Recently, I asked to protect
my Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.

My manager emailed HR.
They sent back a form for me to fill in.
It was for flexible working.

I had thought my part-time position
was already that.
Turns out this human is a resource
for the company
and 25 hours
can be spread over any of the seven days
in a week.

Except, when I asked to see my contract,
it wasn’t forthcoming.
And the form still sits unsigned in my car.

I’ve looked at the roster
and I’m not working Mondays, Wednesdays, or Thursdays
for the foreseeable.

I’m a human resource.
I fit in.

It’s a pattern I’ve noticed.

I cook. I clean. I shop. I wash up. Do the laundry.

Work part-time?

That’s funny.

I even walk the dog.

Poor thing wouldn’t see the light of day otherwise.

And, yes, I have children.

Older than they once used to be
but that doesn’t end your responsibilities.

Flexible working.
Well, wouldn’t that be fine?

When did the human part of the resource get forgotten?

She’s here. She’s a bit tired. She’s me.

I haven’t written for a while.

It became a thing.

I called it The Slump.

And, I called myself lazy.

But, when I sat down to reflect, I noticed that there were other things spinning in my orbit.

The list wasn’t exhaustive, but it left me exhausted.

There was a work thing.

It lasted a few months. It made me scan job sites. It made me feel discombobulated.

It made me re-analyse certain things about myself.

And for a while it was an open territory without a map.

There was a family thing.

It lasted a few months. It made me angry. It made me compile a dossier. It made me go into attack mode.

And for a while it was an open territory without a map.

There was a car thing.

It’s ongoing. It made me see how vital having a car is to my independence and income. It made me ask for help. My husband has taken on some of the weight.

And for a while now, it has been an open territory without a map.

All these things have been going on, and I have been dealing with them.

Did I sometimes waste time? Probably.

Did I have enough energy to do something else? Probably not.

Could I have written? I guess.

Did I want to? No.

Is that laziness? I don’t think so anymore.

Am I getting closer to writing again?

Well, I’m here right now.

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

It's been two weeks since I last wrote something here.

I took a mini rest.

It wasn't planned.

Nothing particularly got in the way of me writing.

But I didn't write.

Instead, I noticed myself not writing.

I noticed how instead I played games on my phone.

Wasted time being idle.

I did my best not to judge myself.

But some habits are harder to ignore.

Stories began to take shape.

I thought, no one will notice.

But I noticed.

Kept noticing, in fact.

Sometimes I justified my inaction.

Sometimes I made excuses.

Sometimes I lied and said I didn't care.

But I did.

Still do.

So tonight, without much to say...

I sat and wrote.

A conversation has a life of its own.

It can be long and winding.
Short and terse.

Two people can sit in silence.

And be harmonious.
Or cold.

We relate.
Either way.

Sometimes we are present.
Rapt by someone else’s worldview, wrapped inside them.

Sometimes aloof, inside our own thoughts,
body here, mind gone.

We can show up.
Take centre stage.
That’s one choice.

Or listen attentively.
We’re there.
Inside the moment.

We can remain hidden.
Keeping everyone at arm’s length.

We might still listen attentively.
But now we keep our thoughts to ourselves.
And don’t share.

Tucking ourselves in.
Guarding all entry points.

We communicate.
With or without words.

We relate.

Moment after moment.

It’s interesting.

In one way,
I’ve known my husband almost 40 years.

In another, he’s still a mystery.

Sometimes I listen to him and disagree.
I think he doesn’t understand me.

Get me.

But of course, he doesn’t.

Except when he does.

We relate on so many different levels.

Some levels feel warm and fuzzy.
While others are cold and harsh.

We clash.
We connect.

It changes. It stays the same.

We become mired in our internal stories
about the other.

And then bam! They surprise you.

Sometimes that’s good.
Sometimes it isn’t.

How far have I mired my other inside the story I’ve made?
How many times has he done the same to me?

How far have I believed something to be true,
thinking it was you,
your way of thinking,
your fault?

It’s you I blame.

Only to see it was me
and my way of thinking
over and over again.

You are a character inside my story.
Inside my head.

We could have missed each other altogether.

