Beltane - Or Not?

Cherry Blossom

Despite all my good intentions and determination to build a better 'normal', once again life got in the way of any Beltane celebrations this year. Although I am mostly only working a two-day week at the moment, this week was a busy one. We attended a funeral on Monday (one of my usual work days), and I worked Tuesday, Wednesday (in lieu of Monday and as holiday cover for a colleague), and Saturday. At the same time, IB had started a new job and had a training day on Tuesday and his first shifts Thursday and Saturday. As we're sharing a car between us, this caused some inconveniences such as arriving in Carmarthen two hours before I was due to start work one morning (pro-tip: take a good book). There was also a fair bit of sewing between work shifts to ensure IB's new uniforms fitted him! One afternoon I took groceries over to my elderly parents, and one evening family and friends got together via a Zoom call to celebrate my brother and sister-in-law's 21st Wedding Anniversary. 

With all this going on, it only occurred to me late one evening that the next day was Beltane, making me feel like a Very Bad Pagan Indeed. The next day we were going to have to be up super-early (IB's new job, car-sharing...) so I decided I might at least get the chance for a quick wander in the garden to wash my face in the Beltane dew before we left. Except, there was no dew. It was an unseasonably cold night and there was a sharp frost instead. I briefly wondered if the warmth of my hands would melt the frost into dew fit for face-washing, but my arthritic joints winced in horror at the very thought. So that was that.

Later on, back home after work I saw a friend had posted on Facebook that he really wasn't feeling that it was Beltane yet this year. Some people disagreed, but many were saying the same thing - and I realised I felt the same way too. It wasn't just the busy week leading up to Beltane that had sprung the festival on me - I'm not feeling it just yet. It could be to do with the unusually cold weather we're having at the moment. None of my seedlings in the vegetable patch have faired very well and I'm still too scared to plant out my tomato plants in the greenhouse because the nights are so cold. There's no hawthorn blossom in the hedges yet - and although it's often a bit late here at Halfway up a Hill, it's usually to be seen in abundance elsewhere by now. The cherry trees are blossoming abundantly (as always) but the apple blossom remains tightly budded for now. Worst of all, we don't yet have any swallows or martins. I saw my first swallows quite early this year, at my parents' house on 1st April (I usually expect them some time during the second week of April). Even though my parents only live less than 15 miles away, so far no swallows or martins have found their way to us. I have merely seen glimpses of a few at a time, passing through on their way to somewhere presumably a bit warmer. 

The date on the calendar may say it's Beltane then, but many of the seasonal signs are missing. So is it Beltane or not? I'm thinking yes - and no. There are a few different issues to be examined when it comes to determining the date of Beltane. The Solstices and Equinoxes are a much simpler matter, tied in as they are to the cycles of the sun. Although their exact dates vary slightly from year to year, they mark very precise moments in time that can be accurately predicted in advance. The sun is either at its maximum or minimum declination on the Solstices (marking the longest or shortest day), and the Equinoxes occur when the sun is positioned above the Equator and day and night are of equal length. The cross-quarterly festivals - Beltane, Lughnasadh, Samhain and Imbolc - are positioned roughly halfway between the Solstices and Equinoxes but are more concerned with the Earth's vegetation cycle. So it perhaps makes sense to judge their arrival from the cues given by the natural world. Snowdrops at Imbolc, hawthorn blossom at Beltane, the first grain harvest at Lughnasadh, the onset of winter at Samhain. It seems likely to me that in the days before clocks, calendars and electric light, people would have celebrated these festivals at the first full moon after they saw the cues given by nature. Everyone would have known which was the night of the full moon, and its light made gathering together easier. So in those days, I suspect Beltane would have been celebrated on the first full moon after the hawthorns began to blossom (or whatever the seasonal cue was for your part of the world). The advantage of this is keeping you sensitive to your environment and its changes. The obvious disadvantage is that seasonal signs can vary quite widely within a relatively small distance - the swallows having returned to my parents but not yet to me is a prime example. It also makes planning celebrations ahead of time much trickier than for the reliably predictable Solstices and Equinoxes.

This is where the invention of formalised calendars really simplifies things. We know from the archaeological records that our ancestors were carefully tracking the movements of the sun and moon, presumably in order to predict the cycles of the year. The creation of the Gregorian calendar that declares Beltane will occur on 30th April/1st May each year makes it far easier for covens, groves and other Pagan groups to plan their celebrations well ahead of time to ensure everyone who wants to attend can make suitable arrangements. Yet I can't help but feel sad about the way this severs us from the seasonal changes occurring around us.

Perhaps the best way - as is so often the case - is not  to commit ourselves to an either/or mindset, but to an 'and' way of thinking. It is Beltane both when the calendar says so - and also when the Earth declares it. The calendar Beltane allows us to plan community celebrations, wish each other a Happy Beltane on the same day and be in alignment with our fellow Pagans around the world (well, in the Northern hemisphere anyway - those in the Southern hemisphere will most likely be celebrating Samhain). And the Earth-based advent of Beltane allows us to be in communion with the Earth and to sense Her shifting energies in our very blood and bones.

I don't yet feel Beltane in my bones, in the pulse of the Earth - but I know it is on the way, just around the corner. The new leaves and the bluebells and wood anemones whisper of it. Soon swallows and hawthorn blossoms will confirm it and we will continue our headlong tumble into summer. Blessed Be.

 

       

      

2015: Struggle and Serendipity, Pomskizillious and Gromphiberous

Oh dear. I really wanted to blog more regularly in 2015. Things went OK until June when life sort of... took over. 2015 was a good year for me, more or less. The downside of it was a lack of time and money. Up until the middle of the year, I wasn't by any means feeling wealthy but I had just about enough and was even paying instalments towards a late-summer holiday. And then I was suddenly struggling. In a short period of time I lost two clients who no longer needed my services due to changes in their circumstances, and at the same time got hit by a couple of unexpected bills. All of a sudden I was no longer floating along serenely, I was struggling to keep my head above water, sinking lower and lower each month. Luckily, the story has a happy ending. My lovely sister (with whom I was going on holiday) lent me the money I still owed on the trip until such time as I could pay her back. And I managed to find a new job, working a couple of days a week in a jewellery shop (which I love). It was still a difficult few months as I was working three jobs over a six day week without much to show for it except exhaustion and a gradual easing of my debts. At the same time, IB was having employment dramas of his own and we were seeing very little of each other. I am happy to say though, that I am now solvent again, both job situations have settled and I have managed to re-jig my working week so that I get two whole days off. The storm has abated and we are back on an even keel - for now, anyway!

