The Art of Picking up Dropped Stitches

April 15, 2017

I am trying to separate it out, unknotting strands that become chaotically tangled.


Stitches dropped by the stresses I am trying to field.

Which do I cultivate intrinsically, cooking up a storm internally so that it’s my doing that my chest constricts and I battle for breath. I focus then. Lie flat. My palms on my abdomen. Breathe deep, I sternly tell myself. Enough self-remonstration and eventually I can feel the eagle trapped behind my sternum where its wings beat painfully morph and migrate as a soft cloud of manageable butterflies to my tummy, which obediently begins to rise and fall in smooth, deliberate, synchronization of thoughts reined, heart rate tamed.


I am trying to understand what I can control. What I cannot. And which responses to what I cannot control I can master better. A riddle.


I must – I know – lean to control the speed at which I live, hastily, always urgently trying to Fix what I mostly cannot. So that my bare foot, polish on painted toenails chipped, is pressed less urgently to the accelerator so that I do not hurtle out of control.


I do that alot: I do too much too quickly without thinking. It means I make mistakes. Alot. Rash decisions, commitments I cannot honour, not without dropping more and more stitches, losing the end of important threads. It means there is not enough time – despite my having an abundance of the stuff as I rattle in an outpost – to collect my thoughts and order them to compliant, tidy, rank.


But what of all the stuff I cannot control? And there is so much of that. A perpetual anxiety for my precious, darling, far away babies; my gently unravelling mother who one day is with me and the next a step further away so I am never entirely sure what I will deal with, a wonderful husband who is so strung with a big, unwieldy, job that I am often at a loss of how to support (you can’t Fix everything it turns out) that I must take cover from the inevitable fall out of his own stress. I worry about the past – how much have I wasted? – about the present and, especially, about the future. Which means I am Projecting which I ought not for that is useless wasteful energy spent on things I cannot know how to control, much less Fix.


Is this because of the person I am? The physiology of one who is wiry, woundtight, strung high? Is it because my memory of life’s side-swipes is more acute so that I catastrophize? That every dimple in my roadmap has the propensity to explode as a disaster? Is it because I expect the worst and strap myself tightly in (unlike my darling Ant who expects the best but prepares for the worst).


My GP says, ‘you’re Blood pressure is far too high’. So I swallow the pills he prescribes each morning and try to remember I ought not to accelerate a racing heart with real coffee. I sip decaff with distaste and wrinkle my nose.


I know what will order all of this. 522 words later, a single page of letters which have conformed to the shape I need them to be. Over these I have control. Over my words I have command. I must let them manipulate gentle power over me. Writing by its very nature demands solace, space, silence. It requires an emptying of headspace of the extraneous. It demands exactly the focus I need to slow my racing physiology, my scattered emotions.


Here, on the page, is the only place i can line them all up, give them a long, hard look, wag a finger in the direction of those that are slinking sideways and out of step.


I must write. I must write more.

Everything and Nothing

April 2, 2017

rose natal grass

When we walk on the dam, we must drive first.  We load the dogs into the back of the car, in a lather of frenzied excitement so that they rush hither and thither to make sure you’re really coming, that you are really gathering up hats and shoes.  I almost never wear shoes. The dogs know something’s in the offing when I lace sneakers up. This morning the sky is hugeblue. Huge. And clean; rinsed of cloud.

We whip out on the new ribbonsmooth tar road, the rose Natal grass softly fringes its hard edge and blushes in clouds of pink.

It is a beautiful, beautiful day.


This time a week ago I was a long way from dams and dogs and acacia trees fat and green at the thin edge of a slender wedge rainy season – half what we had last year and not nearly enough. I was in the Capital. Stocking up. Groceries. Butter. Prescription meds. I had my hair cut, my toenails painted so that my feet would look prettier than they normally do in their birthdaysuitbareness (given usual absence of shoes. See above). Ant told me to try not to gawp in supermarkets, he laughed as I stopped dead at the entrance of shiny new Food Lovers Market, my empty trolley coming to an abrupt halt; the shelves dripped Aladdin jewels of multi-hued fruit and veg that we never see in the outpost, ‘close your mouth’, he said, ‘you’re giving yourself away’.

The country mouse comes to town, I thought.


