The days are getting longer, there is a small streak of apricot light low on the horizon around sunset and I feel the connection again, to the natural world around me. But oh, that cold frosty air.

All my life, winter was a hard time, physically, a struggle to keep warm outside and always overdressed indoors.
My childhood winters seemed endless and were cluttered with toboggans, ill fitting ice skates, skies stacked at the back door in a messy tangle of poles and bits of bindings sticking out. In winter, there was always too much to watch out for, too many things to put on hands and feet and head and trying not to lose any of it before the day was over. The exciting races on the frozen canals and carp ponds more than once ended in the discovery that some boys had filled our boots with water and so we were forced to walk home on skates and face my mother, furious because we were late and what did you do to the boots!
In my late teenage winters I wore one of my grandmother's moth eaten fur coats, cut off at waist length and button-less. Waiting for the bus in the mornings, I tried to keep warm wrapping the long hand-knitted scarf - a must have - around myself and smoking too many cigarettes. One day, a brand new dufflecoat, navy and with the correct type of toggles, was waiting for me at home. My mother never said a word. And neither did I.

My mother had a strict regimen of hand-me-downs for clothing and shoes, for mending and darning, stopping ladders in nylon tights with clear nail polish and forever letting down hems. She would sit in the kitchen, furiously unravelling sweaters and cardigans we had outgrown and later, my sister and I fought over the balls of wool to knit yet more scarves.

Once a year, the kitchen table was covered with piles of worn nylon stockings which my mother would cut into long strips (on the bias, mind you) and roll up into fat bundles. These were sent off to the Bethel Institution - a place my mother would never set foot in. Some time later, strangely shaped plaited rugs arrived in the mail, their sickly pale brown nylon hues static to the touch. One or two of them would eventually find a place  in the garage to mop up grease. But as for the rest of them?

Once an item of clothing had finally, at last, outgrown its use, my mother carefully cut off all buttons, eyelet hooks, toggles, buckles, unpicked stitches that held zippers. The buttons were stored in old biscuit tins, in fact they still are. I have three of them here in this room. I played with these buttons, my daughter played with them as did (and still do) visiting children.
The zippers, however, we threw out, seven large bin bags, upstairs in the spare bedroom, when we moved her to the apartment she hated so much.

My mother was not a collector, she had no interest in old buttons. I don't think she ever reused a single zipper.
But, the war, you see. The war. That's what you did in the war.

midwinter is in the past

2015, all innocent

The river  burst its banks three days ago and this lunchtime, the water level reached orange alert  with red alert forecast for tonight. Like all good citizens, we duly made our way to see it with our very own eyes. Let no disaster happen without crowds to witness.
It was as expected, ducks and swans showing off their best plumage, a couple of canoeists paddling along where some eight meters below, we would normally cycle. Only the NE wind was icy cold.

In the morning, I can hear a timid dawn chorus, the days are getting longer, so R reassures me.

At nights when exhaustion has me in its tight wrap, I lie in the deep silence and although I cannot see the moon directly, I watch the blue light, the way it shimmers and shivers along the walls and across the ceiling and this longing for life comes over me, like an urge from deep inside of me that I had almost forgotten existed. 

Irish word of the day

Iarmhaireacht 
the loneliness felt at cock-crow
(pronunciation here)


I cannot speak a word of Irish, which is the official language of Ireland, in use - so to speak - at least for the last 2,500 years, outlawed by the British in the 19th century, an act that eventually, during the fight for independence in the 20th century, lead to the modern era Celtic Revival including a sudden deep interest in the Irish language. So, thank you Britain.

All I know is trivia, that there are no Irish words for yes or no, but at least three for woman. Also, three different sets of numbers, one for humans, one for non-humans and one for the maths.