But those were the difficult times. In between them 2015 gave me many beautiful experiences and memories, lots of good times with the people dearest to my heart and also new and wonderful friendships. Which is really what I wanted to come here and write about...

Some of the highlights for me were finally reaching what has often seemed like the very distant shore of 'Acceptance' following years wading through the swamps of 'Denial', 'Bargaining', 'Anger', and (seemingly interminable) 'Grief' caused by my divorce. Yes, to anyone making this journey themselves, you will get there in the end. I promise. 

Then there was my magical trip to Glastonbury in the spring.

In June by pure chance I ended up making a visit to the beautiful Rheidol valley, which just happened to be one of the rivers featuring in the folktale we were due to work with at Dragonrise Witchcamp later in the summer. The weather was perfect, the river was beautiful, but more importantly what I learnt about the river that day ended up being an important part of the work we did at camp. Such wonderful serendipity!

Trip to the Rheidol Valley

Dragonrise itself was fabulous. I should have written a whole report as soon as I got back, but the notes I jotted down to recall the 'flavour' of camp after returning will have to suffice: 

Dragonrise

The sound of children laughing under the oak tree. 

The swell of grief for the rivers. 

Butterflies in the meadow by the stone circle. 

The serenely flowing brown Borle Brook. 

The fey whispering, bubbling in the woods. 

Talking, crying, laughing, dancing with Rheidol; picking wildflowers with Her. 

Making magic potions. 

Singing, singing, singing. 

The dance of the Salmon. 

The Rivers and the Mountain. 

Owls and woodpeckers and swallows and buzzards. 

A river of stars in the night sky. 

A circle of smiling faces in a fairy-lit yurt. 

Extraordinary magic. 

"The sun is shining... I'm so sexy! this is my tree!" (translation of birdsong!)

Holding space, drumming a heartbeat while the magic swirls around us. 

The moon through the trees.

"The journey doesn't end when the river meets the sea"

Brewing Magic Potions at Dragonrise

At the end of September, we took our much anticipated holiday to Gozo. I fell in love with the place. It's kind of wonky and quirky with a definite attitude of 'manana', but that fitted perfectly with my desire for a laid-back, relaxing holiday, which was exactly what we got. There is also a sense of timelessness from the ancient land beneath your feet, a sacred, magical place... I cannot put it into words. Victorian nonsense-poet Edward Lear also gave up, describing it as "pomskizillious and gromphiberous, being as no words can describe its magnificence". The Arabs named it 'Ghawdex' which means 'joy'. And I jotted down a few more notes which tried to capture the essence of the place: 

Gozo

Water reflects ripples on stone walls.

Bougainvillea petals on stone.

Lizard sunning on the wall.

Cooling breeze.

Turquoise pool, sand coloured stone.

Clouds drift over in the blue, blue sky.

Dragonfly darts.

Rustling palm fronds.

Coffee and olives and tomatoes.

Splashing, laughter.

Big yellow butterfly, hovering black bee.

Pomegranates and carob, prickly pear and loquats.

Azure sea, ancient land.

Slanting shadows and the sound of crickets in the fields.

Gozo

Other highlights this year have been lovely birthday celebrations with friends and family, a trip to Kent to stay with my sister, making new friends, a wonderful extended Christmas with the family and the addition of two kittens to the household, now taking the feline headcount to six. I am definitely becoming a mad cat lady!

Today, I'm counting my blessings again. Each year is different, some easier, some harder. On balance my 2015 was one of the good ones, the struggle outweighed by the serendipity. Thank you and farewell 2015, and welcome 2016. I wonder what you will bring?

Baby Steps

One of the strange things about depression is that whilst you're in its grip, you don't necessarily realise that fact. You don't always feel yourself slipping down into the pit, and even if you do recognise that you are down in those murky depths, it is usually only when you have managed to extricate yourself that you realise just how far down you had slid. Which is probably a good thing. Recognising what a long hard slog it is going to be to reach daylight again would be enough to put anyone off even trying.

I did not realise until recently how depressed I had become over the last few years. It started of course with my divorce, which was not only the end of my relationship with T but - and this is probably the bit it took me longest to see - the end of the life I had been living here at Halfway Up A Hill. While T was the breadwinner, I led an idyllic life tending the garden, growing herbs and veggies and caring for the animals. My schedule was flexible and I could concentrate on the things I most enjoyed (gardening, animal care and in my spare time, writing). I think coming to terms with the end of what I thought was a stable, happy marriage was the most obvious mourning I had to go through, but the loss of the life I thought I had was actually harder to come to terms with and took much longer. It will be 7 years this summer since T walked away, and it has taken nearly that long to fully come to terms with everything and joyfully embrace the life I now have instead of mourning the old one.

Things were complicated of course, by starting a new relationship with IB. That was - and continues to be - a source of great happiness, but starting as it did fairly soon after T had gone, I hadn't really had enough time to process my feelings and regather myself. And because I was in a new, happy relationship many people seemed to think that everything was magically fixed. It certainly helped, but I was also struggling to come to terms with the loss of my idyllic lifestyle. 

This is a beautiful area of the UK, but it is not an easy place to find employment. That, added to the fact that not having worked outside the home for years had left me (a) with outdated qualifications and work experience, (b) lacking in self-confidence and (c) in quite a quandary as to what to actually do. The upshot has been that while I have found employment, it has been in menial, low-paid jobs. I am often tired, usually short of money and always short of time to do the things I would really like to be doing. The worst part of depression is the way it leaves you with no energy or enthusiasm, and the result here at Halfway Up A Hill has been that my beloved vegetable plot and polytunnel are now neglected and overgrown and a backlog of maintenance tasks has built up to mammoth proportions.

Which all sounds incredibly gloomy, and yet it is not. This has all been part of my healing process, my journey back up out of the pit of depression and back into the sun. And now I am truly, truly back in the sun these challenges no longer seem overwhelming. They seem like - well, challenges, but challenges I am finally relishing getting my teeth into instead of ignoring in the vain hope they'll go away.

Baby steps are what I'm taking, instead of trying to tackle the whole big mess in one impossible super-hero style whammy. That is never going to happen. But baby steps added together, one after another are enough. Each little task sorted, each little improvement or repair made adds up to get us a bit closer to the goal of bringing Halfway Up A Hill back to life again.

