Today is probably going to be a tough one for many people. The shock and novelty of last week is wearing off and the new reality is becoming, well, real. The things we take for granted are temporarily disappearing – seeing mums on Mother’s Day, going to the pub, out for a meal, taking the kids to the playground, hugging our friends and family and many, many livelihoods are at severe risk. This is really hard stuff, we are used to having whatever we want whenever we want it, whether that is material things for those lucky enough to have plentiful resources or freedom of movement.
This is the week to be really kind to yourself and those around you as everyone builds a path to begin their new life. I have been weepy all weekend, I know I am mourning the losses, worrying about the people I love and feeling helpless. I don’t want to be like that, but I also know I must let it come when it comes. It’s a perfectly normal response to the changing world.
But I don’t want to wallow, I always feel better when I achieve something so I am making a list of one work thing to get done every day. Just one, being kind to myself. I know that some days I will do more than one of the things on the list, great, but by having just one each day I’m not setting myself up for failure on the emotionally harder days and making myself feel worse.
This morning I am also going to write down some things I am grateful for inspired by Eva Salzman’s Spells. Cathy Rentzenbrink introduced me to this poem on our last writing course when we did this exercise with the writers. It was lots of fun and is useful for remembering the good stuff. You don’t have to be a writer to do it, it can be whatever you want it to be, it’s your poem.
Spells by Eva Salzman
A curse on the lover with shyness as a plausible cover for his black lies.
A curse on his leather furniture sticking to the skin.
A curse on his row after row of tasteful jazz
and the glass table’s cutting edges.
A blessing on my cobalt blue vase
and a spray of lemon fuchsia, and forgetting.
A curse on 4 a.m., the light like soot or burnt milk in a pan.
A blessing on the dawn and dusk, when the sun and moon both are large and shimmering.
A curse on the memories like storm clouds in my heart.
A blessing on the storm clouds outside my window.
A curse on the useless letters I never throw away.
A blessing on my right arm for its sharp delivery.
A curse on my sharp tongue for its sharp delivery.
A blessing on the Lyric muse when she is kind to me.
A curse on the Lyric muse, for she is on holiday in the Bahamas.
A blessing on the warm salt seas for their constancy and power.
A curse on the razor-clams which slice bare feet.
A blessing on foreign countries: their birds and trees, their people, their clothing, their houses and songs.
A curse on their wars, our wars.
A blessing on their dawn, their dusk, their seas, even their deceitful men.
A blessing.
A blessing.
My somewhat less lyrical version today begins:
A curse on distance with my son so far from home.
A blessing that he is in New Zealand, with a sensible and inspiring leader.
A curse on the lockdown and curtailing of freedom.
A blessing on the sunshine and peace in my garden.
Be kind to yourselves today, and to others. I’m off to continue my version of Spells and remember the things I am grateful for. I already feel less weepy, long may it last.