AWOL

I'm not quite sure how or why I lost the blogging habit. Perhaps the clue lies in the word 'habit'; five and and a half years into blogging and I had become too used to the sound of my own words. It did not explain, however, the fact that I seemed to have lost track of other people's blogs, blogs that I enjoyed, blogs that opened windows onto different lives, different worlds, blogs that connected like-minded people across time and space.

Perhaps, to paraphrase Salieri, there have just been too many words (except that it wasn't Salieri, was it? My niggling inner editor reminds me that it was Emperor 'too many notes' Joseph II.) For those of us in the UK, there has been a plethora of words in the past couple of months. We have been almost smothered by layer upon layer of news coverage, scaremongering features and opinion columns as the country has been engulfed by first one scandal, then another, until - inevitably, perhaps - the lid blew off the whole thing and urban pockets of the country erupted. We had still not recovered from the actions of profligate and greedy bankers, nor from the shock that many of our democratically-elected politicians had been lining their pockets with expenses fiddled from the public purse, before we were confronted by the grisly spectacle of phone-hacking journalists and all-powerful editors so devoid of sensitivity and decency that they were prepared to sanction anything that might boost circulation figures.

And then the rioting and the looting.

From the wealthiest and most influential to those who barely clung to the margins, there were individuals and groups who seemed to have slipped through or cast off the net of what we like to believe are our shared morality and values. The threads that held us together seemed to be unravelling.

In my head, Yeats's words on things falling apart and the centre not holding were surfacing yet again, as they tend to in times of strife and uncertainty. Except that they weren't falling apart and compassionate people made good things happen; as George Malone said in the final episode of Boys from the Blackstuff - in the wake of all the conspicuous consumption triggered by the greedy 'there is no such thing as society' 1980s: 'I can't believe that there's no hope.'  George was speaking specifically of his own class, the urban working class, but his words (or, more correctly, writer Alan Bleasdale's words) have a resonance that now crosses class and social boundaries. There is hope and it could be seen on the streets of our cities after the looting.

Against this backdrop, it seemed almost futile to be writing about small, everyday things, although it is the small, everyday things that root us, that keep us sane. My canine-care life continued, with four-legged guests coming and going. Loved ones, family and friends came to stay, places were explored, books read, music and films enjoyed. My professional writing and editing life continued; it was the more personal, reflective writing that languished.

Reflecting, however, is precisely what I was doing. It is exactly a year since I was diagnosed with breast cancer and just under a year since the Massive Inconvenience was vanquished. Only a small scar remains and that is fading. To be truthful, I don't think about it too often. The Massive Inconvenience has become, like the past, another country. I have, however, learned more than I could have imagined possible and one of my more surprising discoveries is that I am - or at least, I have become - a far more positive person than I realised I was or could be. I say surprising as I had more than a few dark nights of the soul when I was a young woman and not just dark nights but dark days too, days that could spill into weeks and months. And sometimes did. 

Maybe it's because, although I cannot afford to retire, I now earn my living doing two things I love: caring for animals and writing. Or maybe it's an age thing.  In today's Observer Magazine, Miranda Sawyer, 45, discusses her own experience of, and thoughts on, the mid-life crisis and reaches an encouraging conclusion (of which, more later). She mentions her friend Sam, 'who is in his early 60s, and . . . is happier now than he has ever been, but that people who don't know him think he can't be, and treat him accordingly.' When it comes to the 60-something happiness factor, I'm with Sam. It is hard to imagine, when one is in one's 20s, 30s or 40s and, especially for me, the tedious 50s, which I experienced as a strange, no-woman's limbo between the end of being young and the beginning of being old (I think it's called menopause . . . ) that the 60s can bring such joy and delight and that one can actually wake up happy, for whole days at a stretch. There are, inevitably, the flatter, greyer days (which I attribute in part to the English weather) and the occasional down day but these are, thankfully, the exception.

So, emerging out of what I will probably come to see as my Quiet Period, I have resurrected everything I had planned to do last autumn, before the Massive Inconvenience got in the way.

After seven years of being a member of a writing group, I realised that it was time for a change, and I now work individually with my writing mentor, Briony Goffin. We get together for a couple of sessions each term and It has proved to be exactly the right decision, at the right time, and I am enjoying every minute of it. (Thank you, Briony.)

