What Kanga did next

I used to believe I was an optimist or at the very least a realist, now I find myself sliding into pessimistic territory and I’m wondering what has made me blue recently.

I tap my head like the bear with very little brain, Winnie the Pooh – “think, think, think.”

Eeyore sits beside me as I write this, solemn and quiet but a presence nevertheless. He was a gift I bought for Andrew once – he was always acknowledged as the Eeyore of our family.

I long to have the energy and exuberance of a Tigger but fear I am the timid, overly apologetic Piglet. Or probably the even more overshadowed Kanga who mothers everyone from wrapping a scarf round Poo’s neck to keep him warm to showing kindness to Tigger when he first bounced into the Hundred Acre Wood.

From Winniepedia 

Yes, I think I am most probably Kanga, at least she has some of Owl’s wisdom without the scowl I suppose, but these days I am Kanga with an empty nest. Or spare bedroom or two in my case.

What did Kanga do once Roo grew up and hopped away? Or what would Kanga have done because I suspect Hundred Acre Wood is stuck in its own time warp where Heffalumps, Woozzles and burst balloons are the scariest things to befall the inhabitants.

Or at least it was until A. A. Milne’s stories slipped out of copyright and fell into the public domain.

Unbelievably there is now a nightmarish version where these beloved characters go on a murderous rampage when Christopher Robin grows up – Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey. I think it’s best avoided and certainly not for the faint hearted.

My own scary tale is one of loneliness and redundancy. Being a mother has been the pinnacle of my existence for so long I’m not sure what happens next. The boys have kept me going, giving me a reason to get up each morning, which was crucial after their dad died. Now they are in their mid-twenties carving their own paths without me, at least for the most part.

I have just visited them in the flat they share together and I easily fell back into the routine of cooking, ironing, and cleaning for them. Perhaps I am just a soft touch.

The trouble is I don’t have a career to fall back on, although I now call myself a writer it still feel it’s something just out of reach and I haven’t quite achieved it. Maybe publishing a book will fill the aching void.  That does mean I need to finish writing it and stop writing blog posts for my 27 readers – that’s an average number, but writing has always been a process to untangle my thoughts as well as record them.

Empty nesting is also much harder when you go through it alone without a partner, at least that is my perception as I see all my friends on Facebook going off in couples now their children have flown, enjoying their own space and company. I will admit I am more than a bit jealous that I don’t have that luxury. In reality if Andrew were still around I would probably still be jealous of my friends and I’d be the nagging wife throwing it in his face all the time rather than whinging here!

Yes, I could go on solo adventures but I long to share experiences, to come home and be able to reminisce, “remember when we did this, went there, saw that…”

Most looking back I do is re-reading old blog posts, sometimes I am amazed at my clarity of thought, who is this woman who went through all this trauma and still came out smiling? She so often seems a distant memory.

I need to find her again, take stock and have another re-invention. I’ve been stuck many times before. The record spins and the needle jumps. But five years ago I was still in my big house that I never thought I would sell. Who knows where I will be in five years time? Things do change over time sometimes incrementally, sometimes in the blink of an eye.

Life is made up of different stages. I’ve been a wife and will always be a mother, a widow, a single parent and a cancer survivor but I’m struggling to come up with a new label that is positive and doesn’t include the words menopausal or middle aged. Maybe all I need is a decent title.

When I started this blog I called it In Search of Lost Glitter after a dream I had. Sadly, any glitter I have collected has tarnished in my hands over time.

It’s time to go searching for the sparkle again and sometimes searching can be as simple as letting your  fingers tap away on the keyboard.

Let your fingers do the walking

Just writing this has helped me and I hope reading it helps you a little bit too. xx

 

For any wife who's lost her husband...

 A wife lost her husband

Others lost their dad

Children lost a grandfather

They are all very sad

 

Each struggle with their mourning

What’s the right thing they should do?

There’s protocol to follow

Covid restrictions too

 

With fortitude and grace

And a firm “stiff upper lip”

Masks affixed in place

Only a silent tear let slip

 

But underneath the surface?

What emotions are unbidden?

Does private grief bubble up?

Past secrets stay hidden?

 

Who can tell how you would feel,

in this painful situation?

Grief is deeply personal

Not “news” broadcast to the nation

 

Everyone mourns differently

Some with tears, but then there’s laughter

Memories tumble quickly

No new ones from here after

 

A wife lost her husband

Others lost their dad

Children lost a grandfather

They are all very sad

 

Having lost a husband, a dad, a grandfather, an uncle, a friend I may have some inkling to how the royal family feels at this time. But no one really knows and few of us would ever have to face the public scrutiny they are subjected to.

