We had a snow day last week. We woke to a grey morning with just a few flutters of snowflakes. All day it kept on falling; our town was covered with a thick white blanket.
For those of us with no journeys to make it was a welcome white out. It blotted out the darkness of the world, covering up its flaws. Let’s make a snowman, I said. No, said Mr A, let’s not spoil the perfect covering. Ignoring him, I broke the surface and started to build. It didn’t take too long for him to join in and show me exactly how it should be done.
The snow stayed just long enough to be enjoyed, then went away again. Today we had another snow fall. This granny made snow angels then walked, through the falling snow, into the world of Narnia.
I was a winter baby, born in a particularly harsh year in the days before central heating. I love my January celebration, brightening up an otherwise hard time of year, all the more so when it snows. And now I’m waiting, with increasing anticipation, to welcome a new grandchild, expected any day. With each day that passes without announcement, I wonder whether this baby will come as a birthday gift. And more, in the sensible way of grannying, I’m hoping for snow free roads when the baby’s on its way.
The eve of epiphany sees the start of another lockdown. Lockdown number three, I think. But I may have lost count in the in-out of this hokey-cokey. The tree is down, as are most of the decorations. Some of the lights, re-designated now as winter lights, will remain to shine in the darkness of January nights.
Christmas cards are down, their messages and greetings waiting to be re-read. Maybe this year will be a good one to get in touch and send replies earlier than next December. Among the cards, a picture of Magi travelling to see the child Jesus makes me smile. ‘We three kings can’t go very far’ was a favourite Christmas parody.
Now, as of today, we may only travel if we ‘have a reasonable excuse for doing so’. Traditional colourful scenes leave me wondering how these wise men might have justified their journey; or would they maybe delay their visit? This granny, anticipating the imminent arrival of a new grandchild, is currently grateful that travel to a support bubble remains a reasonable excuse.
It’s been a dark start to the year. Too much bad news overwhelming us some days.
Brisk winter walks on frosty days bring joy and hope. Today was muddy and slippery. I walked, as we are permitted, with a friend carrying her own burden. She shared it, and we carried it together for a while. A hug was needed, but not permitted. Now, at the start of a long journey, she knows she’s not alone.
Wet winter weather lowers the mood as we stagger towards the end of 2020. A year ago we met up with friends and mourned the 2019 election result together, we had no idea then of the year that was to follow.
A week ago, we were fortunate to meet up with the same friends. We enjoyed the most substantial of meals: hearty pies, served with gravy, chips and vegetables. Wrapped in blankets, we sat beneath a heated gazebo in a pub car park. Rain bounced around us, but it was worth it for their company and the normality of a pre-Christmas lunch.
Uncertainty and worry of a post-Brexit wilderness dominates the news. The footpaths of the town’s edge lands are lost under a thick layer of mud. Against that gloom the lights in town shine brightly this year. Businesses, shops, and homes all seem to have made that extra effort to decorate ahead of scaled down celebrations. We made it through the second lockdown, emerging into the strangest of Advent seasons.
At the end of this year, so much harder for some than for others; we don’t know what next year will bring, we never do. But first we knew we would have Christmas, and that is something that this granny has always loved to celebrate. We were looking forward to five days with our family. We knew that there were risks. But we had made a choice to manage the risk. Suddenly, the guidance is changed; five days reduced to just one for us. Elsewhere in the country, a total ban on meeting.
We will make the most of our day together. Apart from that, we can wrap up warm and meet outside; knowing that we have warm homes to which we can return. We will acknowledge and mourn what we had planned and hoped for. But we must not let that prevent us from celebrating what remains.
Full of life, walking through these days, I wandered into a graveyard.
I was not in search of any particular grave and this was not a picturesque place; it was in fact quite the opposite. It sits in the grounds of a neglected church. The windows broken or boarded, duvets in its covered doorway the only evidence of recent use.
I have often passed this place, running or walking, and noticed the sad sight of memorials once proudly standing but now laid flat in the interest of health and safety.
As I walked around its mossy path, a black marble stone caught my eye. It marked a grave, a quarter of a century old; its occupant, a wife and mother. She shared my date of birth. A life cut short, in her thirties; no chance to test the notion that life begins at 40.
It challenged me, made me reflect on life and living. I felt a responsibility to make the most of life whilst there is breath in me. I walked away, down the hill, back into town, aware of the changing season. It brought to mind the words of Ecclesiastes. For everything there is a time, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die. A time to celebrate life.
The 2020 US election results were declared and will be remembered for a gracious winner and accusations of fraud from the defeated incumbent. Many words have been written, I’m not going to increase their number.
It’s been a week of fresh autumn days, perfect for walking around the edges of town. I’ve taken over 100,000 steps and have covered another 50 miles of my virtual Camino. Red poppies and Christmas lights have been added to the colours of the season.
I’ve walked alone and with friends. On Remembrance Day, I walked with a new neighbour. We had good intentions of observing the silence at 11am; walking and talking, we missed the moment. She arrived in our street between lockdowns and we have discovered much in common. Not least a shared faith and a mutual love of reading. We thought it would be fun to start a book group and managed to get a legal meeting of five together on the eve of the second lockdown. Our first book: A man called Ove went down well, as did the red wine.
One of our number is not a reader, but she enjoyed the chat and she is a keen walker. So, for our next session (in early 2021, subject to lockdown laws) we’ll be talking of pilgrimages and long distance walking books. Simon Armitage’s ‘Walking Home’ and Raynor Win’s ‘The Salt Path’ are on the agenda. Lots of miles covered in each book, many purposeful steps taken and plenty of food for thought for these days of mindful walking from home.