Not connected.
Not understood.
Just blamed and kept running in circles.

For ten years.
For twenty.
For thirty.
For forty.

And then what?

I realise?
Perhaps, remember?

Sometimes it was you.

But not always. Not every time.

It became a habit.
A story I replayed.
An annoying soap opera that wouldn’t stop.

But there’s also been the mysteries,
the thrillers,
the rom-coms,
and many more moments that make up a life.

I don’t know...

There are multiple versions of you
and me.

There’s still room...

We can relate differently.

Presently.
Real.

Photo by Andrea Mancini on Unsplash

What stories have you made about the people closest to you?

I wrote this story three years ago.

Reading it now, I am surprised by it. At the time, I thought I was writing a story about a woman on a train.

Returning to it, I wonder if I was already exploring those small moments when the stories we habitually tell ourselves are interrupted. Perhaps that’s why it still feels alive to me.

Sky was wrecked. She’d partied hard the night before, and now she had to face the torturous commute to work.

Smelly armpits and being squashed like a sardine were never pleasant when travelling during rush hour, but when you’d had a skinful the night before, it was hell.

She only had herself to blame, though. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know she had work. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know she had an important meeting at 10 a.m.

She did.

When her friend Jackie had asked her out, her initial response was to say no. And then, with a little nudge from her good friend, she’d said, “Okay, but only for a little bit.”

How many times had she done that?

Too many. She knew it. Jackie knew it. And they’d gone out and got smashed. Again.

Eventually, she crawled back to her place only to drift off to sleep, and 5 minutes later, her alarm went off, or at least, that’s what it felt like.

She stood on the platform, her head banging. She’d taken some tablets, but they weren’t doing anything.

This was going to be a tough day.

The train pulled into the platform. It was packed.

She waited while some commuters got off, then moved with the force of those on the platform into the tiny space, wondering what she was doing.

Why was she so stupid?

Why did she always have to be so stupid?

What on earth was the matter with her?

Like a drumbeat, her thoughts snapped at her, thudding inside her head, adding an intensity to her already painful headache.

So stupid.

So stupid!

Why am I so stupid?

Pressed close to the other bodies within the carriage, she stood holding onto a grab handle. Head down. Eyes shut. Hating life. Hating herself. Head banging.

Then, with a jolt, the train stopped.

Sky felt herself falling. She reached out, trying in vain to stop herself. The bodies around her moved with her. They all jolted together.

A hand grabbed her arm. Held her.

Everyone looked up and for a moment connected. They were all jolted from their inner worlds and suddenly saw each other.

A collective gasp.

A community of commuters so close yet so separate suddenly brought together.

A tension cord snapped, and strangers were suddenly people again, all sharing this moment, all experiencing a new camaraderie born of a circumstance that none of them had expected.

A tableau.

A sky with a jolt of lightning.

I sit at a campfire.
Alone and content.

The fire warms me.
Brings me light.

Someone arrives...

...

For a while we sit
in silence.

And then I begin.

I’m Jules.
Welcome.
What brings you here?

And then I listen.
Truly.

I sit inside their words,
share in their story.
And when curiosity sparks,
like an ember from the fire,
I ask a question.
And listen again.

If the time comes and the direction moves,
I may tell a story or two,
And a conversation
has found a home.

How does that sound
to you?

Photo by Luke Porter on Unsplash

It’s not clear what it is yet.
But that’s okay.

I don’t have a problem with not knowing.

I could tell you things.

I could tell you things I’m sure about.

But really,
Who wants that?

Well, some do.
I’ve seen it.

THEY get muddled up
And unsure
In this space of not knowing.

Certainty feels safe.
To THEM.

But at what cost?

If I tell you something.
And you believe I know what I’m talking about.
Where’s your own discovery?

What if I’m wrong?

Or worse yet, lying or pretending.
Like I know EVERYTHING.

I don’t. No one does.
So not knowing is fine by me.

Because at the ripe old age of 56,
I’ve learned that what I do know
Has been explored,
put down,
moved around,
and
looked at from multiple angles.

And even then, someone can come along,
Say something I hadn’t noticed,
and off I go again.