Last year we tackled the patio area which had become overgrown with brambles and buddleia. After much cutting back and weeding, we have transformed it into a productive herb garden with a sitting area overlooking the valley. And we have enjoyed many barbecues there on sunny evenings! Recently I have added new flowerbeds by the garden steps that lead down to the house and they are looking gorgeous in full bloom. The overgrown area outside the kitchen window has been cleared of junk and nettles and is now neat, weed free and growing a fine crop of lavender, pineapple mint and sugarsnap peas. Working from the house area out, tackling one area at a time, eventually we will get to the vegetable patch and the poytunnel and the orchard. But for now I am proud of what we have achieved, and every time I go out to feed the chickens in the morning, I make time to take a little stroll around these reclaimed areas and enjoy them.

The magical thing is that each little improvement gives me encouragement and incentive to tackle something else. I am reminded of the old Greenpeace slogan, 'The Optimism of the Action is Better than the Pessimism of the Thought'. It is my belief that in difficult times the best thing is to do something. Even if that something is merely weeding the herb garden or feeding the birds. Each time you do something, you remember the power that you have, and remembering that you have the power gives you access to more power.

My final step back up out of depression occurred in January this year. I was driving back from work, feeling blue for no obvious reason, and thinking 'I just wish I could get back to my old self!'. A voice in my head said, 'Why would you get back to your old self? You have been changed by the things that have happened to you. You are not your old self and can never be again. Embrace who you are!'. And it was like a light-bulb went on. Of course I am no longer that same person. Of course I have been changed by events in my life, events I did not necessarily have any control over. But I can own that, accept it and choose how to move forward from here. The changes in my life have made me stronger, wiser, more compassionate. And that cannot be a bad thing.

The 'C' Word, Part 4: Burning Bridges

I can't remember exactly when Hilary* and I first became friends. I do remember that a group of us began hanging out together on the school playing field at lunchtime during the summer term when I was about 13 or 14. At some time during that period, Hilary and I paired off and became 'best friends'. We shared an off the wall, goofy sense of humour, had long, intense discussions about everything from the state of the world to boys we liked and generally helped each other negotiate the stormy seas of adolescence.

In many ways we were strikingly different. I always had my nose stuck in a book whilst Hilary was extremely artistic. I was an easy going, shy Cancerian, and Hilary was a forceful, outgoing Arien. I came from a close, loving family, Hilary's family were starchy and Victorian, especially her cold, overbearing father. I'm not sure if the friendship flourished due to or in spite of these differences - certainly we were different enough never to fancy the same boys or compete over anything important.

I think Hilary to a certain extent fell in love with my family. My home life was everything hers wasn't - warm, chaotic, full of laughter, affection and silliness. At Hilary's house, meals were eaten in stiff, formal silence, the only sound a ticking clock. At my house, mealtimes were shared with plenty of chatter and laughter. I remember the look of amazement on Hilary's face at the raucous giggles as my Dad read aloud from a book of silly stories one of the first times she ate with us, and we all - Dad included - ended up crying with laughter.

The friendship continued after we left school - Hilary started working as a secretary up in London and I became a children's nanny in Hertfordshire. We continued to share in the ups and downs of growing up, learning to drive and getting our first cars, falling in love for the first time, holding each others hand through the scary bits and broken hearts. At one point, Hilary's Dad threw her out for standing up to him and she moved in with my family for a few weeks, until the drama had passed.

When we were 21 I inherited some money, and for a variety of reasons (including having just had my heart badly broken, and the general sense of bravado and curiosity one has at that age) decided to spend it on travelling around the world. I visited Hong Kong, Malaysia, Australia, New Zealand and the USA and had an amazing and wonderful time. When I returned, it was a big surprise to me to find that everything had changed. Living at home with my parents for the first time felt constricting. My job (by now I was working in an office) seemed old-hat and boring. I split up with my boyfriend who had become unbearably possessive. There was a distance between Hilary and I. In hindsight of course, nothing had changed except for me. Going away for an extended period and broadening my horizons had made me more confident, more certain of who I was and what I wanted.

Over the next couple of years the gulf between Hilary and I widened. She developed anorexia, and seemed to find me incredibly irritating. I started avoiding her, feeling like perhaps I was making her illness worse. I met T, and after a few months moved in with him. Hilary and T disliked each other. She continued to visit my family but soon she and I had virtually no contact with each other.

Fast forward a couple of years, and Hilary and I began to - tentatively at first - resume contact. Hilary's anorexia had reached a crisis point, when she, weighing less than 6 stone had collapsed and had a near-death experience. This had shocked her into seeking help, aided by her mother who was a wonderful source of support to her during this period. By the time we began seeing each other again, Hilary was on the road to recovery. I felt really guilty that I hadn't been with her for this part of her journey, but she didn't seem to bear any grudge. Gradually we slipped back into the old friendship, although she and T grew no more fond of each other. Eventually, she met and married a lovely, easy-going, sweet man, Tom, and they seemed blissfully happy together.

Hilary and Tom moved to West Sussex, and the four of us took it in turns to visit each other for weekends. This worked well, as Hilary and T were never together long enough to seriously fall out. The holiday we took together in France was less successful - being cooped up together in a gite for over a week turned out not to be our best idea. It soon became apparent - via oblique remarks and comments made to my family that made their way back to me - that Hilary blamed T for me not being the same person I had been at school. That is to say, whenever I didn't behave in the way Hilary wanted me to, she interpreted it as T suppressing me in some way. At the time, I found it rather funny that Hilary was unable to imagine I may have grown up and changed over the years. And T cared so little for her opinion that it was more a source of amusement to me than any kind of issue.

Later on, when T and I were living in Australia for 18 months (due to his job) and Hilary visited, it began to irritate me. I found it odd that she still insisted on using nicknames we'd had at school, even though they were hardly used at all by anyone else. And I noticed that almost every sentence she spoke to me began with the words, 'The trouble with you, Wallis (my old nickname) is...', or was undermining to me in some other way. For example we were walking by the waterfront in Sydney when an enormously fat woman clad in shorts and a vest waddled past. Hilary said, 'Next time you're worried about how fat you are, just remember you're not that bad!' It was undoubtedly meant as a compliment, no matter how back-handed, but as I hadn't said anything about worrying about my weight it felt like a slap in the face. By the time her two week visit was up, I was ready to cheer when she got back on the plane to go home.

When we moved to Wales it got worse. I was on the receiving end of comments like 'I don't know why anyone would want to move to Wales! Horrible place!'. Since I moved to Wales in 2000, Hilary only visited twice, for an afternoon on my 40th birthday, and for a weekend when she and my sister stayed with my Mum.

She brightened briefly when T and I divorced, declaring joyfully, 'I have my old Wallis back!', but that didn't last long as she took an immediate, strong dislike to IB when she met him for the first time at a barbecue at my sister's house. IB took the place of T as the focus of her disapproval. None of which mattered too much, as we were seeing very little of each other by then.

