Rescue me

16/11/12

Only me. Only me that can rescue me, that is. Not that I need (currently) rescue in any physical sense, but emotions are looking a bit like a cartoon drawing of a splat. I have to try and do some straight line thinking, and for that, I'm clearly going to need cake. Good job I have what the itemised receipt from Super U terms “industriele” sized Barre Marbree Cacao cake. Sponge chocolate marble cake to you and me. I promise you it was cheaper to buy it this way.

Many things have been buzzing through my head over the last few days. It's actually been quite a negative time. Firstly I reached a conclusion that this isn't enough. Spending my time riding bikes, walking up hills, living like a skanky feral creature isn't enough. I need purpose, and by 'eck I am trying to find it. I am pressing on with Open Uni – it's not enough. I am writing new poems and reupholstering old ones – it's still not enough. Basically I need some form of a purpose, and I'm coming to the conclusion it has to be a job. Without purpose my world is shrinking and too much importance is being put on things which shouldn't be taking up so much of my world's head space. It's not proportionate, not at all so, my world's belt just tightened and the walls came nearer when I gave up work. So, that's something I'm thinking hard about. Maybe voluntary work, maybe something in a hostel or a bunk house. I'm starting to feel a lack of ties to Manchester too, so anything is possible. This isn't running away from, this is running towards. That's hugely important to me.

Secondly, yesterday was the seven year anniversary of my husband's death. The 15^th November bites me on the arse every year, and I've come to accept it. I wriggle and squirm like a puppy resisting the bath as November approaches every year. I try filling my time, I try not filling my time, I try avoidance, retreat, anything, but this year, I just went with acceptance. Accept that in this area I remain broken, and it's Ok to be like that, really it is, and I just do my best with what I have. So I left Vernet les Bains early doors and started to climb the path to the first refuge of the Pic de Canigou. There is no let up, it is a relentless up, up and more up. Every step is truly upwards, and the route takes you through woodland, along sandy paths, boulder fields, scree, across rivers, the terrain is varied, and the views spectacular. And the sun shone on me once it had risen above the opposite mountains. And on my retreat I placed a stone on the first and highest Cairn I passed in memory of Dave, and in sorrow that he's no longer here. He always used the word “proud” when talking about the things I did, and the things he loved about me. He would have been proud of me now. It was his word, bewildering as I found it, even then I learned to accept it as his ultimate sanction. In a funny way, it's just as well, because it's pretty much his money I'm spending in a really warped way. And I got through yesterday feeling equilibrious. Balanced and OK. Somehow the previous day's lack of purpose had evaporated and I knew that actually most things are not important. Things I thought mattered, perhaps don't. Well, definitely don't. There was an overwhelming feeling of the unmattering of stuff.

Thirdly I was on the verge of several actions, none of which were really determined by any sense of logic, or by asking myself what is it you want, you really want? A gut action was taking me home. I wanted to be home. I had set off northwards wanting to simply be home. I wanted to feel my roots and the ground, I wanted to visit my sister, to go and stay with my friend Cath who would absorb me into her family and remind me I have places and people I belong to. I wanted to belong again, I didn't want to feel adrift.

And something changed too. Plans were made and unmade, and my directions became vague and I realised I wasn't being led by where I, me, I wanted to be. I'd discarded plans with a friend to climb near Monaco, I'd left it too late for Finestrat plans with other folk. I needed a plan, and it needed to belong to me, driven by me and what I wanted. Why hadn't I been doing this all along, what is wrong with me? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and I was simply opening my hand and letting it blow away with the wind, in fact, giving it a helping hand. Fists needed closing. And I need to stop drifting. My head is fighting with my heart somewhat, and they really need to be a team on this.

Which is why I am headed to Chamonix not home.

Oh, and the Rescue Me title bounces through my head from a bit of ancient pop history, sung by some screachy Diva, and it's a reminder that I am properly self contained, and this is a wonderful thing. I have my drive back.