My Irish family can speak Irish, some better than others, some mumble along if need be. Most of them have complicated Irish names like Caoilfhoinn, Rionagh, Eavan, Aoife, Oisin, Tadgh - and these do not even include what my man's R stands for or our daughter's S, but both are equally mysterious.
My Irish family has a great time listening to non-Irish speakers trying to pronounce their names. They all hated  - more or less - having to learn Irish at school and university where it was compulsory. R had to sit his Irish exam twice before he was allowed to teach science.
My Irish family couldn't give a damn whether anybody speaks Irish or not as long as they speak up and share what's bothering them.

As for cock-crow, this is the time in very early morning when it begins to get light.  Just in case.

Whereas loneliness is up for individual definition.
But when you bung it all together, cock-crow, loneliness, early morning, a distant single bird waking up with a chirp, your lack of sleep, the human silence everywhere, that big knot of fear in your stomach, an inconspicuous little box of dreadful drugs on the bedside table, there's that one word for it in Irish. Just in case.


Ancient Irish traditional tune in support of my post:

Every morning I get up charged with another load of enthusiasm, or rather, I carefully turn from my back to one side and lift my body en-bloc to crawl out of the bed that R has raised (using four small concrete blocks) to the level recommended by the trauma surgeon.

I am half way through the six weeks of life as a stranded beetle and well, let's be patient. The stitches are out, the wound is healing. I am shaky and shattered. Of course I wonder if there is something else going on, after all that's my strength, waiting for signs of the volcano to erupt and yes, there are some signs.  But generally, I am fed up to my teeth of having to lie flat on my back - for another 21 nights, after which I should be better equipped to handle another autoimmune flare.

Sometimes I do dramatic things like standing upright for a much too short while with my laptop resting on a pile of books so that I can edit a paper on chronic liver disease management, or I slowly walk downstairs and make coffee and microwave-cheat chocolate brownies, followed by a brief walk through the winter silence of the garden.

There are tiny moments of amazing rest and clarity, when I see it all before me, recovery and so on. But mostly and despite my careful attempts of regular patterns (shower, relaxation, reading, tea and hours and hours of online tv)  I am swirling through chaos. Well, at least there's a certain because surely we all know that there is no way to order chaos. Nothing can be charted, ordered and predicted.

I sent the man out to show me that the world is still waiting for me and he came back with fresh fruit and this reassuring picture.

Waiting. I am tired. So tired that I fall asleep sitting up, for a half minute, enough to jerk my head upright when a clanging noise, a cold breeze, whatever, wakes me up again. I want to look smart and presentable when the doctors knock and walk in with their white coats swishing.
Ever since breakfast I have been imagining what I'll do once they discharge me - which they have done by now or this post would not be up. The taxi ride through the cold and sunny Friday morning, searching for the house keys and stepping into the warmth of my messy kitchen. Putting on the kettle and sitting on the old leather sofa, wrapped in two blankets, looking out into the garden with a steaming cup in my hands and the newspaper on my lap. On the window sill, the first little pots are basking in the sun. We'll start with the peppers, R told me last night.

Not looking at the lab report from hell. Not yet.

To think that somewhere on these pages with their secret codes, the bold red type indicating where my blood sample failed to remain within the reference ranges, a hidden message may be waiting.
I am kidding myself. It jumped at me as soon as I got the print out and hastily I folded it and stuffed it in my overnight bag. I can see it with my eyes closed and I wish I would be ignorant, that nobody ever told me about transaminases and inflammation markers and all that shit.

Anyway. Spring is on its way somewhere. Get a move on, hear me.