At night, when I cannot sleep, I dig my earphones deep and listen loudly in the secret silence to the murmur of far away voices. Podcasts a boon, carrying a distant world into mine. My latest favourite: the BBC’s Book and Authors, I love Harriet Gilbert and her guests’ dissection of a Good Book. I discover many new joys here, in the dead hours: Imtiaz Dharker‘s poems and Jenny Offill’s, Dept. of Speculation, a sparse novel about marriage and motherhood, with language deliciously taut so that you know she has carefully weighted every single word and wasted not one.

‘The baby’s eyes were dark, almost black, and when I nursed her in the middle of the night, she’d stare at me with a stunned, shipwrecked look as if my body were the island she’d washed up on.’


Talking words and books and language, I shouldered my way onto my Creative Writing course. I bullied, begged, cajoled, leaning hard against a door until I got my foot in and then wriggled my way through. I start in October. Course books already gather on my desk and the exercises they prescribe read as keys to unlock the block that descends too often now, in the void in which I tend to rattle.


Best of all, my Hat is home. Briefly. For Easter. Long, lean, all grown up, half a head taller than I but small enough still that I can envelope her in an embrace and inhale the sustaining scent of motherhood.


I began this blog ten years ago. What a journey. Thank you all for keeping me company x

The Whole Story

March 21, 2017

I have written words about Depression that I had forgotten I had written.

I have described madness as being a part of my normality. A part of what defines me. It was there for so long. And even when it wasn’t, palpable reminders remained of this most intangible illness: prescriptions, books, appointments penciled into the diary. Palpable evidence of an illness that’s all in the mind. How ironic.

Is there a story here, I wonder, as I trawl through virtual pages of words that begin to swim on the screen in front of me, so long have I stared at this too-bright light in a room that is growing dim so that the glare is growing exponentially, punishing. Is there a useful message? Does the arc of this tale deliver hope? Understanding? Insight? Am I the person to write it – she who rode, let’s face it, in relative comfort of pillion position.

So I begin to dig through files tucked in the secret, invisible, recessed archives of my laptop. If I could touch them, I’d have to blow the dust from pages, tease cobwebs from folders, wipe them clean with the back of a sleeve to read the text, so long have they languished in the dark, years. Years! I come across dozens of articles published, I come across dozens more that never saw the light of day, I stumble upon thoughts I’d forgotten I had, countless blog entries. I unearth a whole, forgotten manuscript; 100 000 words of Mum’s story threaded with research, pertinent quotes, poetry as I tried to unpick this illness, rationalize it to myself.

That’s how much the madness morphed as normalcy; excavating it, dissecting it, trying to get beneath its skin meant it got under mine. It became part of my subconscious.

I print all the words out. Sheaves of paper. A door stop. A draught excluder.

Do I dare tell this story, the whole story? From the beginning?

The Rearranging of Celestial Furniture

March 16, 2017

At this time of year, when the rains are here, our night skies can be spectacular. Big banks of cloud that have bulked all afternoon – so that we know the sun that bakes our backs as we walk the garden is the type that conjures storms – huddle on our horizons, bruised and brooding, like a sullen crowd that gathers menacingly, shoulders thrown, expressions darkly glowering.

I gaze heavenward, my palm shielding my eyes, ‘do you think it will come?’ I ask Mum, ‘the rain’. Mum squints up: I hope so, she says, it’s too warm.

Sometimes the sun wins out and dissolves the clouds away, stares them down with hot glares so that they skulk to some other lucky person’s horizons and by dusk my sky is peachy pink and eggshell blue and you’d never know there was ever the promise of glorious rain.

But some evenings the weighty congregation of clouds win out, they drop their black shoulders and storm the sun and push it clean from the sky. Their rough eviction is championed with applause that rumbles and growls and cracks loud bright whips to hurry it all on so that the night is illuminated with a thousand bolts of hot white light as it hurls itself to earth.

And I lie in bed and listen to the gathering pace of raindrops on my tin roof, like a featherlight dance of fairies at first, tiny feet that race above me and quickly gather weight and speed so that soon all I can hear is a roar, like a train, and I can smell Africa don her earthy scent in celebration as the blackness of my room burns neon with every flash and the rain pours down.

