At the crossroads
Floods, fog, cancelled flights and frost
It’s a cold morning and outside the world is beautiful, with bright sun and a thick, sparkling frost. The holidays are over, yet the feeling lingers that the world is holding its breath. The chocolates are mostly eaten, and soon the time will come to clear away the clutter of Christmas and consign it to memory.
I’m surrounded by the clear pages of new diaries, the bare squares of untouched calendars. Good advice, writing prompts, flyers from Slimmers’ World and the gym, all add to the inner compulsion to make plans and resolutions. And indeed, I did some of those things yesterday, planning courses and concerts, trips to exhibitions and family get-togethers. We have lost one near future and now crave another to bring structure to life. The flurry of activity felt good.
But yesterday also brought news to our neighbourhood of the worst floods in living memory. A month of rain fell on New Year’s Eve, and within four hours the level of the Mersey, our local river, went from normal to record-breaking. The flood defences were activated to protect local homes, but the allotments ten minutes away from our house, the sports club and the paths we like to walk on, spotting herons, kingfishers and even the occasional otter, lie underwater. People gather to marvel at sheets of water where familiar landmarks were visible only two days ago, trains and trams are cancelled and cars float in a torrent on the road to the airport. Nobody can quite believe that yet another once-in-a-lifetime event has happened, the third and worst in a few years. Anxious texts and pictures are shared. Are you all right? Yes, for now. Until next time, perhaps.
It’s a stark reminder that we live in a more volatile and dangerous world, and that no matter how much we try not to think about it, natural forces have the power to scupper all our good intentions. Last week, fog led to a cancelled flight and an extra night in Copenhagen for us. My son struggled up to Edinburgh to spend New Year with friends, only to find the trains in chaos and all the outdoor celebrations cancelled. But he was rewarded yesterday, on the beach at Leith, with an unexpected sight of the Aurora. These days, it’s worth making the most of immediate pleasures and always having a Plan B in mind.
Having joined my neighbours to view the chaos, now I sit indoors looking at the oracle cards I drew for the coming year by the flickering light of a Cornish candle scented, according to the manufacturers, with gorse and granite. Does granite have an aroma? I’m not sure, but the illusion transports me back to the West Penwith landscape I love so dearly, with its ancient stones, its 270 degree sea views, and waves crashing onto rocks hundreds of feet below. I look out of the window at our ginkgo tree, which I remember in a modest plant pot 30 years ago and is now almost the height of the house. Its golden leaves are fallen now, browning amid the sharp green of moss on the ridged roof of the garage, but it’s still beautiful. On top of the garden wall, tiny fronds of moss sprout like jewels from the mortar, each one topped with a bead of frozen water. It probably means that the wall needs repointing again, but for now I enjoy its beauty. In the herb garden, sage leaves hang frozen and the skeleton seedpods of Angelica and fennel remain. The ground is hard; there will be no digging for a few days, but the hundred or so worms I decanted yesterday from a seething compost bin will have huddled under leaf mould for protection. Life clings on, extravagently at times, when everything looks frozen in time.
I have drawn the Crossroads card. A woman, cloaked and hooded but with her hands bare, stands in a winter forest of birch that reminds me of the Swedish landscapes I was enjoying last week. The thin tree trunks striate the snow with bluish shadows. A bright orange sun lies just above the horizon, the sky around it and horizon beneath blushed a faint peach. Soon darkness will fall. She looks calm but apprehensive. Should she continue her journey or seek shelter? She has probably not travelled as far as she’d hoped to. Have any of us?
I feel at something of a crossroads myself. I always assumed that at some point I’d recover from cancer and Covid, and go back to being the active person I was once before. The chemo has worked, at least for now, but getting Covid in the middle of it has left long-lasting effects. Deprived of oestrogen, I’ve aged rapidly and have periods of debilitating fatigue. Last week in Sweden, I felt utterly useless at times. An easy two-mile walk along the coast left me completely exhausted, back aching, heart rate racing, the feeling that there were huge lumps of concrete attached to the ends of my legs. I thought I was getting better, but the tiring build-up to Christmas has made my symptoms flare again.
I just about make it to my daughter’s apartment, where everyone is busy preparing an elaborate meal for guests arriving that evening. I feel so useless. I wanted to help; instead I’m shooed out of the kitchen and onto the sofa. I lie with my eyes closed and take in the sounds around me; the clash of pots and pans in the kitchen, along with the scent of curry being prepared (my husband’s Christmas curry feasts for our children’s friends are legendary, and are now being exported to Sweden. He has been cooking them for years, and even the pandemic didn’t stop him; he did a cook-along on Zoom and I’ll never forget the pleasure of seeing the faces of scattered friends fill the screen). The day before Curry Night was always hectic, chaotic, fraught, his patience stretched to its limit by preparing a ridiculous number of dishes simultaneously. Now he’s doing it all in someone else’s kitchen, without the usual suppliers of exotic ingredients.
I think how well he works with my daughter as a team. How well they are managing without me. I listen to the gentle voice of my son as he works on a craft activity with my little grand-daughter. I realise that I rarely had this sense of being loved, cared for, with nothing demanded of me, even as a child. How I expect, even now, to be judged on what I can do, rather than who I am or what I can be.
I’m not here to be useful. I’m here to be loved. It’s the loveliest feeling of release and it gives me the strength to actually enjoy the evening, when the guests arrive, and to be sanguine about our cancelled flight and hours sitting on the floor at the gate the following evening. All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
It’s so difficult at first to let go and let a younger generation take the strain, to see yourself through their eyes and not recoil from the picture of doddery helplessness that appears. Maybe I won’t get better, if getting better means being able to do all I could before. My eyesight isn’t great. My back hurts when I carry heavy luggage. My offspring are no longer children, or even young adults. They are in the prime of life, the parameters set for established careers and relationships.
My work isn’t entirely done. But a different work is beginning. My energy now is finite and precious in a way it never was before. Every day will be a fresh negotiation with the reality of chronic sickness. It is not an identity I would have chosen, but there is space for green shoots of new life to grow between the stones if I can move forward honestly and in faith. I have many blessings. I am deeply loved, well housed, financially secure and have outlived both my parents to see a beautiful grand-child born. I can handle being at a crossroads, I think.
"I’m not here to be useful. I’m here to be loved." Loved reading about the crossroads you're at, Miranda, and the green shoots to be found amongst the stones.