Ottorino Respighi: Ancient Airs and Dances

you have no idea how cold it was

that and the fact that I packed it in after 10 km and slowly crawled back into the hotel with all the mod cons and the minibar and the terrific breakfast choices - and yet, I haven't felt more alive in weeks

letting things fall apart, letting the world come as it is 

Pema Chödrön

Cycling for 40 mins home in the dark, first the forest, no moon, not a sound, just heavy rain, then down the hill and into the city, icy drops on my face and the obnoxious swishing noises from my not-anymore-waterproof gear, the drivers who come too close in their fat cars, who forget to indicate, who try and push me off the road. Note: try, not succeed because I roar at them, cursing and hissing I move through the evening traffic. At home I peel off the muddy layers trying to find my solid self underneath and fail, shaking and weeping and tired, my gums shot to pieces, at least I hope it's just the gums - she said to wait for it to calm down, maybe a week. If not, we'll try and save that tooth, promise, she said. Don't ask me how I slept, don't ask about the gastritis pains at 4 am. At least I got to hear the blackbirds before sunrise. My sister calls to discuss possible procedures re our father. Wishful thinking. I want to put down the phone. We cannot lock him in, he is convinced he does not have osteoporosis. Yesterday, he said to me, sod the tests, ignorant young doctors, what do they know.

Most of all, I want to be rid of that tooth ache or whatever it is. As for the rest, I can handle it. I think. Maybe.

Lot's of oh dears fuck this. Back at work, that's the good thing. Whereas cycling in the cold air, uphill etc. through the windy forest, was probably unwise considering the feeling of someone sandpapering my bronchioles - thoroughly - since I got back.

Snowdrops and crocus are up but that won't do. I want spring. Now.
Too early, yes I know. 

My father's bruised back has turned out be a lumbar fracture requiring surgery. He tried his best to act haughty and superior during his week in hospital but his voice sounded like that of a lost child. Today, of course, all this has passed as he lectured me over the phone on the future plans which basically involve him learning to walk unaided again. He is most confident that this will be achieved by mid March as he has tickets booked for operas and whatnots. His female friends here and there may get impatient. And no, no walking aid. Certainly not.
I want to admire his resilience and his arrogance. He could just as easily pack it in, like the next best 86 year old with mobility issues, read the papers, get meals-on-wheels and watch tv.  That would be the easy option for us, I know.
I remember my granny just before she died (a few weeks before her 103rd birthday). When I phoned her she used to confuse me with one of her daughters-in-law. Once I tried to correct her but she cut me short. That girl is too young to make phone calls, she said. Stop pretending.
That was twenty years ago, and I don't remember now whether she told me over the phone or someone else who then called me, but one day she decided that this was her last walk, that from now on she will stay indoors. She went to bed and died that night.
My father was her youngest, an unwanted afterthought. There was never much love between them or between him and his father, but he was dearly loved by his siblings, who all died in their early 50s. So those two, mother and son, had to battle it out for long years all alone. Sometimes, this makes me so sad, other times it explains a lot. But mostly it's just a confusing mess.
I know that I try to push my idea of family onto him. He fights it mostly. But as long as I come with a cake or some other treats, he'll open the door.

Really, I should know by now how to handle this. The usual waiting and observing, patiently, gently and with a positive mindset. In theory.

Actually, I am so much better at it. I think I am. I try to. Many people have suffered from a nasty cough and a touch of bronchitis with chest pain and all that exhaustion. Just because I have this autoimmune shit doesn't mean that it's something else. 

Ok, thinking back I can count the times I had anything as heavy as this on the fingers of one hand but obviously, I mean immune suppression, just use your brain, silly woman. 

Well yes, I do realise that this disease likes to dig into the lungs but hell, not my lungs. I am just slowly recovering from a nasty bout of bronchitis. So there.

Oh, and that snow from yesterday? Gone. Washed away by the rain. And the wind will carry me.

It started to snow just after breakfast. Quite a lot, really. But by tomorrow afternoon it will be gone. I am certain. Occasionally, I look outside and it's still there, unfortunately. Seriously, 24 hours, not a minute longer. I am telling you.
Meanwhile, twelve amaryllis are budding and flowering indoors. Take that, winter, you brute, you!

This is day five of antibiotics and rest and where is the fucking recovery? Shush! Of course it's happening, only in such tiny steps that you need to put on your magnifying glasses to see it. What did you expect?!

Easy does it. I should know. Champing at the bits is a waste of precious energy.