Here we go again: four weeks of national lockdown in England.
There’s a sense of déjà vu. We set off back in March to do those three weeks of lockdown which staggered on for three months or more. We walked our way through Lent, celebrated Easter and family birthdays on Zoom; enjoyed the lighter evenings and lengthening days; saw leaves and blossom grow. We stayed close to home, talked more with our neighbours and celebrated VE day with a physically distanced street party.
I committed to get to the end of that first lockdown with no regrets as to how I’d used the time. For the most part I achieved that. I missed time spent with my daughters and granddaughters, but that was forbidden and out of my control. And it made their company very special throughout the late summer days.
Now it’s nearly Advent, the days are shorter again and the evenings are dark. Leaves are yellow, gold and brown; hawthorn trees are laden with crimson berries.
Whether it’s four weeks or more, I’m committed again to not wasting a day. I’ve challenged myself to walk the length of the Camino de Santiago. Over the last 25 days, I’ve walked 125 miles: an average of five miles per day. This morning, I walked out along the old railway line and clocked up another ten miles. If the autumn weather is kind, I will be adding to that total over the next month.
The weather was great today: this would have made a perfect night for the town’s bonfire and firework display if it was allowed.
Many times we’ve sung a big hymn: Thine be the glory springs to mind now but the list is endless… and I’ve announced that I’m going to have it at my funeral. ‘It’s going to be a long service’ my daughters say, as I make yet another announcement. The fragility of such plans was in my mind this week as I attended a second online funeral. It’s a strange experience. Just 15 masked family members or close friends in attendance and no singing. No comforting touches from more distant friends or near neighbours.
Getting used to such restrictions, and wearing masks in public places, has been strange. Not least with the masks is working out how to avoid the steamed up glasses. This week, a friend said that she felt sad not to see people smiling. But what I have come to realise is that you really can’t hide a true smile just by covering your mouth and nose.
The wrinkles round our eyes are not called laughter lines without reason. A painted on smile sitting beneath cold emotionless eyes is not a smile at all. It can be a sinister reminder of a timeless villain: the child catcher, Hansel and Gretel’s witch, the Bond villain. A masquerade, a deception. Look at my eyes, count the laughter lines. You can usually see that I’m smiling, enjoying your company.
Occasionally I may be exhausted and ready to sleep, in which case I’m really sorry if the smile doesn’t show. You are still very interesting and amusing, but sometimes my sleepy introvert takes over and hides my smile behind the mask.
September again, another academic year underway. It’s different this autumn with many activities remaining in the virtual world. The Friday writing class has now been re-branded as a virtual writers’ group.
‘What is a virtual writer?’ I pondered as I logged on this morning. It seems the perfect excuse for not producing the homework or delivering the finished piece. I’m not a real writer, just a virtual one. It’s all there in my head, in that beautifully crafted sentence; carved out as I run or walk in the edge-lands of our town. Elusive when I have paper and pencil to hand.
This group has become a real source of inspiration, support and friendship. There are no guilt trips or judgements. Constructive critique moves us forward together and for that I am grateful. ‘Rambling Rose’ referred to my regular blogging this morning, nudging me to remember that it might have become more erratic of late.
That’s maybe just additional evidence that I am not a robot. Along with many others, I had a bad experience with the Covid-19 testing site a couple of weeks ago. I managed to get the required test, which arrived late in the day, but failed in my efforts to convince the website that I was not a robot. With not much time to spare before the last post, I ended up in another call centre queue. If I had been a robot, I would probably not have suffered the same level of frustration with the website. Being human, I was yet again grateful for the understanding and helpfulness of a real person.
I need to add a new signatory to a bank mandate. It’s a task to be completed before I can stand down from my volunteer treasurer role. It seems straightforward, easy enough to start the process online.
I go through the necessary hurdles to log on to the account. A message: we can’t do this online right now, call this number. I call the number. An immediate response. It’s not a person, it’s a recorded menu; I choose option 1. The music kicks in, a steady adrenaline inducing rhythm. No indication of how many are ahead of me in the queue. The occasional interruption of a recorded voice thanking me for waiting.
Forty minutes later, I can take no more. I hang up, wondering if it was nearly my turn.
I leave it a few days before I try again. Another immediate response. I remember it’s not real, select option 1, brace myself against the music. Twenty minutes pass. A real person offers to help me.
I pass the security tests. I congratulate myself on retrieving a texted code without inadvertently ending the call and returning to the back of the queue.
I explain my requirements. Casper, the friendly call handler, works through the process online. It takes another forty minutes to complete the forms and explain the next steps. He takes his time, makes sure he gets it right. I’m grateful for his time and patience. I thank him, and realise that his undivided attention is the reward for a long wait.
I read a friend’s blog. She spoke of harsh words running through her like a stick of rock, the core of her being as it were. She described them as invisible scars.
As I was running this morning (run #29/40 for the GNR solo) I thought about her words. I wondered first, how do they put the letters into a stick of rock? Then I began to ponder the words that run through me. Would the words which others read in me differ from the ones I feel myself?
Earlier this week, my mum described me as ‘independent’. She’s labelled me in many ways over the years: it didn’t necessarily feel like a compliment. She’s understandably angry and fed up at the loss of her own independence right now. There was a sense that she would like to maintain more control.
Sometimes it feels as though I’ve spent too much of my life trying not to rock the boat. Not always with success. Maybe I have occasionally felt that I have lost sight of myself, the person I was created to be. Now I’m thinking it will take a lifetime to fully become that person.
Not independent but interdependent: a tiny efficient cog working within a complex machine. Life is dynamic; we can’t stand still.