But then Hilary and Tom attended my 50th Birthday Party, and this summer being the summer of Closure, things inevitably came to a head...

Hilary and Tom were two of the guests at the Surprise Birthday Party my Mum had organised. I was amazed and happy to see them there, but unfortunately things were awkward from the get-go. Hilary gave me a warm embrace when we arrived, but totally snubbed IB, turning away from him as he tried to say hello (I only found out about that later, as there was a lot going on at the time). Then Hilary handed me my gifts - one of which was a beautifully constructed collage of old photos of me and my loved ones. I was deeply touched that she had spent so much time making my gift, but later noticed that she hadn't included any photos of IB at all. In fact, one of the photos she'd used was a group photo that had included IB - though Hilary had carefully cropped him out of it. She also began talking about how much she'd always liked T, how much she missed him. Hmmm.

The next day - the day of my 'official' party, Hilary and Tom were among the first arrivals. Once again IB was ignored. Now I have to say at this point, that IB didn't really help himself because his reaction to all this (added to the stressful time leading up to the party with all the work he'd put in to get things ready, and helping with my injured shoulder) was to drink a bit too much, which was his way of withdrawing. But as I wasn't bothered by him getting drunk (unlike T, who tended to get verbally aggressive, he is easy going when he gets drunk) it didn't occur to me anyone else would have an issue with it. The night before he hadn't had a drink as he was driving, so it wasn't as if anyone could think he always drank too much.

At the end of the party, Hilary threw her arms around my neck and declared how much she loved me. She then whispered, 'It doesn't have to be like this... you're worth so much more... you deserve better.' My immediate reaction was to think she'd drunk too much herself (which she had) and to privately laugh at the remark. But after everyone had left it started to rankle. I felt judged, I felt yet again she was looking down on me, my home, my choices, my relationship and my life. I started to wonder if everyone else at the party had been pitying me (yes, I'd had a few drinks myself by then!), and I ended the evening in tears, comforted by the ever-loving and loyal IB.

After the party, with a few days to put things in perspective, I decided I would write Hilary a letter explaining my feelings and hopefully setting her straight. I wanted to write it when I was calm, so I left it for a while to let my feelings settle. Unfortunately, before I could write it I received a fridge magnet with a sentimental message about friendship enclosed in a card from Hilary, again obliquely criticising IB. My irritation levels rose again and I waited for them to subside before writing my letter. Unsatisfied by my lack of response, Hilary contacted me on Facebook with an angry inbox message: "You know what Wallis, you may be in a great place or you may be in a bad place, but I've known you for a stupid length of time and value your friendship more than you probably know, but when you don't have the decency to spend some time talking to me (and to Tom and M and D) when we travelled specifically to Wales to see you and then choose to not to send a note of thanks for your pressie and then not to even acknowledge that I sent you a small token the other day - well quite frankly it's just rude and I have to question whether I've made a big mistake in being your friend as my values of friendship are clearly not yours now and haven't been since you've been with IB. Over to you. Love you more than you know.  Hilary x x x"

I replied as politely as I could, expressing thanks for the gifts, pointing out that as hostess I hadn't been able to spend much time with any one person during the party - as that is the way of parties - and that I was in the process of writing her a letter.

I hate confrontation of any sort. Which is why it had taken this long - years really - to confront Hilary about her behaviour. For a long time, I had taken the easy way out and either laughed at or ignored the continuous barrage of slights and insults, often couched as 'friendly advice' or 'concerned friendship'. But I knew it was crunch time. I sat down and wrote my letter. Then I re-wrote it, aiming for 'polite yet assertive'. I firstly wrote about how much I had valued her friendship over the years, thanked her for her birthday gifts and all the work she'd put into them, praised her for her loyalty. Then I explained, clearly and gently why her remarks had hurt me, and why her assumptions about the state of my life were so wide of the mark. I wanted the letter to be assertive, but neither placatory nor aggressive; I wanted it to give us the chance to get our friendship back on track. To check how it came across, I ran it by several people who knew the situation and whose opinion I trusted. They all agreed it was a good letter, if anything a little too placatory. As I wanted to avoid conflict I decided it was better to err on the side of caution, so - still feeling apprehensive - I mailed it. It was the first time I had ever challenged Hilary in all our years as friends.

*****

That was about three months ago. I have not heard back from her, except via third parties, to whom she has described the letter as 'a tirade'. I have been blocked on Facebook. I have not tried to contact her further. I won't try to contact her further. The ball is in her court.

I am saddened. But I am also left with a sense of relief. It seems this friendship has run its course. My self esteem has come up a notch. I realise that I am no longer content to tolerate dysfunctional relationships, which is what my relationship with Hilary had become. We have both changed over the years, yet it seems she is only willing to be my friend if I jump through the hoops she approves of, and continue to play the role of 'Wallis', which I have long outgrown.

In many ways this has been the hardest piece of Closure that I had to deal with this summer. Our friendship goes back such a long way, has such deep historical roots, is so entangled with other relationships, that it is hard to extricate myself from it. And yet in doing so I know I am doing the right thing. The relationship is no longer what it was, I cannot continue to be in this relationship unless Hilary is willing to hear what I have to say and accept that I have a right to my own feelings. I am sure that I will continue to be more selective with who I let into my life in future, and what behaviours I am prepared to tolerate.

I am worth more.


* Not her real name.

The 'C' Word, Part 2: Three Weddings, and a Burial

Wedding Number One:
In the summer of 1985 I attended a wedding as the 'plus one' of a platonic male friend. At the reception afterwards, I was pleased to be asked to dance by the Best Man, whose blue eyes had caught my attention. We danced and talked and danced again, and I was happy when he asked for my phone number. To my delight, he rang a few days later and we went on our first date.

Wedding Number Two:
In 1991, reader - I married him!

Yes, I met T at the wedding of our friends Kevin and Ann, and six years later, Kevin was T's Best Man at our own wedding, in the little village church in which my parents had married. By then, Kevin and Ann had a three year old daughter and another on the way. Our friendship with Kevin and Ann was so close that they asked us to be guardians for Rachel, Charlotte and (in time) their younger brother, Michael, in the event that anything untoward should happen to the two of them. Until T and I moved to Wales in 2000 we spent virtually all our spare time together, like a big extended family (Kevin and Ann were originally moving here too, but ultimately decided to stay on Essex).

T and I were married for 17 years, and I thought we were pretty happy until he dropped a bombshell and left in 2008. Since that day, he and I have been in (mostly cordial) irregular contact, yet I had not met - nor wanted to meet, to be honest - his new wife, Sawittree.

