Love spots? I do. I’m wading deep. Doves coo and immediately I’m back home, a child barefoot in the back yard among the fruit trees, Gardenia in the air. I’m unravelling. The past and present co-exist inside me.
I’m the girl with spots on my dress. And I’m not alone.
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?
I’ve lived with the shadow of anorexia for 45 years and have spent a lot of that time trying to understand why this happened to me. It took me nine years to physically recover: weight within a normal range, regular periods and less sensitivity to the cold. But in my inner world the duality continued. As I understood myself more, it lessened.
Ageing is confronting in a world where beauty is valued and financially rewarded. Although the body ages slowly, the changes are possibly more apparent to someone living with an eating disorder. Many women my age, 55 plus, have either not been diagnosed nor have they ever been treated for their eating disorders.
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.
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.
On my writing desk I have a photo of my mother. She laughs at something riotously funny. The image in the sepia tones of time, is someone I never got to know. Her European side locked in the vault of her heart buried deep,sleeping soundly.
This morning I reflected on Mother’s Day and the cycles of nature. As a child I revered my mother, loved tagging along as she completed her household chores. In adolescence we drifted apart as I began to befriend for the woman inside me. I selected the direction of my feminine reality.
Then I became a mother, young and confident. Embracing motherhood I sought to provide foundations for my children to stand on in their lives. I watched them adore me, running to the door when I came home from the hospital, hugging my knees and saying, “I love you mum.”
My heart still overflows just remembering this.
My readers may recognize this image, the basis of a chapter in Schicksal.
I have a book in my brain.
The aura is misty and the idea vague.
It rumbles around inside me, bumping into bits of me,
Sometimes my hear flutters, sometimes my stomach churns.
As writers we use words, to create images, feelings, and experiences in the consciousness of our readers. It is largely a silent pursuit. We don’t really talk our books although we may read sections at times.
Gathering information, observing and finding inspiration too arise in solitude; the writer, tea and the computer. This is the third part of a series of posts, titled, “Lorna’s Wisdom.” Luckily Lorna walked down the road into my life again just a few days ago.
When I hear the word crone, connotations of an wizened, wrinkly, old lady fill my imagination. Where did this perception come from? Surely a lifetime of conditioning has filtered through into my consciousness forming this idea leading me to pose the question; is it correct?
Once upon a time in a blue stone house at the end of my street, lived an elderly, vibrant Soul. Largely she kept to herself. Continue reading