Thankful for ...

Today I am thankful for:

Waking up to texts from friends
Vegemite
The smell of jasmine everytime I leave the building.
The allium flowering in glorious solitude
The blue eyes of the barrista
Wasabi paste
The borrowed Mountain Hard Wear bag
Sunshine
Sunblock
The sound of tyres on tarmac
Maori muscles
Insect repellant socks

Yes Sir

19/12/12

Spending getting on for 26 hours in airports and in the air gives a girl a lot of thinking time. Dangerous you might think, particularly if paired up with the kindle including a book on mindfulness.

France in some ways was not a positive experience and I came out of it with a bit of a feeling of disgust with myself. My mind gets stuck in spirals, where I try to solve a perceived problem but can't, generally because the thing isn't even a problem. This can go on for days, absorbing me in a pattern of unresolving discomfort. It ain't good.

Mindfulness is interesting. A bit like the French phrase books which reminded me of how much I already had stached in my brain from French O level. Mindfulness reminds me of my Quaker upbringing, and it feels very much a simple reminder of tools I used to have but which now need sharpening or bringing back into use. And because I have the time, I'm following the 8 week course the book suggests. It's about making a commitment to yourself. So the 8 minutes twice a day simple breathing meditation (which I also kind of remember from yoga classes) is taking place for this, the first week. If my brain starts to think of other things (non breathing things), I can simply dispassionately look at each thing, allocate it a sub heading and tell my brain it's OK, it's a feeling not a problem, and it doesn't need to be resolved, and in any case, the brain in “doing” problem solving mode probably just doesn't have the right drivers to be able to deal with the issue. Gently allow it to slip away and assume it will be transient or a conclusion will reach me without the problem solving Alison whittling away at it. It's hard, because I problem solve everything. I'm good at it. And I'm letting it go. Well, a bit.

The sub titles make me smile. I am unkind to myself. The sub titles tend to be “picking at scabs”, “pre-living”, “agitating”, but also encouragingly there's “happy planning” and “contented recollections”.

The “yes Sir” heading is because this is about being fully present in your life. School registers calling insisted you responded yes sir or indeed yes ma'am when your name was called, indicating you are present. And in New Zealand, I am absolutely bloody determined to be present in my own life. Maybe not 100%, but as much as I can muster. This is a once in a lifetime trip, and I've thought about it for 25 years. What I make of it, what I do has to be led by me, and me alone, not that thing of what other people will think or going through the motions. It has to be mine or instead of being something I did after dreaming about for half a lifetime, it will become an opportunity I let slip. It's about me, and for this reason, I confess, I'm minimising the social network details so I don't believe I'm being in any way judged for my choices. I'm doing it. I'm being me, and I'm present in my life.

Yes Sir, reporting in.

No panic

I depart for New Zealand on Monday.  At 5:30am to be precise.  I know this because I have just booked my airport taxi.  I have also packed my cabin  bag complete with insurance documents, NZ currency, in flight entertainment (kindle, open uni books).  My main rucksack is standing next to me looking as though it absolutely definitely contains quite enough stuff.  To add anything more will take a deliberate decision.  There is only so much a girl can carry.

So, am I in panic mode?  Well, to an extent yes, there are butterflies in my stomach and I'm having to resort to the age old mind game where whenever I think to myself "I'm scared" I convert it into going no, I'm excited. 

Panic manifests itself in displacement behaviour for me.  That's why I'm updating blogger ... ...

Perfect Day

Folk have asked me what the best bit of my French travels was.  It's a weird question because my life, fundamentally is made of people, and the best experiences always have other people in them.  That's just the way it is.  So it's been an interesting question and thought provoking for me.

The answer has to be L'Aiguillette des Houches walking day.  French walking was something so fresh and new to me.  An environment which just made me giggle, so ludicrous were the randonnees suggested in guidebooks and leaflets, so liberating in comparison to the UK 50 walks in the peak style publication.  The terrain so varied, and the joyful inclusion of things which in the UK would probably be prohibited in some way or fenced off or fenced in for health and safety reason.  The walking was just such a huge joy.  Even without someone to share the hilarity with, I giggled and smiled and grinned my way along.

L'Aiguillette took me along a fairly simple approach route involving up and up and up through woodlands and then pastureland and then foothills until I arrived at a snowy ridge walk.