By dawn the sky is smokegrey, stilled, silent; the storm and her entourage with its victorious clapping and loud shouts and bright lights has ambled off to deliver her show elsewhere. I skip out across a wet lawn in my barefeet to inspect the rain gauge. Sometimes it will be almost full, others barely wet and then I will report to mum, over breakfast, ‘all blow, no go that Ma, just 5 mils’.

Yesterday she asked me, ‘what makes the thunder? is there something solid up there, it sounds as if something is being moved around’. I tell her, ‘the lightening, Mum, that’s what we can hear’. She looks doubtful.

And memories rush in. When I was little and storm-watched on the farm with dad, he taught me to count between lightening strike and thunder clap, ‘one … two … three’, the number of seconds that lapsed, he said, told you how near, or far, the strike had been. Sometimes in the Outpost there is no time at all, between one and the other, I have watched lightening strike trees, the electricity poles, the road directly in front of my car. I have heard it and seen it all at the same time, no ‘one … two … three’; no warning.

I think of Mum’s reasoning that something so loud must surely mean something more tangible than the lightening speed of electrons and I remember that when we were little, she told us that the crash of thunder was the sound of the gods rearranging their furniture and I imagined them, backs to a bulky wardrobe, shuffling it to a new corner.

Mum’s stroke means that her view of the world is sometimes a little off, except that at times I think her logic is spot on. That’s exactly what thunder sounds like: like something solid and heavy and concrete being hefted around above us.

Come and Gone

March 14, 2017

Visitors come and visitors go and almost immediately it’s hard to believe they were here at all.

My sister C and her youngest arrived a week ago. And left yesterday. They travelled from their African Outpost to mine and the days rushed past in such a blur I cannot now remember what happened from one day to the next.

It was a joy to hear my small, too-quiet home ring with the sound of a child’s laughter, to watch K swim, to listen to her ceaseless chatter, to observe her, too-long -limbed, unbrushed hair, starfish sprawled on a bed rendered still and silent only because she had a book to hand. Immersed in some other far away world.

And I think of my Hat and how she filled all my Outpost days first time around. Ten years ago: I first arrived here ten years ago.

We walked on the dam, we ate too much ice-cream, we watched telly that made us laugh, we swam endlessly, we played cards and we teased Mum so that she responded in mock horror: ‘don’t give Gran another biscuit, she’s verging on the morbidly obese as it is’. K shrieks with mirth, my sister giggles at Mum’s expression. Precious, precious days of nothing and everything. Family touching hands, re-connection, brief, blessed. I want to distill these days, to bottle them as heavenly scent that I may pop the lid and inhale deeply whenever I need to feel less lonely.

And when they leave I am momentarily unhinged. A day of floating aimlessly. Until I can find my groove, where my head goes back down, my shoulder to the wheel and I get on with the business of Getting on with It.

Good Better Best

March 9, 2017

We go out to lunch. With the girls. The rare handful of them that come and go from the Outpost; only a couple of us are permanent, rooted solid. Lunch is in celebration of International Women’s Day. Our hostess asks that we all arrive with an inspirational quote.

Immediately I panic. How will mum manage: to read is slow and can be tortuous, worse with an audience when nerves get the better of her. To remember something new, impossible.

She is unfazed. And from her tongue trips this:

Good, better, best,
Never let it rest,
Til your good is better,
And your better best.

‘I don’t where that came from’, she says, smiling in response to my congratulations and laughter,’ it was just there, in my head.’

I can’t make up my mind between two quotes – each supposed to be especially meaningful to the reader – so I take both.

‘It is not easy to find happiness in ourselves, and it is not possible to find it elsewhere’, so said essayist, Agnes Repplier

And, according to Marilyn Monroe, ‘Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring’.

I think my choice defines me neatly: my belief in the inevitability of madness and its thinline relationship with genius, my admiration for the beauty of imperfection, my comprehension of the mercurial catch-me-if-you-can nature of happiness: we can only ever be responsible for our own. The near-the-surface-of-my-skin fear that being an introvert (married to a 6’2″ extrovert) renders me dull. I am content to be viewed as unconventional, offcentre; I’d hate to be considered dreary.

And I adore Mum’s simple recital, I love that she has the courage to deliver it, that she has sieved her memories and found precisely the ditty she scribbled in my first autograph book. I think it underlines her unflagging determination to read and write all over again. Her courage. How game she is to join in, remain a part of all this.