Why is that?

Do you know?

I don’t.

And that’s okay too.

Is it a thought?
Or a feeling?

I listen.
Not the external kind.
I’ve switched on that sense
of listening
and connected it
to a feeling
that tracks inside.

I loosen my upright shoulders.
Allow myself to relax
into my heightened attention
and notice more keenly.

My head feels separate
from the trunk of my body,
like a satellite
beaming down a light.

It,
my head,
is exploring the lower levels
noting tension
and encouraging release.

The shoulders relax again
as they are noticed,
but then creep back up
as they are passed by.

I’m inhabiting a landscape
inside of me.

Not a literal landscape.
That’s organs, muscles and bones.

This is a metaphorical landscape
inside of me.

How do I know that?

It’s like shutters opening and closing.
Perception of what is
an immediate sense of myself,
in this moment,
sitting on a chair,
seeing my external world
and then...
what is
another layer
where I drop
and grope
blindly
for something...

How do I explain this?

Images arrive.
Words.
Both
carrying
an idea of
this known
but unseen territory.

“What time are you going to the cinema?”
My husband’s voice.

“What?”

And the external
Shifts
Back
Just
Like
That.

A clenching sensation
runs up my shoulders
and the hair on my neck
stands on alert.

I’m on edge,
but don’t know why.

Then the story
arrives,

making meaning
that feels
absolutely true.

The tone of her voice.

The look in her eye.

Not again.

This can’t be happening.

Why me?

What did I do?

I shrink into myself
and stifle a shiver
as I continue to strive.

No one should know.

I mustn’t let them see.

But my hand gives me away.

It shakes,

and the paper I’m holding
moves

as I try to speak.

My eyes water
as I realise I can’t

get the words to form.

This is important.

I can’t let everyone down.

What’s wrong with me?

The room is hushed.

And I feel every eye
judging me.

They know I’m stupid.

And so do I.

It can feel that fast, can’t it?
Sometimes, it’s even faster.

I’m back to 10 again.
Everything else, unnoticed.

The swagger, the sneer.
Threat flooded my body.
It all happened in an instant.

I heard the unkind words.
I saw my friends laughing behind their hands.

I took in the hurt.

And somewhere along the way,
I took in the judgement too.

And kept it there.
An instruction for my future.

It made me cautious.
Less, somehow.

It stayed with me.
And I lived it out in many ways.

Sometimes, I put on armour.
And sarcasm became my sword.

At other times, being aloof was the order of the day.

Both worked at keeping others at arm’s length.

Some, only a select few,
Ever made it through
the veneer.

Fragile protection.

Waiting to be removed.

I thought it was their job.

Until I found out.

Slowly.

It was always mine
to remove.

The Feeling is my Cue.

It wasn’t always.

For years, I simply became the feeling. Now, more often than not, I notice it.

I sit with the energy.
I notice where it lives.

While I do that, I look to the moment of activation.
You might have heard of it described as a trigger.

There are so many possibilities.

A tone of voice.
A quick and careless rebuttal.
A look that reminds you of something.
Someone’s bearing.

The list goes on.

I’d say that one thing remains consistent.
It is relational.

Do I feel safe in relation to this person, this thing, this possibility?

Is this a time for me to withdraw or explore?
Which adaptation of myself do I become?
And why?

Sometimes in this noticing, a sense of withdrawal becomes my safety valve.

I may be present, but I’ve also taken a step away.
Removed myself, somewhat.

Sometimes in this noticing, I allow myself to explore.

How do we fit together?
How do we connect?

Sometimes I allow myself to remain open.
I allow myself this new opportunity.

If I allow myself to notice the feeling, really notice it.
If I look at what triggered it.
And take my time.

I might notice an inside voice narrating to me.

I might notice space.

The voice is there with a map.
It has been here before.
It directs me.

While the space is open and unknown.
If I stay with the voice, I get to repeat long-held patterns.
I remain in a world that is familiar to me.

There is a lot to be said about that.
But not right now.

However, if there is space.
If my internal world is quiet.
There is no marked path for me to follow.

And sometimes I close it down and label it.