The steep slope approaching was reasonably well trodden, so much so that compacted ice was pretty frequent, and I briefly toyed with getting the crampons out of the day sack.  But instead did a measured and persevering plod of considered nature to arrive at the top.  Walking along the ridge in the snow was kind of hairy.  The sides were steep, the ridge was narrow, and the drop was immense.  Consequences were clearly high.  But although slow, I'm relatively sure footed and cautious, and walked along to the end of the ridge to sit on the map case and eat the obligatory baguette and cheese lunch, aware of walkers approaching and able to see on another two micro peaks around me, other walkers similarly sat eating lunch.  An odd kind of solitude mixed with cameraderie.  An acknowledgement that this was a beautiful day and a beautiful place to be. After all, just look at that blue sky.  And a raven joined me for lunch.

I then bimbled along to the next peak of the walk, ready for the descending traverse which would take me to the next landmark on the list, a refuge.

I spoke to a group of French walkers, with much of my vocab being pointing (to the map, they wanted to know where I'd been, I was interested to know where they'd been).  They seemed surprised to find someone using a map out there on the French hills.  And we agreed that it was all magnifique.  Because that's a word I can use in French.

The descending traverse was interesting.  As I looked at the map, consulted the compass, used the sign posts, I kind of realised the route I was taking was perhaps not the most popular of the day, not taking you along the ridge but behind it so that the descent at the end of the day wouldn't just be a repeat of the morning ascent route but a proper circle.  And I set off into virgin snow, compass held in front of me like a divining rod, feet sinking into snow, well, knees, actually at times.  And I felt a) brave and b) incredibly competent and c) within my comfort zone. Out there in the French mountains, in a featureless snowy landscape I felt safe, me, my map and my compass.  And that weird thing which sometimes happens on your own where you feel randomly playful, and yes, I can say the word ... happy took place.

The giddy high spirits of a five year old kicked in.  And eventually there were multiple tracks of other walkers who although invisible, had also made their tracks through the snow, and there were decisions on directions and much consulting of the compass.  The beautiful feeling of serenity and peace just kept on living.

The refuge was achieved with a sense of accomplishment and the appreciation of where I'd come from, where I was going and how far I'd been was one of those moments where you feel your heart, lungs and mind just swelling and filling with that moment.  And again I talked to French folk, who excitedly advised me of what I was going to find on the next stage of the journey.

These boys.

And so many things made it a perfect day.  The dream like quality of the woodland approach, the technical issue of ascending on ice, a knife edge ridge challenge in the snow, the navigational interest, the depth of the snow, the chattiness of the French, the unexpected joy of the Ibex.

Perfect day.

Normandy Landings

1/12/12

In case I felt the need for a sense of perspective, I've now had one imposed upon me. I spent some happy hours this morning in that near to meditative state you can get into on the road bike, simply bowling along the lanes towards and around Camembert. Out of saddle only once and otherwise simply undulating in the freezing sunshine. Feet were something estranged from the rest of me, trying to tell me something about the cold but I wasn't really tuning into them. Just hearing the tyres on tarmac, and my breathing in the chill air. The ride started (and finished) at a site related to the history of the German invasion. A retreating French tank had made it as far as the town, before something had gone wrong. The French then disabled their own tank, rendering it unusable by the enemy, and it sat there and now is a protected site of French heritage. I parked next to it, feeling that sense of strangeness about being British next to something fundamental to the French National identity.

Shimmied onwards and northwards, unexpectedly diverting to pay a visit to the Canadian war graves. A lot of August 1944 deaths on the stones, and surprisingly many of the men were mature adults, probably family men, in their 30s. They didn't have to be there, they'd have been exempt I suspect from conscription. I'm not really sure how much of the Canadian forces were volunteer. It felt oddly alien the thought that these men from a different continent had come to France to fight for some slightly removed concept of freedom. Well, removed to me, not presumably to them. Freedom, eh? Or patriotism. Or for what's right. Or liberty. Concepts so intangible I feel slightly brain tight just trying to comprehend. Maybe that's because I have liberty, I can't picture it not being there.

And I carried on to Courseulles sur Mer and on again to Arromanches. Walking on the beaches there is an odd experience. It's not a living museum, but there's something a) tainted and b) nostalgic and somehow c) unnerving about walking on the beaches. Because we all know a teeny bit about the misery, about the sorrow, the men who died there for this intangible thing we think of as liberty. Do I feel any pride in being British, and what in theory our nation did for the alliance. Not really. It wasn't me, and if it happened now, I'd be torn about what was right. Does it after all matter who governs which people and which land? I don't have answers, just questions. And a sense of perspective which I didn't go looking for.

Adieu France

02/12/12

Someone far wiser than me said something along the lines of it's only when you're leaving that a country truly reveals itself to you. Well, it's not quite true, but the sentiment's pretty cool, eh?