All the girls at the table applaud her when she delivers her words. I want to weep with pride as she glows with delight.

The Genius of Madness

March 4, 2017

Aristotle said, “no great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness”.  He said that  in 350BC. Kay Redfield Jamison’s new book – Setting the River on Fire – her biography of poet Robert Lowel – says the same thing: beautiful minds are often attended by beasts of madness, the sharp toothed Black Dog, snapping incessantly at heels.

For a long time I sought to understand my mother’s madness. It manifested before I hit my teens. It was the seventies then. Mental illness was not the designer disorder it has since become. (One time president of the Royal College of Psychiatrists and himself a sufferer of what he described as ‘thundering’ depressions, Michael Shooter, told me that: that the illness has lost necessary gravitas because it has ‘become a designer disorder’; everybody wanted one).  It was misunderstood, wore a stigma far uglier then than it does today. It was a shameful condition, ‘what does she have to be miserable about?’ people asked of my mother. Sometimes I asked myself the same. I stood, unwilling guest at her hospital bedside, wondering how I could recraft the story of visiting my mum in the psych ward so that she sounded Properly Ill, not Properly Mad, so that my 13 year old self would elicit sympathy, not scorn, when dad dropped me back at boarding school where I was the envy of my classmates who only knew I had missed double geography and liver at lunchtime.

Later, as an adult, my passion to understand her illness was more sympathetic, more finely honed. Better organised. But the stigma still weighed heavy: mental illness was more palatable if it came dressed up as keen intellect.  I embarked on a project to marry the mad and the clever and approached dozens of writers, artists, poets to prove to myself the link was more than hypothesis. My literary project, an unpublished proposal that languishes gathering virtual dust, was supported by astonishing writers – Andrea Ashworth, Sophie Hannah Jones, Carolyn Slaughter, Dorothy Wade, Marjorie Wallace, Sally Brampton (whose own madness has taken her), Tim Lott, Linda Gask … I drove it with obsessive compulsion: I would get the message out: You might be mad, sure, but there exists a parallel between mental fragility and creative brilliance. Ergo, you are Positively Brilliant.

I never did. Get the message out. And mum’s madness sustained. Until she had her stroke eighteen months ago. It cost her the ability to read. Stole much of her initiative, some of her vigour, blunted her sharp wittedness. Would it, I asked her neuro as Mum lay in her bed at the rehab facility where she spent months, also spare her future depressions, the same that had obliterated whole years of her life? No he said assuredly and with, I felt, unkind conviction, ‘different part of her brain’, he said.

Two weeks ago my mother appeared to begin to slip, a familiar apathy struck, tears fell.  She collapsed. I panicked. How would we survive a depression especially in the absence of reading; her default escape in previous episodes had always been books. For two days I prowled and prodded and cajoled, ‘get up, walk with me, eat with me, watch with me’. And she did, meekly, obediently.  That surprised me: in pre stroke days she would have dug her heels in, resisted, shouted, railed. And remained firmly, determinedly, in bed or foetal curled in an armchair, her uncombed hair a static-mad halo around her pale face.

And to my astonishment, the misery lifted and my old-new contented mum – the one who now spends long hours trying to decipher an article or a story that is helpfully augmented with pictures, the one who describes the cat’s antics  – was up early to walk, to talk, to smile. To eat breakfast with me and relate to me as much of the mornings news as she could recall. She was just having a bad day, it turned out. Two. She has never had a bad day or two in her life, her bad days run into weeks, months, years.

So the neuro was wrong, it seems, the stroke stole her intellect which is shattering but it also seems to have lent some peculiar immunity to desolation (I touch wood and cross fingers as I write). Madness then and genius are linked.

Sometimes, occasionally, I ask myself: which is the happier scenario: my brilliant, tortured mother or my happier slower one?  I do not miss Depression, I will never miss its slit eyes, its knifesharp teeth, its mean stealth and the way it simultaneously robbed us of Mum and Mum of life,  but I do miss the conversations, the intellectual stimulation that my old-sick mum could deliver.