But this poem isn’t just about their loss but it's written for any wife, child or grandchild at this time whose grief seems overshadowed by world events. 

We all try to do the “right” thing when actually there are no definitive answers in grief, laugh or cry, shout and scream, whatever helps you though each day.

You are not alone – God Bless!

Lost and Loneliness

Lost and Loneliness is quite possibly a rejected Jane Austen title that never quite made the grade. It follows the same pattern as Pride and Prejudice and my favourite Sense and Sensibility, but doesn’t really grab you and the more I think about it doesn’t make grammatical sense either – it should be Loss and Loneliness or Lost in Loneliness. But neither of them quite fitted my mood.

I played around with the online thesaurus and came up with Adrift and Abandoned. A bit dramatic, even for me.

Last night I went to the theatre to see Austentatious – an improvised Austenesque play made up on the spot after title suggestions are shouted out from the audience. Getting the title right is of utmost importance.

Youngest son and I saw something similar at the Edinburgh Fringe based on Sherlock Holmes, so I had an idea what to expect and as a lover of all thing Austen – except the ending of Sanditon on TV recently – I decided I wanted to go.

The problem was I only found out about it the other week and it was almost too late to ask anyone to go with me.

But an independent woman of means is always in want of light entertainment and won’t let a lack of a companion stop her!

The day before the performance I received an email from the theatre with directions to car parking nearby. It looked a doddle, I fixed the map in my brain, as I tend to do, and set off into the night.

Everything looks so different when it’s dark and as I neared the town centre where the theatre was located, I realised this wasn’t going to be as straightforward as I imagined – it was ever thus!

I stopped a couple of times to consult Google Maps but still ended up in a car park the other end of town. Deciding at least the car was safe and secure I set off, once more consulting google maps – why does the arrow not point in the direction you are walking???

At least the predicted 800 metres ahead of me was not daunting, now I am much fitter, I had sensible flat shoes on even if I was only wearing a thin wrap – well one does like to dress up for a theatre visit.

The streets were silent and strange – had I thrown sense out of the window? Was it purely my pride that spurred me on? I confess I wavered and wobbled a bit but with some persuasion to my inner self I kept putting one foot in front of the other and finally the glow of the theatre was before me.

I had time to claim my ticket, use the facilities and get a drink before settling down in my seat ready for the show to begin.

After rejecting such suggestions as “Trouble and Strife at the Whitehouse” and “Lust and Lycanthropy” the title of the performance was decided, we are about to see the one off performance of “Formally Known As Brian”.

I am quite convinced this tale, about the status of having the right name, was the inspiration behind Oscar Wilde’s classic “The Importance of Being Ernest”.  It followed a similar plot. Our heroine Clarissa Ward declared she could not marry a man called Brian Peanut. Some name changing, misunderstanding and chaos ensued until a satisfying resolution was reached. Although the solitary duck in the pond was killed, the Peanuts lived happily ever after – a true Austen classic ending. (Take note producers of Sanditon – as if they’d be reading this! Hahaha)

The play was delightful and the walk back to the car, once I consulted google, was actually more straightforward.

As I wandered, not quite so lost I remained just a little bit lonely. I had no one to share my experiences with. The play was a one off the only other people who knew the minor plot of the dead duck were now scattered, no one else would find it quite as funny.

I honestly don’t mind doing anything on my own, walking, going to the cinema, even eating out alone. I don’t always like the lost feeling of walking somewhere new in the dark, but I’ve come to terms with those demons.

Driving home last night along the windy country lanes I remembered a previous journey made years ago. It was the first long journey I undertook a few weeks after losing Andrew, I had my two young sons with me and I was the sole responsible adult. It was dark and so very foggy it was actually scary. I recognise I’ve come a long way since then. I am almost a different person.

I have proved my resilience over and over again but there is still a small ache, a chip in my heart that leaves me not quite complete. Perhaps I never will be totally whole again.

Online dating doesn’t seem to be the answer… I might write more on that another day; I might give it another go next year – November is NOT the right time and I didn’t think things through properly when I started this quest for romance.

Maybe somewhere out there is a Mr Darcy or Edward Ferrers waiting patiently, or even impatiently. I’m not quite sure how I find him, if he will find me or if my life will ever be as Austenesque as I wish it to be.

Undeterred I will plod on, improvising mostly in a style all of my own. Trying not to get too lost and combating those brief moments of loneliness with a smile and a new adventure because an independent woman of means is always in want of some excitement in her life and won’t let a lack of a companion stop her!