms and

Resined studios, love 

Sweeps feet into air and

Air into life. Love's in

The future and the past,

Seek it hidden in the 

Present, wrapping itself

Everywhere infinite

In minds and under feet,

Through fingertips' soft

Grip on elbows, bent knees,

Delicious tickled toes.

While ours is as unique

As a combination

In a pack of playing

Cards fifty-two love deep.

Things I wish I knew when I was 18

We made it. Our beautiful baby girl grew up despite us, and turned 18 this week. We decided to write her a list of all the things we wish we knew when we were her age, and I thought I'd share it with you.

 1. You can only take one step at a time.

 2. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people, for no reason at all.

 3. Don't wait to follow your dreams.

 4. Be brave enough to be giving and forgiving.

 5. Use white vinegar to get the smell out of anything (even under your arms!)

 6. Appreciate your beautiful body, don't wish and waste it away.

 7. Always wash and pee after sex.

 8. Strive to be conscious of your decisions and choices – never do anything because 'everybody else' does it or it's what you were told.

 9. There is always a choice. Always. Sometimes it's a very hard choice, but it's always there.

 10. If you leave your socks in the boot of your car for long enough, they get clean again.

 11. Money is important, even when you don't want it to be.

 12. Resist oppression from the start. Don't wait and see.

 13. Pain is nothing to be frightened of.

 14. Buy your own condoms. Use them. Wrap them and throw them away, don't flush them.

 15. You don't have to be anything, or do anything, just try – and keep trying until you find out what you love.

 16. In a relationship, sex is like talking. Keep talking.

 17. Like your job, love who you are with.

 18. Cooking is both science and art. Apply your knowledge of both.

 19. Don't let being afraid stop you from doing what you want.

 20. Drink plenty of fluids every day. I know you hear this all the time, but listen this time. ;)

 21. Never go to sleep or leave each other angry.

 22. Remember how fiercely you are loved and keep that with you always.

 23. You brought light and infinite love into our lives. We are better people because of you. Just by living, breathing, smiling, laughing, you changed the world to make it better. So whatever you do, wherever you go, whatever you become as an adult, know that you have already achieved as much as you have to. Anything wonderful that you do from now on counts as bonus points to the universe. Bearing that in mind, you are free to strive to do a tiny, wonderful thing every day. Maybe it'll be a phone call or a social media message to someone lonely; or a smile for someone who looks sad. Perhaps you'll make someone laugh, or create something beautiful, or make someone look pretty; maybe you'll introduce two soul mates, or future change agents, or the leaders of a movement that will affect the future of everything. Maybe you'll make history by refusing to give in to a tiny piece of oppression, like not moving on the bus; or perhaps you'll make history by beginning a revolution. You might invent something incredible, or give someone who needs it a hug. You could ask a question that begins an avalanche of social change; or one that helps one person understand their world a little better. Any one of these things has equal value in the grand scheme of things, because you can never, ever know how a tiny, wonderful thing will turn out. What is important is to do the tiny things, and try to recognise the tiny things that are done for you; and be thankful for both. Be thankful for what you can give; and be thankful for what you receive. This is the secret to happiness.

 I'd love to hear whether you have anything to add (or take away?).

On Parenting Teens

It's nearly midday, and you have to wake your teenager up. You are irritated, because there are promises they've made and broken and you are going to have to start their day off by telling them. Also, you are a teeny bit jealous. You want to sleep the day away, too. Well, a very small part of you does. Your parents never would have stood for this.

You open their bedroom door and stumble over piles of clothes, books, toiletries, cups and towels. You resist the urge to yank open the curtains and open the window to release the hormonal fug, because that's what your parent would have done. You step carefully over the detritus, not knowing what's precious and what's not. You reach the tangled bed.

And there – there with crazy limbs in twisted sheets, mussed up hair and soft, sleep-puffed lips – there is your baby.

That face curled and pressed into you right after birth, nudging you for love and sustenance.

That mouth smiled at you for the first time one crazy morning long ago, and your heart beat faster.

That nose bled out of the blue one day and the scarlet trickle shocked you for a second.

Those lips told their first joke one quiet afternoon, and it was so terrible you laughed.

That chin was grazed more times than you can count, falling off walls and trees and things with wheels.

Those eyelids closed on a secret shared, a bedtime story, a favourite song, a game of hide and seek.

You've kissed those cheeks a hundred times. A thousand. A million.

