Weary versus Empty

Every day I say I will write. It is the same thing each time I come here and I see my words bouncing back into my eyes. 'Is this all I ever say?' I think to myself. Probably. Since the losing of all the precious photographs and words written but unpublished (not stored either here or in a journal) I have continued to write hesitant notes, in 'Notes' on my phone. Still they sit there, bound and gagged and unable to walk their way here - how? Why? Because of me. This is what I do, I freeze, procrastinate, act dumb, play dumb and hope when I wake up that it's all been a dream and in fact I am a prolific, considered creative. Term time weariness has hit. It hit hard last week actually, I'm still reeling from the impact. Nothing in particular, just the cunning and torturous drip, drip, drip that eventually grinds ones soul down, the more mundane, the more painful almost. Working in education whilst your offspring are still in the education system can be wearing. There is a sense, at times, of never being 'off duty'. Revision, spellings, dyslexia support and strategies, homework reminders, finding of the PE kit, sorting of the uniforms, making of the sandwiches, checking that the shoes are cleaned and polished and tentative asking of the questions to surmise all is well and offspring is not coming to any harm, here, there, anywhere. Most of it already familiar, most of it already iterated to many before leaving the work space. I have to remember though, that I love what I do and that it rewards my sentimental heart that does so like to end the day feeling that I just may have made a difference, even if it is in the smallest of ways. My favourite moment today - blowing up a fantastic drawing of Frankenstein (a contribution for my book review club) to poster size by a pupil whom I least expected it from - his smile when I told him 'This is the perfect start to the day and will make me smile all day long.' So, when I'm running on empty, when I wake up two, three, four times in the night with an unexplained restlessness and stirring, whirring of the heart, when all I really want to do is bake halva flapjacks and our favourite lemon poppy seed muffins, watch all my favourite movies whilst staying in pyjamas all day long, preferably new pyjamas that offer new hope and sense of new beginnings casual enough to not burden in the way that new years resolutions might. 'Not long to go' I whisper to myself and I breathe deeply. The endless dates and lists flash in my mind like flashbacks of nightmares: get back to mum about going for a roast, get back to Kiran about meeting the baby, remind the husband about being out on Friday night, post Sarah's birthday card and ask if it was Ben's 18th a few days ago, check in with Missy, send a birthday message to Mabel, order taxi for my course, take the washing out of the washing machine and hang before bed, stretch before getting into bed. I pause. I think. I start a new list, this one begins 'Do not ...'. Do not read from the phone before bed. Do not have comfort food before bed. Do not drink mulled wine too close to bed time. Do not drink full stop too close to bed time, you get really angry when you need to get up in the night to go to the toilet. Do pray. Do read. Do breathe. Do laugh. Do end the day with I love you's and cuddles. Always. It draws a line through both the weary and the empty.

Moving in the breeze

My absolute favourite times are those when I wake early, creep downstairs without waking my youngest (my shadow) and have some quiet time alone, waking up my mind, my joints, my bones. This is when I finally read. The delicious kind of reading. Uninterrupted. Read in full, with time to research and reflect on what you've read, kind of reading. The heart full, soul fed kind. If I can squeeze in some housekeeping into that 'me time' then all the better. Sometimes, when life has been 'drive you crazy' busy, two loads of washing and a clean toilet before 7am is so very welcome that it makes you glassy eyed. And then, back door wide open, a real coffee freshly made and in hand and the slowness, the realness, of watching the clothes you hung on the line all before 7am moving gently in the breeze, it stirs those glassy eyes once more. The subtle back and forth of the tide in view with the scent of freshly hung washing is mesmerising. Water almost spills from my eyes as I watch the sun dancing on that washing line, casting shadows on the patchy lawn withered by the fun and gusto of my two offspring who frequently disperse their energy out here. The sunshine makes me think of my other half - my fatherland. How I miss him so, like a lump in the throat that will not shift. I hope he misses me as much I do him, I hope? The colder breeze harshly reminds me that the Gold Coast is far from here, the coldness seeping into my bones under bare feet, another tell-tell sign. Once again, the familiar restless is stirring, keeping on waking me suddenly, for weeks now. Less hours slept means less hours needed and so the restlessness grows and grows in strength, metastasising cruelly. The cure? To write. To find alone time. To rest - quietly. To strip back to the simplest of ways. To watch life moving in the breeze, surrendering to the tide. Sometimes, all of this requires silence, abscence, the need to disappear, to disengage. Even if it is just for a short time. I have finally come to understand this as a service to self, 'getting the engine checked' if you will. I hear the whispers, 'Check your engine!' and the whispers prosper and quickly I hear further words ... 'before the internal damage is irreparable'. Irreparable. Broken. Damaged. Hurt. Unworkable. Spent. Before any of this, before the deadline is reached, there is the gasp for breath. So there is quiet, there is stillness and there is writing. This. This. This. And I am greedy for more. Phone calls and messages and texts and demands and reprimands come at me naggingly, like a naughty puppy biting at my heels. Today there is stillness and breathing. In and out. in and out. Swaying, slowly swaying and moving in the breeze.