Tag: life

Re-rooted

I’ve been silent on here for a while, but I have been writing. In the midst of a busy life, I completed my masters last year and I’m hoping to continue my creative musings on substack @thisgranny

My roots have shifted. Mr A and I have moved from the centre of the Victorian town that had been our home for nearly four decades. We’ve settled at the far most edge of a village on the edge of the Roman city of Eboricum, the ancient capital of the North. Notwithstanding the winter’s incessant rain and our home’s need for a new roof, thankfully now nearly completed, I am at peace in our new home surrounded by well-watered green spaces.

I’m finding new edgelands here. They’re overlooked by the tiny parish church of St Everilda, with its origins of a spiritual community dating back to the seventh century. Its twenty first century congregation has welcomed us more than we could have anticipated.

The East Coast mainline cuts across the new edgelands, connecting me to family and friends. Mr A enjoys nothing more than taking his grandchildren up to the fields to wave at the trains.

It’s a joy for me to watch the trains heading north, carrying my love to three grandsons, and their parents. It’s a greater joy to be sitting on the train heading up for a visit and watching out for St Everilda’s bells.

The youngest of our six grandchildren was born the day after our move. Exhausted by the trauma of the move, we travelled up by train to meet him for the first time.

The English conveyancing system, combined with an element of poor communication, left us temporarily lost in the no-man’s land of uncertainty. Our earthly possessions gathered into a removal van, we had no idea whether they would be unpacked into our old or our new home. Thankfully, it’s sufficiently in the past now for me to be grateful for the blessing of a soft landing in a place of nature and nurture.

Mayday

A distress call, or a celebration of the beginnings of summer?  Either way, along with the biennial flowering of our honesty, May Day’s taken me by surprise.

It feels as if we’re only just beginning to put the grey days of February behind us. I need to remind myself that we’ve already celebrated Easter and a clutch of spring birthdays, and enjoyed some sunny days. I’ve spent several long days in the garden and been lulled into a false sense of security that it might be ok to plant out some of last year’s carefully nurtured seedlings. The sweet-peas, seeds planted outside a few weeks ago, are cautiously emerging from the soil bringing hope and anticipation for the summer ahead.

I’ve been pleasantly distracted, not only by the garden, but also by my adventure back into academic life. Four decades on from graduation, I’ve become a student again. No regrets, I’m bringing my life experience into the world of creative writing. And loving it. Freed from the world of financial reporting, my creative side has been unleashed.  It turns out that some of my stuff is quite good, people actually like to read it. I’ve battled with my biggest critic, the inner one, the one that labels me imposter.

‘What are you writing?’ Mr A asks often.  ‘Nothing much, just course-work,’ is my usual reply. Nothing to see here… I’ve changed tack now. This week, I let him see some work in draft. ‘I’ve written another story,’ I said. ‘Would you like to read it? Tell me what you think is happening here…You don’t have to, not unless you want to…’ His verdict, ‘gripping’, combined with a handful of pencilled editing marks, has left the imposter within me temporarily maimed.

And yes, to those who like to ask, this granny does still run. Three short runs last week. And I’m off on a writing retreat at the weekend, filled with good intentions that my running shoes will punctuate my days. I will return with better habits.