Birthday, tall, flow

Approximately-weekly news, #90

Well, I did it. I birthdayed without BMB for the first time in twenty-eight years.

Everyone made a lot of effort, and so did I, and there were lovely moments:

• Sitting outside in the quiet of the morning, drinking tea and starting a new book. (Which I’m loving, but it’s Ann Patchett, so of course. That woman could write a novel about a slug deciding not to go anywhere this afternoon and I’d gobble it up.*)

• Putting on a Nice Dress and blowing out candles on my rhubarb and custard cake, made by my daughter, who put a lot of time and thought into making this birthday as good as it could be.

  

• Accidentally making myself a coffee that looks like a duck tootling its way across a fragrant summer pond, en route to a fun afternoon with their best duck pal.

  

• Remembering that, in the days after Alan died, I found a gift that he had bought me. (We saw it at a craft fair at Easter, and he asked if I would like it for my birthday. I said yes and wandered off to look at jam until the deed was done.) When I came across it in his bedside drawer I decided to keep it until my birthday as I might be able to look at it by then.

  

I could, and it’s beautiful. It’s a silk square, dyed with plants, and I love it. (It’s from here.)

• Watching the football** and having a friend point out to me that I had referred to half time as ‘the interval’ and that this was, very much, What Alan Would Have Wanted. Which is 100% true.

And so, the day passed, also including a foot spa and writing a letter to myself to open on my next birthday. (Thank you, Loraine and Sophie, and I have written you both into the new book now.) And I was glad to get it over with, and it was also better and worse than I thought it would be, because BLOODY GRIEF.***

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And now, let us admire the Very Tall Thing I have grown.

A couple of years ago I planted**** some wildflower seeds along the sides of my path. (Please look forward to my forthcoming TED talk on Why They Aren’t Wildflowers If You Put Them In A Packet For People To, Essentially, Cultivate.)

The seeds had a meeting and decided that rather than doing lots of namby-pamby ground level nonsense, they would combine to make one feature plant. Behold.

It must be seven feet tall. It’s getting to the point that Harris sometimes needs me to stand next to it when he passes it, in case it tries to eat him.*****

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A little work update.. (What I do to support writers is here)

Because things move around, I have a slot for a manuscript assessment in August. Might it be for you? If your novel or memoir is complete, but somehow not quite there, or if you are getting a lot of form rejections or ‘don’t love it enough’ emails, it might be.

September, October and November are booking up quickly, and I won’t be taking on work for December or January. (Mentoring is the exception to this.) So if you think you might want us to work together, please let me know soon so we can book in what you need.

And - if we are already working together, or have talked about it, please please please feel you can get in touch. I am very much back at my desk, and very happy to hear from you. Work is my solace and joy. (Also, we need to keep Harris in the style to which he has become accustomed.)

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Here is something else I have learned about grief. You cannot strategise your way through it, unless your strategy is (as I realise mine has come to be) ‘I will be as a leaf on a river’.

(I wrote that sort-of jokingly, but I think it’s true. I was going to say I’ll get a tattoo of it but, things being as they are, it’s probably wiser to pop it on a Post-it note. Don’t make any major decisions in the first year, etc.)

Anyway. Grief.

It’s six weeks since BMB died, and at various points I have decided to: join clubs (various), go out every day, never go out again, buy a motorbike, buy a camper van, learn to Lindy-hop******, walk ten miles a day, have a daily timetable with Improving Activities every morning and afternoon. I have thought about my darling Alan and this has made me laugh, made me howl, made me ache, made me smile, made me want to turn to him and tell him something utterly inconsequential that would only be meaningful to the two of us. I have felt as though time has stopped, that I have stopped as time hurtles past me, that I can be happy, that I will never be happy again.

All of these things are true in their moments. (I went to another gig last night, and it remains true that grief can dance.)

And what they add up to is: for now, life is immediate.

Life is to eat, and sleep, and keep breathing, and see what the day brings. To pull up weeds and mow the lawn.

To work, and feel how my brain and heart and imagination can still tell stories in the way they have done for half a century.

To walk Harris through the fields, or along the beach, or round the lake.

To do what brings me pleasure and to honour the things that are important to me.

To allow myself to flow through this unwanted space in my life, and know that what feels right today may not be right for tomorrow.

If you are grieving, please accept my love, and know that I am holding you in the light.

Until next time,

Stephanie x

(Next time will be v v thrilling, because I’m off to London Town for a few days, and will doubtless get v excited about eg cinnamon buns and museums and maybe a yarn shop, you never know.*******)

*the book, not the slug.

**I am a fair-weather football supporter, getting interested once every four years or so

***Also, the cost of loving, a natural process, etc etc sigh

****I think strew, or maybe chucked about, could be better descriptors

*****It’s getting to the point where I think it might eat me

******Might actually do this one

*******We all know.