So when I received an invitation to Rachel's wedding it brought up mixed feelings. Firstly of course, excitement and happiness at the wonderful news, and pleasure at the thought of sharing my beautiful Goddessdaughter's special day. But also... Sawittree would be there. Younger than me, slimmer than me. On T's arm. That brought up less pleasant emotions. Anxiety, insecurity, apprehension, and a lot of the grief and anger I thought I had processed and left behind by now.

Hmmm.

Luckily I had a few months to prepare myself - firstly by making careful plans to ensure I would be looking my best and hence feeling as confident as possible, and secondly by continuing to work through my feelings about T and Sawittree.

I'm not sure why or how it happened, but at some point before the wedding, I realised that actually, I don't care what T or Sawittree think about me or how they see me. I am now happy in my own skin, at peace with who I am, loved by and in love with IB. Perhaps enough time has elapsed, perhaps I have moved on, perhaps I am a different person. But something has shifted, healed and it is time to move on. And how symbolic that this closure manifested via the wedding of the eldest child of the couple whose own wedding was the starting point of my life with T? And what better symbol of 'new beginnings' than a wedding? The significance seemed staggering when I made the connections.  

Wedding Number Three:
Rachel's wedding was to be held in Maldon, Essex, so IB and I travelled up from Wales the night before and stayed with my sister and her husband in Kent. The weather was still searingly hot, and although we left in plenty of time in the morning, traffic snarls at the Dartford Crossing meant that we weren't as early as hoped by the time we'd arrived and parked the car. Walking through to the High Street, we arrived at the church with about 15 minutes to spare. But to my horror, it immediately became clear I had brought us to the wrong place - the church I had assumed the wedding was in is now a Heritage Centre and was buzzing with stalls selling arts, crafts and jam! Rifling through my bag in a panic I realised I had not brought the invitation. I asked one of the stallholders for help and she explained that there were two churches that the wedding could be in, either St Mary's or All Saint's - but they were at opposite ends of the High Street! This was now beginning to resemble a scene from 'Four Weddings and a Funeral', and my chances of arriving looking cool, calm and serene as I had hoped were fast melting away. I had the name 'St Mary's' in my mind for some reason so off we headed as fast as we could through the crowds of Saturday morning shoppers, me tottering in unaccustomed high heels. We finally arrived at the church to find no one outside and the door shut. Tiptoeing up, I opened the creaky old oak door as quietly as I could, expecting all eyes to turn on the latecomers... only to find the church completely empty. The wedding was, of course, at All Saints, at the other end of the High Street. 

At this point something in me stopped worrying and just decided to go with the flow. It was blazingly hot and humid, my feet were killing me and we had clearly missed any chance of arriving in time for the wedding. We sat in the church porch, while I changed into the flat sandals I had mercifully thought to stow in my bag and discussed our options. IB said to me, 'You are always running round after everyone, trying to keep everyone happy. Just let go of that, and accept things the way they are.' Which was true, helpful and a very liberating perspective all at once. We decided to walk - slowly - up to All Saint's Church, wait outside during the service and get some photos of the bride and groom when everyone emerged. I realised that though I may have missed the wedding service itself, all I really cared about was seeing my beautiful Goddessdaughter happy, enjoying her special day. But then as luck would have it, just as I'd changed back into my posh heels we spied some other latecomers at All Saint's Church and crept in behind them. Mercifully it was during a hymn and we slid quietly and gratefully into a vacant pew.

It was a truly lovely wedding with Rachel absolutely radiant in a gorgeous dress she had designed herself, and her new husband beaming and handsome. As we filed out at the end of the service, I spotted T and Sawittree shading themselves under a tree. IB and I walked over to say hello, and I was quite taken aback to be greeted by T as 'Darling', which I certainly wasn't expecting. That said, it made me think I couldn't be looking too bad for an old girl!

I took plenty of photos and then we made our way back to the car. We weren't expected at the wedding breakfast as the venue was small and the family party large, but we would be returning later for the evening reception. In the meantime IB and I went for lunch at what was one of my favourite pubs when I lived in the area, The Anchor at Runsell Green, Danbury. It was a beautiful summer's day and we sat outside the lovely old pub surrounded by flowers, enjoying a cooling breeze while we ate. Afterwards we took a meandering drive through my old memories, and I showed IB the church where Kevin & Ann married, the first house T & I lived in together, my paternal grandparents' house and the village my father had grown up in, the village where I went to school and finally the village where I grew up, Mountnessing. We also made an unscheduled stop at T's parents' house. I had always got on well with them, especially T's stepmother and although we'd spoken on the phone since T and I split, I hadn't seen them. By luck, they were in and we had a lovely though brief catch-up, and I was able to introduce IB to them.

At Mountnessing we had arranged to meet up with my Mum and Dad - who were in Essex visiting friends - at the home of an ex-neighbour. It was a little surreal as this meant we were in the house opposite my maternal grandparents' old house and diagonally opposite the house I'd grown up in (we had lived next door to my grandparents). Things became even more surreal when the people now living in what had once been my grandparents' house, invited us in to have a look round and see how the house looks these days. This was turning out to be more of a trip down memory lane than I had expected!

The house was at once familiar and not: some rooms had only changed a little, yet others - including a new extension - were completely different. It was not unpleasant though, as the family now living there are lovely and the house retains its warm atmosphere. Out in the garden there were also signs of time having moved on - plants and trees had grown or disappeared, new fences had been erected, and the patio and fishpond my grandfather had lovingly constructed is now showing its age and is in need of an overhaul! We also wandered down into the orchard next to the house - well, it used to be an apple orchard but now the apple trees and blackcurrant bushes of my childhood are all gone. But still there is the silver birch tree T and I planted when we buried the ashes of our son, Peter.

The tree now towers over me. Time has passed, and the sharpness of grief has dulled, yet it is still there. Suddenly all these ghosts of the past are too much, I am overwhelmed by it all and tears well irresistibly up. Luckily IB and my Mum are there to comfort me. I am held in loving arms and given time to cry, and breathe, and compose myself. More closure. We walk slowly back to the present together. Time to get ready for the wedding reception.

*****

The evening reception was as lovely as the wedding itself. The venue was superb. A live band played jazz and swing and people danced, young and old together. There was cake, and champagne, and pretty vintage china. The heat of the day abated as the evening drew on. I saw people I haven't seen in years and enjoyed catching up with them and seeing the amazing young adults their children have grown into. My parents and brother were there too. It was a very special occasion and I was so glad to have been a part of it. I was glad to have finally met Sawittree and put that particular anxiety aside. I was glad to reconnect with old friends. I was glad I saw Peter's tree, and both the continuity and changes in places I used to know so well. It felt like everything that was important to me from my years living in Essex had all come together, been revisited, acknowledged, and put properly away. Closure, writ large. Again.