In September, I am starting a photography course, something I have wanted to do for years, learning about what goes on inside a camera because I love photography with a passion and I know that it is about so much more than looking through a viewfinder or looking at an LCD screen and framing a passable shot.

In September, and because I love music with an equal passion, I am starting piano lessons, hoping that the musical gene that runs through the family (professional pianist grandfather, piano-playing and singing mother, piano and violin-playing brother) has not passed me by completely. I can still read music and just about pick out a basic tune on the beautiful Victorian piano I was given last year but I know that I learn best when I'm studying with an inspirational teacher. (And I think I've found one.)

Then, last week, I took out, dusted down and oiled my late grandma's 100-year-old 27K Singer sewing machine for the first time in 35 years. It worked perfectly and has already been put to work - with plenty more to come.

This is just for starters.

As Miranda Sawyer says: 'Midlife or not, in the end, or in the middle, these are the days of my life. These are the days of your life. And the thing to do is live them.'

Which all chimed in, rather, with a song I heard on the car radio as I drove home from a great morning, spent with my Salad Days Friend, at a vintage textile fair in Honiton. There is a high point en route, on the A373 between Honiton and Cullompton, at which all Devon is spread out before you, its hills, its rolling fields, hedgerows, trees and meadows and I had just reached that point when the song started playing. Written by the Bee Gees, sung by Esther and Abi Ofarim (in 1967, for goodness sake).  It still makes me moist-eyed but in a good way. 

Comments

[ellen]

I'm glad you're back to blogging. With so many big things going on in the world it's good to connect however slightly with other people who are willing to share their ordinary lives.

I go "on strike" every once in a while against news and politics, but I always try to keep up with my favorite blogs. It's not really the momentous content that attracts me, it's the voice and style and the idea of an individual behind the blog that always makes me stop by and see what's happening.

[Maureen]

It is great to see you writing again, D. And what a lot you have given us to think about. Good luck with all the new and resumed projects, I look forward to hearing and reading about them as you progress.

That place you stopped at on the A373 is a special one for our family, too. We always pulled in there on our way to holiday in Devon just to take in the view and then one year we decided we wanted to live in the view and here we are!

[Christina]

Lovely to have you back and this is a lovely way to start my day.
Thank you!

[Lisa Stowe]

I've missed your blogs; it's wonderful to have you back. This is thought provoking, and so personal for me, being in the 50's 'no-woman limbo' (love that description) and having gone through the cancer thing. As my doctor told me, laugh when you want, cry when you feel sad, shout when you feel angry. Let it out and live. You're a great example of that.

[Friend In New Zealand]

These are the days :-)

[Shelley]

I'd love to hear about and see what you do with that sewing machine. Sewing clothes is something I've always wanted to be able to do but have never had the courage/ discipline/ whatever to tackle. I sew stuff for the house and make crafty things, but not clothes. It's the one thing I can imagine my saying on my death bed...wish I'd learned how to sew. I'm gonna get there, surely. Soon, I hope.

[Maggie B.]

Welcome back, D! I never tire of your writing voice, your very interesting links, great music and those lovely glimpses of Devon - one of my favourite counties. I wish you good times in your "new" year ahead.

[Kit]

How. Very. Inspiring.

You are a lovely writer and I'm so glad I found your blog through Tish..

Can relate to much.

Kit

[Pamela (Lady Luz)]

Well worth the wait to read your stuff today, D. Always the voice of reason and great interest. What would I do without your book references.

It sounds like you're going to have a lot of fun with your new projects.....enjoy.

[Fiona]

Ye gods! I thought it was myself speaking when I read your words (re your feeling about blogging etc). You were the first blog I ever read and always enjoyed what you had to say. On a couple of occasions I wrote to you (first time I had ever done that). Several more blogs with more interesting women followed and they were also religiously followed. Recently I also have lost the habit but for some reason decided to make contact today and see what you were up to. We connected! I agree with you, I truly think it is an age thing. I think the whole aspect of looking at life changes when one reaches a certain age, and of course illness and death play their part too. I am taking leave of these sunny shores of Oz and heading for your part of the world to see a new grandson for the first time. Life goes on......