That's your baby lying there, in essence. Your own lips smile and sigh, but you wake the sleeper anyway, to begin the push and pull of parenting a teenager that you think might be the death of you before you're through.

I sometimes think that teenagers are exactly like toddlers, only bigger, and a helluva lot more knowledgeable. More knowledgeable than me, that's for sure.

They have the same exuberance as toddlers. They experience emotions in extremes, rocket-like excitement and searingly painful frustration. Their emotions overwhelm them and spill out at inappropriate times, frightening teachers and conservative party voters. Those supermarket tantrums have become street brawls and classroom riots.

Their bodies are learning new things, like toddlers' are. They learn how to dance and fight and have sex, a step up on how to walk, run, jump and push. They learn how to push, too though – just push in a slightly different way.

They have a desperate need to push you away. It's the equivalent of the toddler's 'No!' - the 'I can do this by myself, and even if I can't, I'm going to try and try until I can.' You remember? It's the drive that children have to learn to walk, get dressed, feed themselves, only grown up. It's an 'I can do this life thing on my own' urge, 'and even if I can't, I'm going to try and try until I can.' They push you away because they have to, not because they want to.

It's not a rejection. It's growing up.

And because it is nature that creates the push, it's nature that creates the pull, as well. We apparently live in a universe governed by rules, one of which is that where there is a push, there must be a pull.

You feel the pull on your heartstrings, don't you? Every time your teenager pushes you away to take a risk, learn something new, experience a new emotional extreme, your heart is pulled back towards them, snapping on the elastic of the familial dynamic.

That shit hurts.

You can physically restrain your toddler from running out into oncoming traffic, but the best you can do for your teenager is teach them about the perils of alcohol poisoning and buy them a pack of condoms.

It doesn't matter how much pain you are in as you watch them risk their hearts and souls in the maelstrom of society, you don't have a choice – you have to sit back and let them do it. Even if it nearly kills you. Or them.

Just because they push you away, though, doesn't mean they don't need you. All the time.

All the time.

They need to know you love them. That they are loveable. That when inexplicable words are pouring out of their mouths in torrents, you love them. That when their bodies crave things they don't understand and can barely control, you love them. That when they run out into the street in the face of oncoming traffic knowing it is an extraordinarily stupid thing to be doing, you love them.

They need to know that when you are at your wits end and you want them to go and live with a different parent for a while, it is because you feel as though you are failing them, not the other way around.

They need to know that when you say no (and sometimes you must say no), it's because you want them alive and safe and well, not because you want them to experience social death by embarrassment.

When you are hesitant about how they look, it's because you are wondering how other people will perceive the beautiful child in front of you, not because you judge them and find them wanting.

When they mess up an opportunity that you were desperate for them to take, your disappointment is for them, not in them.

When you punish them for not fulfilling a promise or an obligation, it's because you want them to learn from their mistakes, not because you don't believe in them.

You always believe in them.

All the time.

How could you not? That's your baby over there, learning to walk and talk and have a good time. Finding out what hurts, what burns and what feels really, really good. Discovering consequences and the cost of living dangerously.

While they are doing it, because they are doing it and as a result of them doing it, they must know that they are loveable – and loved.

All. The. Time.

Helpless but not hopeless

It has been so long since I wrote my blog that I can't recall how to post on it any more. But on the eve of Real Life restarting in 2011, I thought it was possibly time to try again.

2010 was like battling through a raging storm. It became harder and harder to move forward, so more and more luggage was set down along the way. Writing felt like a luxury too painful to indulge in, so it was set aside in favour of getting one foot to move in front of the other. I don't mean to overly dramatise the difficulties we have faced, I know there is still a very long way to fall and so much precious to lose before reaching the dark depths life has the potential to take us to. I count my blessings religiously, like a mantra. But, yeah, 2010 was a rough, tough walk.

I am also determined to place no significance on the turning of the year. Nothing has changed, nothing improved, nothing got worse on January first. 2011 could be as bad, much better or infinitely worse. It doesn't matter – one foot in front of the other. This is the way. There is one change. I have had some time to think over the Christmas period (not always a good idea) and I have been able to identify the emotion that has kept me hostage for some time. Helplessness.

There are so many situations that have left me with this feeling that I don't really know why it has taken me so long to put a name to it. I'm only going to describe one, because I know that the key player – youngest daughter – will understand. There are countless more, so although I know you'll read this, dear youngest, you will know this is not only about you.