And that was when the fiercely hot spell of weather finally broke. Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning flashed. But it all seemed part of the celebrations, Mother Nature's firework display. Deliciously cool rain fell onto warm pavement as we said farewell to the wedding party and made our way back to the car between showers.

I was exhausted. But so glad I'd come.

Ouch...!

My left hand - in happier times!

I am in pain. I have somehow torn a ligament in my left shoulder. Well, not 'somehow', I know exactly when and where it happened, just not 'why?'. On Saturday night, as I was undressing for bed I pulled my top off over my head - as I do every night. But on Saturday, for some reason I suddenly experienced a stabbing pain in my shoulder. I assumed I had just twisted it in some awkward way and by morning it would be feeling better. But by morning it was no better, and the pain was so severe when I tried to use my arm that I realised it was more than just a simple twist.

IB was lovely and took very good care of me - he took me to the cinema and out for a Chinese meal to cheer me up. I must admit that sitting motionless in the cinema for a couple of hours and being so scared by all the zombies in 'World War Z' my shoulder didn't hurt a bit (I made sure IB was sitting on my right so I could grab his arm during the scary bits!).

On Monday I downed some painkillers and set off to work, but even mostly working one-handed, by the afternoon the injured shoulder was so painful I had to cancel my afternoon job. I just about managed to work again on Tuesday morning (praise be to Paracetamol!) and luckily had Tuesday afternoon free anyway. But once the painkillers wore off, it became clear that the injury was becoming more, not less painful, and I began to worry that in trying to mute the pain and use my arm  in even a limited way, I was compounding the injury. Furthermore it was getting harder and harder to drive the car to work (or anywhere!) as changing gear was excruciatingly painful.

I rang my Wednesday morning job and explained the situation, and to my relief they said to take the day off. That afternoon my Dad very kindly drove me to the doctor's surgery. My GP gave me a thorough examination during which she eliminated the possibility of a pinched/trapped nerve (I retain full feeling in my hands/arms/shoulders, my grip is unaffected and I can move my arm normally - or I could if it didn't hurt so damn much). She is unable to say definitively if it's a torn muscle or a torn ligament, but my money is on the second. I've torn a muscle in the past, but while that was painful enough, I have never known joint pain like I am currently experiencing. If it is a ligament, it will take months to fully heal.

So I now have painkilling gel to rub into the affected area - well, I say 'rub' but it's more like 'dab on extremely gingerly' as even the lightest touch on my shoulder is currently enough to make me yelp. I also have some prescription painkillers, and I have put my arm in a sling which helps to support it and also acts as a reminder NOT TO USE IT even if the painkillers have dulled down the pain level. I have had to cancel the rest of my work week, which is a worry as things are pretty hand-to-mouth around here at the moment (I have lost a couple of clients since their own working hours were cut due to the recession). T though, has been kind enough to offer financial assistance if I need it.

The good news is that after doing virtually nothing yesterday except seeing the doctor, for the first time since Saturday, my shoulder feels a little better. It is still too painful to use my left arm for anything much, but the pain now seems less intense and more localised - initially my whole shoulder was jangling with pain and the ache extended from my jaw down my arm to my pinky finger. So I am hopeful that with a few more days' rest, I will be able to resume work as usual on Monday.

But isn't it strange how you take things for granted until they are not available to you any more? Left arm, as a right-handed person I have probably taken you for granted a lot of the time. I now realise that even if my right arm takes the lead most of the time, you are always there to lend support and stability, help with the heavy lifting, contribute to the alchemy of left and right co-creating together. Without you, I can't drive, or knit, or tie my hair back off my face; I can't use shears, or drain a heavy saucepan, or carry the basket of laundry to the washing machine. Precious shoulder joints, I never before fully appreciated the range of motion afforded to my arms by your flexibility and strength. I never really thought about the strain I put on you by carrying, lifting, digging, climbing, waving, swimming, painting a ceiling...

Our bodies are wondrous, complex things. All too often we focus on the things we don't like about them (wobbly tummy, frizzy hair, clicky knees, crooked nose, lack of sporting prowess, short sightedness, long sightedness, allergies...) instead of appreciating all the wonderful things they allow us to do and see and hear and taste and touch and smell and access, every day. Every. Day. While I take time out to recuperate, I am also taking time out to contemplate and appreciate and thank my wonderful body. It has served me well over the years. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Contentment

Lazy lie-in, snuggled with IB and a bed full of purring cats.

Warm brioche rolls and a steaming mug of coffee.

A long, luxurious soak in the bath.

Out into a mild spring day full of birdsong and gentle breezes.

A day of simple pleasures.

Falling In Love Again

A favourite cushion with an old vintage mirror that belonged to my Nanna

How quickly time passes. Only three years ago, I was still married - and oblivious to any hint of trouble. Now I have been divorced for over a year and a half, and my life is so different.

I am still at Halfway Up A Hill though, which when T first left, I never expected. I thought we would have to sell up and split the proceeds. Then, when we agreed that I could keep the house as part of the divorce settlement, I fully expected to sell up and move on anyway. Too many memories here.

Funny how things turn out, isn't it? With the collapse of the housing market, I resigned myself to staying put and just redecorating and smartening the place up for a couple of years until the economy picked up and I could sell. But over the past couple of years, I have started to see this familiar house with new eyes. By slowly, but surely putting my own mark on things, I have begun to fall in love with the place again. The painful memories are gradually being erased with each fresh coat of paint.

A handpainted dresser top that was picked up for a few pounds at a car boot sale. Along with some of my china and knick-knacks! Most of the china was passed down by my grandparents.

T's taste was fairly conventional and minimalist. Mine is more hippy-witchy-shabbychic-vintage-bohemian; definitely not minimalist. Now I am free to indulge those preferences without restraint! The interior - and exterior - of the house is beginning to reflect my tastes and personality as it never did before.

The lawn - once so carefully tended by T each weekend - has been declared a wildflower meadow. I prefer the look of all those flowers, and life is too short to spend it mowing! The overgrown flowerbed by the kitchen door has been tidied and planted up with roses, hardy geraniums and fuschia, and is now thronging with happy, busy bees. Pots of flourishing geraniums and herbs surround the back door with colour and fragrance. Suncatchers and windchimes dangle from every window, paintings and vases and lanterns and plants, new cushions and throws decorate the rooms. I have fun creating seasonal altars around the house and garden.