Cycling through the dark forest after work. I am the only person on this planet. The cold wind finds a tiny spot somewhere below my scarf into my zipped up parka crawling along my chest. The tyres make loud swishing noises when I hit unseen puddles. The clouds open up and the moon shines on me and me alone. Here I go, my hands are freezing, chronic gastritis gnawing away at my stomach, something painful going on between my bladder and my inflamed intestines, cold tears running from my eyes to my ears, my hands are freezing inside the latest thermal gloves, I am 57 years old. I am racing through the dark silent forest with the moon shining on me and me alone. I am a miracle. I am the only person on this planet.

The sudden snow has thankfully disappeared for a while - I love long term weather apps - and there has been only a tiny touch of frost. I can handle that.

We drove through the cold sunny valley mostly in silence, looking, occasionally pointing out a view.

I am starting this new year in a low mood. Or maybe not. It's life, it's complicated, is it really? The nagging regrets, what have I ever done to deserve this and so on. Oh, the injustice, the outrage, the self pity. 

How could life take away so much from me? My health, my happiness and so on. 

While at the same time I am fully aware, i.e not really that stupid (she hopes), to realise that life has done nothing wrong, has taken nothing from me. Life just goes on, changes and meanders like that godawful river we are unable to step into twice or whatever.

No, the mood is not really low, I take that back. The mood is moody. I start the morning with a talk to my inner teenager about patience and enthusiasm and compassion and soon enough, this eventually turns into a trial run of stepping back and observing and letting things be. Whatever it takes to hold back the deluge. 

A trial run, mind you. Let's wait and see. No promises.

-->

All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better. What if they are a little coarse, and. you may get your coat soiled or torn? What if you do fail, and get fairly rolled in the dirt once or twice? Up again; you shall never be so afraid of a tumble.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Once again, I have too many holidays left to continue working. It's absurd, I know. But there are apparently nine working days stacked up that I am entitled to not work before the end of the year and even if I wanted to, the paperwork alone would be bizarre. Being a public service employee is like living on another planet.

And because R is already on holidays, we have plenty of time now to argue about who should cook or do the laundry or should we invite people for dinner and when and who should cook then and so on.

Plus, we sleep in longer and longer every morning and mess around doing nothing most of the day and sometimes talk about all the stuff we could do and before you know it, it's dark and time to argue about who should cook dinner. 

So it was with great effort that I went into town and while I did spend a good two to three hours walking around the xmas markets with all the cute and crafty things and the tourists and the mulled wine and waffles smells, pretending to shop - I bought one tiny box of fancy gingerbread cookies for a friend - and a half hour in a crowded cafe reading the papers, I felt out of place, completely and utterly. There was nothing, nothing, nothing that enticed me one bit. In an effort, I looked through an entire display of fancy bed sheets, pure organic cotton in myriad shapes and colours, and all I could think was, who needs this stuff?  I walked past a stall selling about 45 types of French nougat and almost ran when this nice woman offered me samples. Ok, I don't like nougat but still.

On my way home, I briefly stopped at my favourite bookshop but I never even locked the bicycle. A lost day for consumerism at least as far as I am concerned. 

embrace it

What a grey day. I drive to work because I am too scared to cycle home in the dark with the threat of icy cycle paths. The car radio catapults me straight back to the big old house, dancing on a Thursday evening to Top of the Pops with a toddler on my hip. Oh, the mushy lyrics of 1980s Brit pop. 

It starts to snow, big wet flakes disintegrating on the wet roads. Awful stuff. Waiting at a traffic light, I count how many weeks to midwinter, to spring equinox. I never liked this season. I never will.

Later, R tells me of his new colleagues from far away places who ran outside dancing and shouting while the locals looked on in disbelief. This is not real snow, folks.

Work is a mess, I try and find some balance, try to calm down a few angry moods, try and sort out a chaotic situation that needs more attention than I can offer. For a moment, I want to walk away, banging my door, cursing. But while I could do (and have done so often enough) this at home, the person I am at work would never do anything like it. The person I am at work runs after the angry intern and listens to her complaints and helps her to think she has found the solution all by herself.

