Food, arghhh! It’s complicated isn’t it? I love food, I really do. Even at my most vulnerable, as a restrictive anorexic, I loved food. I loved watching people enjoy food. ButI loved chips and chocolate. My mother’s ongoing sabotage of my love of greens, probably helped to keep me alive.
Mama always kept treats in our pantry. It smelled delicious, like a deli. And it was. Treats included chips and chocolate. I caved time and time again gorging and then self-flagellating. It gets better right?
Good friends keep us sane, especially the kind we plan to get old and weird with. A waft of cigarette smoke caught my attention. I craved a fag. Omg. Where did that impulse even come from? I mentioned it. She laughed: You’re self soothing.
The words struck me and stuck fast. Truth does that! I had to admit to myself, I’d been hurting despite the perfectionist persona.
Twice … I’ve read the same question. It held my attention, if only for a short time between this and that. Then I read it again. That made three times. “Why do you write?” The question sought me, so I thought I’d ponder it.
Why did I write and what place does writing serve in my life?
I believe that fight and flight also governs our response to strong emotions. Some people come back at the person/ situation enraged; words or fists flying. Others don’t.
Are you someone who simply runs away? For me it’s easier. Either physically creating distance, emotionally by shutting down or psychologically dulling reality. I’d like to share my discovery of running away.
This poem came to me after my morning walk. Having recently taken a leap of faith, I meet people daily undergoing the same metamorphosis. Change is the best tool to meet the hidden self. Endless, I don’t know how to do that, moments arise. Self-doubt comes tot the party uninvited. It wants the fairy bread! Self-doubt is no match for Google.
I wrote about Dala, my father’s hometown in Schicksal. We went there as part of my research into the past. Dala taught me many things. This is what happened just trying to get there. Our confusion is probably shared by travellers and immigrants daily.
Winter in Kyneton, cold but clear
Although the clouds gathered the weather held off.
A small group of us stood by the war memorial,
Some had red flowers
…a Flander’s poppy.
Writing ‘Schicksal,’ I often came to dead ends. My three children inadvertently helped. I’m sure their intentions whilst pure were never intended to be so far reaching. Some months after my father’s death I packed up the unit that had been sold. The process incredibly painful for me left some things undone.
On NYE, I sat on the floor, determined not to bring unfinished business into a new beginning. The ‘too hard basket,’ as the white plastic laundry basket became known, contained items I had no idea what to do with.
Among these random things were two old Benson and Hedges metal boxes containing photos.