Waking in the Blue, Robert Lowel

The night attendant, a B.U. sophomore,
rouses from the mare’s-nest of his drowsy head
propped on The Meaning of Meaning.
He catwalks down our corridor.
Azure day
makes my agonized blue window bleaker.
Crows maunder on the petrified fairway.
Absence!  My heart: grows tense
as though a harpoon were sparring for the kill.
(This is the house for the “mentally ill.”)

What use is my sense of humor?
I grin at Stanley, now sunk in his sixties,
once a Harvard all-American fullback
(if such were possible!),
still hoarding the build of a boy in his twenties,
as he soaks, a ramrod
with the muscle of a seal
in his long tub,
vaguely urinous from the Victorian plumbing.
A kingly granite profile in a crimson golf cap,
worn all day, all night,
he thinks only of his figure,
of slimming on sherbet and ginger ale-
more cut off from words than a seal.

This is the way day breaks ii-i Bowditch Hall at McLean’s;
the hooded night lights bring out “Bobble,”
Porcellian’2 9,
a replica of Louis XVI
without the wig-
redolent and roly-poly as a sperm whale,
as he swashbuckles about in his birthday suit
and horses at chairs.

These victorious figures of bravado ossified young.

In between the limits of day,
hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts
and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle
of the Roman Catholic attendants.
(There are no Mayflower
screwballs in the Catholic Church.)

After a hearty New England breakfast,
I weigh two hundred pounds
this morning.  Cock of the walk,
I strut in my turtle-necked French sailor’s jersey
before the metal shaving mirrors,
and see the shaky future grow familiar
in the pinched, indigenous faces
of these thoroughbred mental cases,
twice my age and half my weight.
We are all old-timers,
each of us holds a locked razor.


Fat Africa

March 1, 2017


The southern Serengeti is fecund with life. Everything is fat: the wildebeest as they trail to and fro across these vast plains, so big you wonder that you don’t fall clean off the edge, honk and bleat and call. This is an ancient, circuitous route: each year a million of them meander across the savannah driven by primal instincts to eat, to breed. Almost all of the females are accompanied by a calf, pale newborns with black faces. They tumble to the ground on delivery and are up and racing almost immediately, such is the urgent life into which they are born.  We are always just too late to witness this extraordinary wild miracle of birth: the calf is getting to its feet, the afterbirth still evident.


The zebra are even more more fatbottomed than ever. The grazing here is plentiful, newgreen and tender. They eat, noses to the ground but rear pretty head up and skip skittish when they hear our vehicle, plump girls in a dance hall. Then from safer distance they regard us bashfully through long, long black lashes.

Ruaha Dec 14 Stripes.JPG

We come upon a male lion reclining in the shade. He is the most handsome specimen I have ever encountered, his eyes bright amber, his skin unmarked,  his mane thick and glossy and fully, L’Oreal Lion I think, because he’s worth it?


A little way off we encounter the youth, four plump males lolling, siesta still. They are so well fed – all those meandering wildebeest, heavy with life, all those zebra with their generous derrieres – they wear rolls around their middles. I have seen lion torn eared from fights over food, I have watched lioness savagely, hungrily, rip the last shreds from a carcass.  Here we find still born wildebeest still intact, not even the vultures are hungry enough to pick them apart.


Dung beetles roll their prizes – perfectly round brooding balls of dung, plentiful now on these well-fed plains – each pair busily tumbling so that when I pick them up in my hand I can feel the tiny might of their efforts in my palm. The females will lay their eggs inside.  The dung beetle is related to the scarab which the ancient Egyptians revered: the god Khepri renewed the sun every day before rolling it up above the horizon.


Our rising suns here are clouded in blankets of cloud which settle low on long horizons and deliver their bounty of rain each evening so that the greenness of this vast spreading place is topped up a little more. This is fat Africa, a place of such perfect balance that even in the harsh dealing of death to the weak and the slow, everything seems sated.


And we do too as we bounce the five hours home.


The Drama of Storms

February 18, 2017

So the rain came down.

After two weeks of suffocating, sittingonyourchestinthemiddleofthenight heat so that you almost can’t breathe, the rain came down.

For days I have watched, and willed, hulking clouds nearer, pleading with them to bulk up blackly. And every evening they dissolved on my horizons and left just whispers of white against a cornflower blue. And the heat grew.