On fb I watch Pema Chödrön talking to a dolled up Oprah (what's with that lip gloss?) about opening our heart. Compassionate abiding. Simple.

And in my inbox I find this Pema quote:

In Tibetan Buddhism there’s a set of teachings for cultivating compassion called mind training, or lojong. One of the lojong teachings is, “Whichever of the two occurs, be patient.” This means if a painful situation occurs, be patient, and if a pleasant situation occurs, be patient. This is an interesting point. Usually, we jump all the time; whether it’s pain or pleasure, we want resolution. So if we’re happy and something is great, we could also be patient then, and not fill up the space, going a million miles an hour—impulse shopping, impulse talking, impulse acting out.

So it did catch up with me. Somewhat. The cold, frost even, the dark. That November. Unraveling in bits here and there. Various infections, eyes, joints, a nasty case of tendonitis with a fetching limp, the gastritis, obviously. 

First thing in the morning before getting up I now have to stick a couple parts back on that must have broken off during the night, like one of the paper cut-out dolls that S used to play with. 

Of course it's nothing to do with November but it adds a dramatic effect and, oh dear, do I have a thing for drama.

I tell you what it is. Tedious, it's tedious. Repetitive, this three-steps-forward-two-steps-back pattern. Or maybe it's the other way around. Same difference. Never mind. Yawn.

No, I am not (yet?) gone all blasé about it. It seems, though, that right now there is only one trick left in my magic box of coping skills: expect nothing. Which offers its own beauty because it allows me to just be.

Occasionally, there's a tiny spark of stupid sarcasm, very briefly illuminating that vast boring November greyness, such as this example of fb wisdom: Love is like a fart. If you have to force it, it's probably shit.

Replace love with life and you get the idea. Expect nothing.

It's hard to believe we are half way through November already. This morning, R picked a bowl of fresh raspberries and the roses are at it for the fourth (fifth?) time. You could almost start to love climate change.

At the local farmer's market today I got involved in a conversation about old apple varieties. Thanks to my grandmother's orchard and my father's insistence of teaching his kids that apples had proper names I could contribute my fair share. The tiny, almost wrinkled apples in the picture are a variety that was first cultivated in the 19th century by a German nobleman and social reformer. They are juicy, sweet and high in vit c and they have a dedicated fan club. Apparently, there are only a few trees left which explains why they are sold out in one morning. I guess the fan club has a secret messaging system because they were all there, oohing and aahing and discussing colour and size. Generously, I was allowed to purchase one kilo. 

One of these days I will eat one. At least I hope so. Before I forget that there is a culinary life beyond porridge, dry toast and fennel tea. Some days, I dare to drink the odd cup of milky coffee or stupidly eat a tiny portion of risotto rice with pumpkin - at a price (see below). I have now been told that most likely it's a mechanical issue plus chronic gastritis. While both of which are here to stay, more or less, I still have hopes that modern medicine will eventually soon find novel ways to successfully recover my digestive system at least for periods of time long enough to try out all the recipes I have been bookmarking in the last fortnight. 

Meanwhile, I got a couple of prescriptions, painkillers, heavy duty PPIs, and good old antispasmodics. Donkey's years ago I took that stuff for really bad period pain. Stupidly, I mentioned this to my new GP and she had to laugh and we started to talk about childbirth and labour and when she asked me why I only had one child, I told her about what happened in 1993 and she cried out and held both of my hand for a while which was slightly embarrassing.

Anyway, these drugs are not really working which is why I am now sitting here in the darkest night missing my cat and listening to this wonderful talk about psilocybin therapy. Believe me, I want it. Now.

It seems to me that there is a great mystery embedded within human consciousness, a mystery that I think that we are all aware of at some fundamental even primitive level, having something to do with this quest to understand who we are, the essence of life, perhaps with this deep knowing that at some level we're all in this together.