Christmas is lovely – exciting, pretty as a tree, full of food and sweetness and fun; and if you have CFS/ME, it is utterly energy-sapping and exhausting. So when, a couple of days later, youngest daughter staggered from her bedroom and laid herself in a puddle of tired at my feet, it wasn't a surprise. She didn't have the energy to speak, so communicated in little moans. I knew lifting her would hurt, and I didn't know where she wanted to be or what would immediately help, so I turned to oldest daughter for help. We improvised a system of communication – moan if you want this, don't if you don't; then oldest gently helped her up and in to her arms and carried her to a warm, soft spot while I found the food and drink to give her a quick boost. And all the while this was happening, I felt helpless, but didn't know it. Weird, huh?

Helplessness is a numbing emotion. It is the opposite of control, which is about action and initiative and movement. Helplessness shuts you down and clams you up and saps your reason without your knowledge. It is the rabbit in the headlights situation, only the reason the rabbit doesn't move is because it doesn't know it's paralysed in the glare of oncoming doom. When you feel helpless, all you can do is stand there and take it, and hope to hell you survive. When the car misses, you stumble on as though nothing untoward happened. You don't deal with the emotion,because you aren't really aware of its presence at all.

But, helplessness is not hopelessness. To be without hope is a wholly different thing, a deep, dark thing that if you were to experience in the glare of oncoming headlights, it would have you turn your back and wait for the impact. Helplessness is easier to recover from, once you know it is there.

When I was a young twenty-something, desperately seeking an identity, I asked my man one wrung-out day what made me special. What was I good at, because I felt bad at everything. His answer surprised me so much, I mulled it over for years. He told me that the thing that made me special was how good I was at being able to love. And no, he didn't mean that physically – well only a bit, anyway. He meant that not only did I have a high capacity to love, I was very good at doing it too.

Twenty odd years later (and you can take odd any way you like), I think perhaps he was right. If there is one thing I can do when life holds me hostage in the headlights, it is love. I can't change anything – I can't take away the pain or the frustration or the sadness or the anger or the fear or the despair that the things my family has been going through have engendered, but I can love. I can listen and hold and talk and hug and cook and soothe and smile and laugh. I rarely say the right thing at the right time, but I can try. And to try is to be active, and to be active is to take control, and to take control is the opposite of helplessness.

So this is my new year's resolution. To recognise the feeling of the rabbit in the headlights, and to consciously decide to arm myself with the only weapon I can use. I will be a rabbit, true – but I will be a small furry mammal armed with a bazooka. The bazooka of love. I do hope you enjoy this image.

Winter Love Soup
In a heavy-bottomed casserole or saucepan, sweat an onion gently in a tablespoon of olive oil. Find a selection of vegetables that your family likes and chop them into small pieces to add to the onion and olive oil – as many as you like. Leave any green leafy ones to the end though. Crush some fresh ginger and add it to the mix, then cover with stock to simmer. In the meantime, cook rice and red lentils separately, then add them to the stock with any greens. Add the secret ingredient, which in my case is ginger wine. Simmer altogether for a few minutes, then ladle into bowls. It will be very hot. Add some creamy plain yoghurt, or not, depending on how you feel. Eat with a spoon.

I meant to use this blog to explain myself to the friends and loved ones that I have not spoken to in some time. I guess that will have to wait. If any of you actually read this, though – I am sorry. I am, after all, only a small furry mammal, very recently armed. Give me time.

Comfort me with apples

Strengthen me with raisins, comfort me with apples, for I am faint with love.
Songs of Solomon

Some things are very hard to write about. Like the fear shadowing your mother’s face when she has been diagnosed with breast cancer.

So I thought I would write about the things that bring me comfort, instead.

The different kinds of hugs my family give are high on the list of comforts. Youngest daughter’s are infinitely gentle and delicate, very similar to her grandmother’s in fact. They convey peace, compassion and cherishing. Oldest daughter’s are similar to her father’s – warm, generous, strong and fiercely devoted. My father’s are squashily understanding and caring, my father-in-law’s are hard and dependable. An embrace is an expression of love more demonstrative of the character of that love than any other; a kiss is less intimate (apart from a lover’s kiss), a look can be misconstrued, words are even less dependable.

Despite that, friends’ words are definitely another sincere source of comfort. Close friends provide the scaffolding which keeps me upright in the storm, but even those I don’t see very often say wonderfully comforting things. Thank you, all of you.