But last night the rain came. Here, in the Outpost, it comes with pomp and ceremony, no timid drizzles, no bashful shower. Here it announces its arrival with an orchestra of sound and light, thunder crashes as cymbals I can’t see and the lightening which is as a searing strobe illuminates my room as hot phosphorous and neon that burns my eyelids open, and then it’s gone and I’m plunged to inkdark again. Briefly.

And then the rain comes and you will it to stay so that dust may settle and heat may dissipate, for a few days at least, and you hope this is not all show no go.

I listen to fat drops fall on the tin roof, a clamour of applause and I feel the cool envelop the room and I smell Africa quenching her thirst.

And later I hear the storm move on, I picture a busty opera singer, a diva, bouncing from the stage to her dressing room, all bossy instructions and high notes that fade as she moves down a corridor to a place I can no longer see or hear her.

With sun up I skip out onto wet, wet grass in bare feet and lift the rain gauge to see what was delivered: an inch, a whole glorious dust laying, heat stealing, promising inch.

The Beast is Back

February 16, 2017

I can sense it tiptoeing. It’s close. If I turn my head quickly, I think I can see a flash of its shape dart darkly behind shadows. I can definitely hear it, its silence roars and I can feel its cold breath on the back of neck, as dread.

Depression’s descent is stealthy. And then sudden. It begins with the odd tears which you try to explain away, which still fall lightly enough that distraction works. Then comes its brief tangibility as a Real Illness: a day in bed, ‘I feel sick’, says Mum, huddling beneath the covers, ‘I have been up all night feeling sick’. So I fuss and I fret and I go to and fro with plates of toast and mugs of weak tea. I even scour the internet and consult Dr Google for ‘early morning nausea among the elderly’. I see the word Depression but I fail to put two and two together. Or I don’t want to. I want to believe this is a symptom of Gastroesophageal reflux disease for how easy that would be to fix. By comparison. I even write to a pharmacist friend with mum’s prescription to inquire what I can add into the mix to quell stomach acid.

But by the next morning, there’s no avoiding the reality: Depression is back. How! How? Where did it get in? I kept windows open to bright gardens and sunshine, doors wide to friendly voices, to laughter, to a stream of affectionate animals. I kept her engaged and tried, in the face of so much loss, half of her sight, most of her memory, all of her ability to read, to make sure she was busy.

To no avail.

For years, many, many years, Depression’s return always felt like a failing – mine usually. Perhaps that’s because I’m the eldest – so the mantle of responsibility naturally fell to me and especially after Dad died? Perhaps because I had awkward years as a teen – so naturally I was at the centre of my own world, even the bad bits revolved about me – did I cause her too much anxiety, I worried later, by which time it was too late because she had been admitted to a psych ward. I fretted: is she sick again because of the things I have done or the things I have failed to do.

But age and experience and years of bumping up against this monster more times than I can count and I know it’s not my fault. It’s not mum’s fault. It just is; Mum’s own peculiar madness is a part of her normalcy.

I don’t know how long it will stay this time. Some visits are fleeting, some last for months, years. In the absence of the opportunity to escape, to find solace, respite, in books, Mum will feel this episode more acutely.

And so, by extension, will those of us that love her. Tomorrow morning, as today, I will bang determinedly on her door and she will ignore me. But I am persistent, I never give up, I will continue to bang, at intervals, until finally, gracelessly, she will open it and try to stumble back to bed, growing and scowling and tearful, and I will stand over her and tell her she must get up and she must eat the toast I proffer and she must drink tea, even though she is still adamant this illness is Real, ‘I do really feel most unwell’, she will say (because it’s hard to tell herself that which she knows? because she is still hopeful TLC and Gaviscon will mend her) but her protestations will grow fainter as the day progresses and by evening she will acknowledge what I know, that Depression, ‘the bane of my bloody life’ she says, is back. And we will make a pact: ‘you must get up when you wake up, Mum so we can drink tea and walk in the garden’. She nods her commitment.  I do not know why Depression is worse in the morning and nor do I understand why forcing herself up despite the yoke of this deadening sickness’s weight is better than lying in bed, experience has just taught me this is so. And she will promise me, on her life, on mine, on all that is good and true and hopeful, that she will be up and dressed as I ask.

And tomorrow morning I will encounter still-drawn curtains and locked doors and my pleas will fall on deaf ears