It's only as I'm leaving that I am revealed to myself. There are things about me I've found out while I've been a stranger in a strange land which I'm not entirely pleased about. Things I need to consider and indeed change. Will travelling change me? I really hope so. In fact, with some thought, there are some things about me I actually find abhorrent and am slightly ashamed of. I thought I was better than that. Humbled a little by this revelation.

And in some weird way, today I am Cobalt whereas yesterday I was Turquoise. I'm beautiful, I have depth, and warmth and solitude. I am Cobalt, see me smile. I'm finally rediscovering reading. Happy with a book, a blanket and a never ending supply of coffee and Carrefour mint & eucalyptus sweeties. I'm reading, finally. I used to be a heavy reader, but with Dave's death my ability to focus on books left me. Truly, as a teenager during summer holidays I could happily withdraw six books from the library every other day, walking the mile and a half journey there and then back again to do so. Funny how loss changes you. My concentration powers left me, and I lost books for a long time.

Funny too how more meandering through war relics has affected me. Pondering the loss of life, 2000 men at one point injured or dying on the beaches. And suddenly I was saying to myself, Alison, this really terrible thing happened to you. Dave died, loving you right to the end, he died, he got a brain tumour, went through nine months of living on earth hell, and he died. That was a terrible thing that happened, and it wasn't just to him, it was to you. Someone you still love and who loved you until the end died. It was terrible. And it was. Terrible. I used to confine myself to thinking it was something terrible which had happened to Dave. I blocked out me. Everything was all about him during those months. Oh, and it was my living hell as well as his. I don't often admit that, not just to other folk, but not even to me. But death of loved ones is brutal and horrific and life ending, and it changes you.

I've realised even with time away, I can't miss people. I don't miss people. Because they haven't died, they are still there and will still be there. That gaping bloody gasping vacuum of loss just doesn't figure when people inhabit the same sphere as you. And if I let it, it does still suck me into its jagged void because the pain of missing Dave dwells under my surface. A terrible thing happened to me. It did.

And I have somehow come full circle from the Scottish beach where I realised I don't have to run any more. Now I'm on a French beach, the sun has set and the lights are twinkling on the other side of the harbour. And I'm not running. And it's a fitting farewell to France.

Forget Forever

Example has made his way to the top of my CD playlist in the van today. We've had all sorts, but his albums merit playing over and over and over again. Live today, forget forever.

Today and yesterday I've been bouldering at Fontainebleau “The Font” to its followers. It is a Mecca for those of the bouldering persuasion. A strange lot of people. The kind of climbers who have discovered there is a way to be solitary in their chosen sport, and for whom it seems to take on a religious significance, the pushing of the grades. They are focussed, intense, and none of it makes sense. Of course it can be social, and that way of course your sessions can be longer and meandering. Alone it is purely you and the rock, and your efforts to find a way to scale the small but testing “route”. I confess I tend to think of the more intense ones as those who are “up themselves” but that's my prejudice and possibly envy coming through.

Yesterday I bimbled, scared of falling, scared of getting lost, scared of making a fool of myself somehow. Today though, I bouldered. Many a controlled fall, more like sliding off than full on crashing to the earth experiences, although a few heavy landings on my feet took place, my bum remained roughly speaking in the air at all times. It was interesting. I learned my level, I learned how polished the foot holds in particular are, and I learned that perhaps a bouldering mat should have a place in my future. I've already been sussing out the van possibilities, losing a couple of seat cushions, perhaps to be replaced by the bouldering mat which would then need to form part of a bed. Perhaps some kind of memory foam topper would bring it up to the same level as the other third of the mattress and make it comfortable. Or do they do semi inflatable bouldering mats or could I replace the roof bed by making the cavity contain the bouldering mat instead. There are options. We shall see.

And the rocks are weathered, very weathered and have been there for ever, before folk placed coloured dots on them and made them into a playground for the intrinsically idle (I resemble that comment). And there's a sense of forever.

Time is playing tricks on me. I'm aware my time in France is ebbing away now, almost grain by grain in the hourglass it's sliding southwards while I drive northwards. And it's weird because time has changed. When I was married we had plans. There were timescales on things. The house, for example was meant to be made saleable and sold within 5 years to find somewhere with more storage space for Dave's crap. I've now been there 12, 7 of those alone. We were saving up too, the dream of buying a narrowboat to cruise Britain's canals. That had long term written all over it. There was a hint of a retirement plan, some 20 – 30 years in the future. I cared about both our pension arrangements. Now I won't plan. I don't know if I can, I really don't think I want to. Because there's an overwhelming sense of “it doesn't matter” surrounding me, submerging me. I feel like the sense of “it doesn't matter” is shrouding me in candyfloss, and yet not threatening at all. Why would it, because it really doesn't matter.