I LOVE my pantry door, which was made to measure by my very talented friend, Harry.

IB loves this house, and I am starting to love it once again. This weekend we have put up some wall cupboards that I have painted with a distressed finish in my favourite colours. In the dining room hearth, a 'new' (secondhand!) woodburning stove is waiting to be installed in readiness for next winter. I am planning to add a porch to the back door, and a forest garden down the hill...

The new woodburning stove, waiting to be 'plumbed in'.

I thought there were too many memories here for me to stay. But would they really have dispersed just by moving location? The memories are a part of me, a part of my story. The trick, I am beginning to learn, is to hold on to the best of the past, and let go of the grief and the anger. And in the meantime, go on, creating new memories as you fall in love with life once again.

Says it all.

  

Look Out Edward Woodward...

I have a confession to make. The last couple of years, my garden has been a bit of a disaster. Well, maybe 'disaster' is an overstatement, but it certainly hasn't been the picture of abundance and productivity I would like it to be.

I can blame some of this on the weather, which has been all over the place - unseasonably warm/dry/cool/wet in varying combinations, but to be perfectly honest it is my neglect of the garden that has really let things slip. To start with, after T left I was in a bit of a slump and just couldn't summon the energy or enthusiasm to do much in the garden. And then when IB appeared on the scene, well, I was having too much fun to concern myself with weeding or watering or mulching...

We did make a good start last year by preparing the garden well over the winter in preparation for the spring, but we lost momentum and the weeds took over. A few things did well - the onions and parsnips were pretty good - but for the most part it was a bit of a damp squib.

This year we are determined to do better. We have spent hours pondering over seed packets and planning. We have laboriously weeded the veggie patch, spread compost and mulched to keep the weeds at bay until we are ready to plant. We have already sown a few early crops in the greenhouse. Today was beautifully warm and sunny, and the two of us have been working hard. It is lovely to feel the sun on your back, your hands in the earth. The chickens bustled around on the grass, the birds sang, the cats looked at us as if we had lost our minds (why work when you could be sunning yourself against the hedge?).

We have now sown broad beans and turnips, and planted out the onion sets. Trays of compost sown with tomatoes and chilis are germinating in the airing cupboard. And we have packets and packets of seeds ready to sow over the next few weeks - brussels sprouts, lettuce, radish, mange touts, parsnips, carrots, beetroot, peas, calendula, cauliflower, kale, broccoli, chard, then beans (french and runner), courgettes, nasturtiums, squash, sweetcorn, pumpkin, pak choi... And of course, there will be potatoes.

We are fired with enthusiasm and determined this year's harvest will be one to remember. As IB says, if after all this hard work things still aren't up to scratch, the only thing for it is to find a policeman, a big wicker basket and some matches...

Valentines Day, Past and Present

How times change. Three years ago today, I wrote on the blog about how T had proposed to me 17 years earlier. I remember showing him the post, expecting him to be pleased, touched by it. His reaction was to say gruffly that it was nice - I thought perhaps I had embarrassed him. With the benefit of hindsight I now see his taciturn response was actually guilt. While I was writing nice things about him on my blog, he was secretly conducting an affair. Even so, I received a Valentine card and flowers from him as usual.

A year later, by then all too aware of T's infidelity I wrote about how painful I found Valentine's Day 2009. It was unbearable to remember how I had received that card, those flowers a year earlier, believing them to be genuine tokens of love. It was unbearable to think that as I had been receiving them, another woman had also been receiving love tokens from T. It was unbearable that the card and flowers he sent me had been merely a smokescreen to avoid arousing suspicion, unbearable that I was completely unaware that his true feelings were for someone else. It was unbearable that this someone else knew all about me whilst I remained in blissful ignorance of her existence. It was unbearable that I had been treated like a fool by someone I believed I could truly trust.

Last year I didn't post anything about Valentine's Day. I was struggling with a difficult job, awful weather, and a debilitating chest infection. Yet Valentine's Day had become a source of pleasure, not pain. I received a card, chocolates, flowers. But this time from IB.

I have sometimes shied away from writing too much about IB on the blog. There is a part of me that feels guilty that I have found happiness and love again, so quickly. I never expected to. I worry that others will judge me for moving on so quickly, or believe that this is merely the infamous 'rebound'. I have worried about this myself. And yet... nearly two years since we started seeing each other we are still together. Sometimes he drives me crazy (sometimes I drive him crazy!), yet he can always make me laugh. He is always ready to talk things out, so that our understanding of each other grows and our love deepens. He is hard working, patient, kind, funny, caring. He is affectionate and loving. He understands me. Somehow we just fit together in a way I have never fitted with anyone else.

Today I received a beautiful card. Today we worked together in the greenhouse, clearing it out and cleaning the panes to let the light shine in, planting some early crops. This evening he cooked me a delicious dinner and now we snuggle together on the sofa. Things have changed so much over the last few years. But now, at last, I can relax. I know I am in the right place, with the right person. Perhaps this is where I was meant to be all along.

Story of a Necklace

I will shortly be leaving for this year's Avalon Spring witchcamp. And when choosing what to pack, I was drawn to bring along a necklace which normally sits on my main altar, in a corner of the bedroom.

The story of this necklace goes back to Avalon Spring 2008, where I first became acquainted with it. Dawn Isidora, who was one of the teachers that year, made three beautiful necklaces which she brought with her to be auctioned to raise funds for camp. Three members of the teaching team wore the necklaces throughout camp so that they would soak up the energy of the rituals. I felt an instant kinship for the necklace I was given to wear, and decided I would definitely bid for it in the auction on the final night of camp. Dawn had strung the other two necklaces with a definite intent for their energy, but she said she was unsure what 'my' necklace was about. She had strung it instinctively, and was still unsure what its purpose was.

For me it spoke of love, romantic love. The pale pink pearls (pink being the colour of love) were interspersed with tiny glass hearts and teeny copper beads (copper being the metal of Venus). At that time I had been married for nearly 17 years and whilst I was happy in my marriage it is fair to say that romance wasn't particularly high on the agenda - familiarity having bred a certain amount of taking each other for granted. Nor was I interested in drawing a new love into my life, being decidedly monogamist in my preferences. Nevertheless, I felt I had 'bonded' with the necklace and determined that I would be the winning bidder.