[60 Going On 16]

Goodness, what wonderfully reassuring women you all are. Thank you so much for such thoughtful comments.

Maureen: I thought you'd know that high point.

And Kim, a warm welcome. When it comes to inspiration, I rather think your blog has it in bucketloads, stylistically speaking. Also, would very much welcome some Provençal sunshine over here in grey,chilly, damp Devon; please send ASAP.

Shelley: used to make loads of clothes and my daughter's (until she became a teenager . . .) but now it will almost certainly be stuff for our respective houses!

Lisa - there's a long overdue email on its way to you. And one to you too Fiona; when are you coming and where will you be?!

[Ronnie /Hurtling Towards 60]

Hi! So good to read you again. A lot of what you say struck a cord. I was 60 last month (my post about this milestone gained more views than many in the past months - so clearly hit home to many!) I am interested in your photography course, having been bought a DSLR for my birthday and trying to teach myself. I love the way you write - thank you. Ronnie

[Dancing Beastie]

It's good to hear your voice again. How reassuring to hear such reflective sanity in a summer when the world seems to have gone a little mad. In my 40s, I feel that I have never enough time to reflect, constantly harassed by family demands...and I am not looking forward to the next decade either, as I envisage my fifties exactly as you described. It's nice to know there is something to look forward to after that! Although, as your post reminds me, we must live our lives now.

[materfamilias]

At 58, and having started late at paid work outside the home (taught music in home-based studio while raising kids), I'm hoping to stay on 'til 65. This last six months of Research Leave, though, has really made me wonder if that's what I want, and I'll be very conscious about choice as I move back into the classroom. There are so many wonderful things to do in life, and work is only one of them. Your post is very inspiring (I'm bookmarking it) on being 60 and I want to make sure I make the most of whatever decades are left to me.
Hope to see you back here regularly, but it's good to know that when you do post it's because you want to, rather than that you feel so obliged. Enjoy all your new projects!

[lovethosecupcakes]

So good to welcome you back. You have articulated so very well some of my own plans and thoughts (as someone very recently retired in the aftermath, as you know, of a cancer diagnosis and surgery). My piano, bought for me when I was about 7, has been languishing, unplayed, in a corner for far too long. I've purchased some fabric in anticipation of locating and plugging in the Bernina and the novel that's been in my head for about 10 years now has a working title and opening sentence. I've already completed a one day photography workshop and, as a result, find I'm not always in Auto mode though Annie Leibowitz has nothing to worry about. Yet. And of course I remember Esther and Abi. I just need more of the positivity you refer to, need to stop looking over my shoulder and, as you are doing, just embrace the now. Sorry to go on. You were the first blogger to leave a comment on my own blog posts (one about a new brush for the kitchen floor, of all things)and I've been a visitor here ever since. Keep writing and inspiring. Best wishes.

[60 Going On 16]

Yet more thoughtful, uplifting comments; thank you so much .

Ronnie - good luck with the camera.

Dancing Beastie - I'm so sorry our paths won't cross when you are in the South West but next time I head up to to Scotland . . .

Mater - I very much hope our paths WILL cross when you are next in the UK. London 2012? (I meant 2013 . . .) We should make a date ASAP!

Liz - I well remember the first contact we made and still have the original email you sent me all that time ago (about Atonement and the beach at Redcar). I think of you often and I'm very conscious that our lives have been running on parallel lines ever since.( I wish you a permanent and complete recovery.) And I am still hugely in awe of your cakes.

[colleen]

Welcome words, and encouraging that you have a full schedule of pleasure and learning planned. I read the Miranda Sawyer article too and have been mulling over thoughts about aging too, though somewhat inconclusively. Will all be made clear when I reach the golden age?

Yes. You have been missed.

[60 Going On 16]

Colleen - I'm not sure if things become clearer as we age but perhaps we become less willing to spend time on stuff that doesn't really warrant the energy we allot it. I look back at my younger self sometimes and wonder why on earth I worried about many of the things that once made me anxious or distressed. I'm not sure if it's a question of being more self-aware or more conscious of the finite nature of life but, these days, I'm increasingly reluctant to squander the time that I do have.