November. Not my time of the year, I could say.

It is ridiculous, really. Because I give into a mood, it's quite the thing to do. 

Oh oh November, I always get depressed in November, people tell me. Before I know it, I wake up and I think, November, am I depressed? And well, let's blame it all on this damp month with bare trees and wind and the dark evenings.

The little cat is dead, we went to the vet and he did the thing. It was dark and raining hard by the time we got home and while R dug the hole in the back of the garden, I washed the floors and got rid of the litter box and all the rest. 

Then the basement started to smell. We actually had a fight over who was going to check behind the stacked flower pots for maybe a dead mouse or worse and yes, it was pouring by then. Whatever it was, it just disappeared. I think.

Quite appropriately, R started to investigate his pension situation in what, three-four years and oh my goodness, we are going to be skint. Absolutely. And that is before tax. So now, we snarl at each other and I cannot sleep and really, I feel like a right fool. Because we always knew and we more than once managed with even less when we were young and wild (and healthy). We can always sell the house, R shrugs. But we both know how that will hurt. Or maybe not. Go to sleep, he tells me, no use thinking about it now.

A quite popular writer and poet here used to have this daily newspaper column, on the last page of one of the more radical national papers, where he would write a little ditty about current affairs, corrupt politicians or anything else that he wanted to get off his chest. So he wrote this little poem about November, how miserable and grey it is and what a waste of time and let's get rid of it and so on. 

Next day, the paper published a letter from a seven year old boy, complaining about giving November a bad name. And he listed all the great things November has to offer: leaves to mess about, raincoats and mittens and scarves to wear, puddles to jump into, hot cocoa to drink when you get home and so on. 

And of course, your man had to rewrite his poem and he did. And I have it all somewhere, the first poem, the letter and the second poem. I cut it all out and had a good laugh. Because, here's the thing: midwinter is only seven weeks away. Time flies. Before we know it we'll be old and poor.

This is it what it will be like for the next four months, dark. Probably mostly wet, hopefully not too much ice and snow but things have been changing, winters have become unpredictable in this mild river valley.

I really want two handsome and strong torch bearers to run ahead of me when I cycle home after work through the dark forest. All afternoon I tell myself that I will take the road, never mind the detour, the tram lines, the traffic lights, the big black cars without indicators etc. but then I go out there into the dark bicycle lock-up and I feel like some sort of Arctic explorer and by the time reason hits me it's too late. I am in the dark tunnel with the dripping dark trees, the path covered in slippery leaves. And I tell myself that nobody in their right mind - and certainly no creep or criminal - would want to be here, getting wet waiting to attack a lone middle aged female cyclist. At times, I have to sing at the top of my voice just to make sure that all the ghosts and fairies get the message, too. Mostly, I just curse my stupid stubborn self.

Another stormy day. I cycled for about two hours, leaning into the wind, pushing and forcing myself to be fit and healthy, my hands and face stinging with the cold air. Now of course I am exhausted, my arms and legs like lead.

When I met my immunologist last Friday she would not hear my polite pleas of lowering or maybe - please - try to go without one or even two of the cocktail ingredients. She explained it all very nicely but still. There are days when I really really want to be the fool who believes it's all in my head. After all that time, yes.

There is always the option risk to close in on myself, like a soft animal withdrawing into a small, dark tunnel. Nursing my fears, my losses, my ill health. Well, it's November, what do you expect. My sister has been going on about it for weeks, with every hour less of daylight she prepares herself for mental breakdown. But what if it doesn't happen this winter, I want to ask her. What if everything will be fine for a change? Maybe we are completely sane!

Someone mentioned last week, as a sort of by the way thing, that death is really easy, that he is not afraid of it at all because people all over the world manage it. Sick and healthy, stupid and clever, young and old, rich and poor, and so on. And for a split second I had this reassuring sensation that maybe even I will eventually achieve some form of calm and age appropriate insights. 

Whatever. But not yet.