But there are strange things that comfort me, too. Not in the same way, or in the same league – sport even. But these small moments of peace and pleasure from my world sustain me.

One lovely re-occurring moment is watching my beautiful dog bouncing joyfully through a colourful meadow, where we commonly take his walk. I know this sounds like a bad advert for toilet paper, but if you can imagine a setting ringed with old and ancient trees, green and mauve waving grass speckled with buttercups, violets and forget-me-nots, swallows circling over-head, and a particularly attractive golden Labrador-cross-golden retriever grinning from ear to ear, you can sense my little piece of heaven. No, I’m not saying where it is. Find your own.

Here’s a strange thing which consoles me. It’s a cup – more aptly a mug, but the word has such poor connotations, I don’t want to sully my drinking vessel with them. So, my cup was given to me by my mother, mostly because she had no shelf space for it. To be honest, it is more my kind of cup than hers. She prefers delicate china. My cup is solid, glazed earthenware. It fits snugly into my hand, keeping the heat inside where the tea is. The rim of my cup curves almost sensuously on my lip, and the weight of it is solid, utterly to be relied upon. It is soothing and dependable, and no-one else in the family would use it unless desperate. It is a pretty blue, and it bears the slogan ‘Comfort me with apples’. I was intrigued by this, so I looked it up, and it is one interpretation of a line from the Old Testament, found in the Songs of Solomon, verse 2.5. Isn’t it beautiful? Can you judge me for finding it comforting?

Chocolate is predictably comforting, not just for the pheromones or the sweetness or the calories. Chocolate – good chocolate – has an other-worldly taste. It is an escape from reality, a sensual departure from the stress of daily life. It is sex for the tastebuds. And although I am certainly no fan of Tesco, I have discovered an award winning chocolate bar from their Finest range which is mouth-orgasmic. It is called Organic Dominican Republic 70% Plain Chocolate, and it has the added comfort of being Fair Trade. Some people are cynical about the Fair Trade movement, but my buying power, limited as it is, is my only influence on the trade juggernauts of this capitalist world, and I intend to use it as much as possible. Even this tiny thing – the thought that an infinitely small amount of the money I spend will improve somebody’s outlook to a tiny degree – brings me comfort. For I am faint with love for the world and the people in it, and I take my comfort where I can find it.

For the love of ...

I want to live in a world in which people are motivated by love. A world in which the reason we grow food or make money is in order to feed our families or improve the lives of our neighbours. Where we invent things for the greatest possible good, and destroy the ill-conceived fruits of our labour in order to protect others. A world in which the study of happiness is given the level of investment that the study of weaponry has been enjoying lately. It might be pie-in-the-sky, but it is no wonder that I love my job.

Family Learning is all about love.

The reason there is Government funding into a programme which effectively promotes happiness is because of the figures. Studies have been made which show the link between parents’ involvement with their children’s learning and children’s attainment.

If we get the adults back into school and show them what a creative and scientific place it has become – far from the desperate battleground it was in their day – they will be much happier about sending their offspring into the soft melee. If we help to teach them the basic skills they couldn’t learn when they were young and vulnerable, they will be confident and able to help their own children with their homework in the future. And if we gently teach them a few parenting skills along the way, they will be better at coping with the demands of fraught modern life without collapsing and becoming a drain on resources in so many other ways.

So goes the theory. And for once, the theory is very close to the truth.

For the past year, I have had the privilege of spending Government money on love. I have helped to set up courses for parents who don’t speak any English, but who have to negotiate the eccentricities of the English system for themselves and their children. I’ve set up confidence building courses for parents whose children have such demanding needs that they can’t bring themselves to hold a conversation in a playground with parents of ‘normal’ children, for fear of mental collapse under the strain of their misunderstanding and judgement. I’ve helped to develop courses to teach basic ICT skills to parents who have been frankly frightened of their children’s knowledge of the cyberspace they haven’t dared enter.

I’ve been lucky enough to teach parents, too. To take them through the bewildering world of graphemes, phonemes and split-vowel digraphs; to reassure them that if their offspring refused to read their school books in the conventional manner at age 5, it did not mean they were going to fail to read anything for the rest of their lives; and to introduce them to poetry that both made sense and touched their own experience of the world.

This is what I leave my daughter at home for. Someone else would do it if I couldn’t. But – but. Oh, the aching pain of that decision. Is my spreading a little love around for a minor-league salary worth the anxiety? Every day, I’m a little less sure.