At the auction, I allowed myself a budget of £45. The first necklace sold for an amount comfortably within that limit, and I relaxed a little. The second went for a little higher than my budget, but I told myself hopefully that by now people would have exhausted their spending muscles and I would be lucky. But by now, the end of the auction, people were really getting into the swing of it, and the price for the necklace went up and up, as my heart sunk and sunk. All however, was not lost. My dear friends Georgia and Annie had noticed how much I wanted the necklace, and when my price limit was exceeded and I stopped bidding, they chipped in additional money on my behalf, until at last all competition fell away, and the necklace was mine.

I still remained puzzled as to why I felt so drawn to the necklace, but took it home to sit proudly on my altar and occasionally come out, displayed around my neck.

Later that year, my marriage - much to my surprise - ended, and I was left alone, dazed and confused by this unexpected turn of events.

The necklace lay mostly forgotten on the altar, until a friend from the local Pagan community started to become more than just a friend. At Beltane 2009, I wore my love necklace for the first time with intent; the intent that if the time was right I would open my heart to new possibilities. By the end of the month, IB and I had made the transition from friends to lovers, and my happiness grew and grew.

Today, packing my bags I wanted to bring the necklace, but it has always had a loose fastening and I was worried about losing it. I mentioned it to IB, who promptly delicately, yet securely soldered it so that I can wear it with confidence.

And at Avalon Spring this year, for the first time I will be joined by my partner (T never having been interested in such things), and I can't wait to share this event I love so much with the person I love so much. My happiness continues to grow.

Now my necklace and my love are secure. Don't you just love a happy ending?

Back In The Saddle Again...

When I was nine years old I desperately wanted a pony. A white pony, with flowing mane and tail, that I would name Silver. Silver would be my best friend, I would plait wildflowers and ribbons into her mane and we would have great adventures together, roaming the countryside. I christened my bicycle 'Silver' and attached ribbons to the handlebars to use as reins, and the bike became an imaginary pony.

My parents couldn't afford a real pony, but they did agree to send my sister and I for riding lessons at a nearby stables. I was overjoyed - until reality set in. The pony I was given to ride, Star, seemed impossibly huge (my younger sister was given a fat little Shetland pony to ride called Teddy, whose much lower centre of gravity seemed a desirable asset). Star's lack of anchor points to hold onto also seemed a serious defect - once teetering in the saddle, the stirrups and reins seemed wholly inadequate to keep me from toppling off. I had no great aptitude for riding and could not for the life of me cope with Star attempting anything faster than a slow amble. Most of the time I was quite frankly terrified. After a few weeks the inevitable happened and I fell crashing to the ground - breaking my arm in the process. As the riding instructor picked me up and dusted me down, she gave me a kindly, yet brisk talking to, about stiff upper lips and how it was essential to get straight back on the horse to ensure I wasn't put off riding in the future. Too late. I was already put off, and in fact nothing on the planet could have induced me to clamber back on Star's patient back at that moment in time.

And that was the end of my equestrian dreams. At the age of nine and a half I hung up my riding hat and decided to concentrate on becoming a secret agent instead.

******

How often do we give up in the face of discouragement? It's not always a bad thing - sometimes it is good to know one's limitations and be realistic. How many 'Pop Idol/X Factor' hopefuls who can't sing a note insist in their post-audition interview that pop stardom is their one dream and they won't be discouraged in the face of rejection? When so many people with truly wonderful voices never attain stardom, how realistic is it for tone-deaf talentless wannabes to imagine stardom is just around the corner? Would it not be better for them to realise their limitations and concentrate on finding out what they're really good at - cake decorating or brain surgery or teaching or breeding new strains of auriculas?

On the other hand, how easy it is to let a set-back hold us back. How often do we let fear of failure stop us from even trying?

******

When T and I split up, I was full of fear about my future. My marriage had given me a sense of security, emotional and financial. I thought I knew what life had in store for me, yet suddenly the rug was pulled from under me, and I felt like a complete failure. I was afraid. My future looked bleak, as everything I thought I could rely on was suddenly thrown into chaos. I expected that I would have to move from Halfway Up A Hill, and I panicked about how I could afford a new property with room for the animals. I knew I would have to get a paid job again, and the length of time since I had last been in paid employment convinced me that would be impossible. I could not imagine that I would ever find love again. I envisioned a cold, lonely, impoverished and uncertain future ahead of me.

Unlike falling off a horse and deciding not to get back on, I had no choice this time. Life was going to carry on, and not re-engaging with it wasn't an option.

Luckily, my financial situation turned out not be as scary as I had imagined. The divorce settlement allowed me to stay at Halfway Up A Hill - for the time being anyway. That gave me some breathing space in which to lick my wounds and take time easing back into the workforce. Amazingly, and quite unlooked for, a new romantic relationship developed out of an existing friendship. I was resistant at first, not wanting to ruin a good friendship 'on the rebound'. Yet IB and I have been together for over a year now and quite honestly I believe it is the best, healthiest relationship I have ever been in. Even so, it has been challenging at times for both of us. Starting a relationship in one's forties is quite a different kettle of fish than in one's twenties - the last time I was dating before this (do people even say dating any more? It sounds so teenager-y - but I digress...). At this time in our lives we are both quite set in our ways, which needs careful negotiation, yet at the same time we are more comfortable in our own skins and sure of what we want from life.

******

My bike 'Silver' is long gone (though fondly remembered) and it has been a good few years since I have cycled at all. I bought a bike about fifteen years ago but found it too much like hard work and it languished mostly unused in the garage. It has finally gone, cleared away with a lot of other stuff in my life that was no longer needed or wanted.

IB however, is a keen cyclist and has convinced me that my problem with cycling was the wrong bike. We have found me a good secondhand bike on Ebay which we picked up earlier this week. It needs a few improvements before I can ride it (the brakes need some work), but I am feeling a mixture of excitement at the thought of riding a bike again along with fear at the prospect. Am I too old? Too unfit? What if I make a fool of myself and fall off? How will I manage those Welsh hills? And yet I remember the sense of freedom and joy that cycling used to bring all those years ago. Is cycling still for me? I don't know. But I am willing to give it a try, a good try, knowing that initially muscles will ache and joints will creak, yet with practice I will improve.

Sometimes, it pays to know when not to get back in the saddle. Horse riding was not for me, and I saved myself a lot of grief (and my parents a lot of money) by quitting when I did.

But sometimes you just have to pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and start all over again. Despite having my self-confidence and trust in others severely dented, I was brave enough to start a new relationship and I am so glad I did. It has helped the sun come out again.

Sometimes you just need to take a gamble and try again. Begin a new relationship, buy a new bike, try something new and different. You never know, getting back in the saddle just may be the best decision you ever made.