Terrifying.

And with that label, the space that I noticed shrinks.
The voice takes over again, the pattern emerges, and I fall backwards into known territory.

That is one way I have responded.
But there is another way.

One that keeps me in the feeling for a little while longer.
Allowing the unknown steps to begin.

What might this step bring?
I don’t know.
I can’t control it.
I have no certainty about this next step.

It is both exhilarating and terrifying.

There is a compulsion in this next step to go fast.
Get it over and done with.
Make it quick.

But I’m noticing that compulsion more and more.
Becoming acquainted with it.
Allowing it to exist while slowing it down.

I feel it now as I write.

Isn’t that interesting?
No, that’s the wrong word.
It’s fascinating.

I’ve chosen to step forward.

My old pattern was to step back.

I’m sharing this, and I know it is new.
Even though I’ve written before.

But now I’m sharing something alive in me.

If I had to give it a label...
Which, actually, I don’t.

I’m allowing myself to be.
Showing up on this page without my armour.

It feels strangely euphoric once I allow it.
Not in some mystical way.

More like when I was a child
and jumped into a swimming pool
without knowing how to swim.

And the doggy paddle became instinctive.
It took me back to the edge so I could climb out

and do it all over again.

Photo by David Schultz on Unsplash

I dwelt a little longer
Got carried away by my imagination
by following a single word

IN

I questioned it
Probed it
Stood under it

I found I was in
a Russian doll

In my body
In my home
In a village

In a quandary

Or something else?

The penny dropped
I waited for the splash
So deep was this well
of exploration

Where am I?
Not, “Who am I?”
What am I in?

That felt different.

What am I in?

Curiosity

An endless inning
No wicket to capture.

I double-thumbsed-up Voicemails for Isabelle,
And I did it with tears in my eyes,
A smile on my face,
An ache in my heart,
And a gratitude that even with loss
I've known love.

There’s a certainty to it.

A romcom that follows a set plan
So much so you know what will happen
You know there will be that climax where something
BIG
will go wrong

But they'll get there in the end
because happy ever afters
Are a part of the formula

And even in grief,
You know that

There it is.

I'm an old softie
And I still get bowled over
by the idea of love

Because I know what it feels like

And it's worth it
Every single time.

In fact, I nearly didn’t.

Let me explain.

My dog, Loki, loves going into the lake when we walk together. He splashes around, runs in and out of the water, and generally has a wonderful time.

He also has a green ball that he loves.

I don’t think I realised quite how much until today.

He was splashing around with the ball in his mouth when he let it go.

It drifted.

Just far enough away that he couldn’t reach it.

And he can’t swim.

I watched it happen.

My first instinct was to think,

Oh well, sorry, mate. You’ve lost your ball.

Then he cried.

There weren’t any tears. He’s a dog.

But the sound he made...

To me, that was crying.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

I sighed.

Took off my shoes and socks,
rolled up my trousers,
and edged my way into the water,
one careful step at a time,
until I reached his ball.

I didn’t know I would paddle today.

But I’m glad I did.

The TV is on.
My husband is watching it.

We are together in a shared space.
But separate.

I do my best to drown out the background noise.
Unwilling to relocate and watching my annoyance instead.

It's a thing.

I had a thought.
And wanted to write it down.
But the annoyance caught my attention instead.

It wasn't wanted, but it's become a habit.

I find that interesting.

Annoyance wasn't my thought.
It wasn't my focus. But now, it is.
In looking at it.
It lessened.

Curiosity took over.

The TV occasionally breaks through.
I listen, and my eyes look up.
People I don't know becoming a peripheral distraction.

How often is my attention grabbed away?
Why does that annoy me?

I enjoy quiet and stillness.
I enjoy sitting with my thoughts and exploring where they can take me.

Another person's noise interferes with that.
My habitual reaction is annoyance.

But now, the noise is still there, and I'm exploring.

The focus changed. That is all.

Little Voice listened.

She waited.

Eventually...

Nothing happened.

There was no tug.

No resistance.

Nothing.

Little Voice laid down the thread.

She sighed and sat down.

This could take a while.

She watched.

Hoping the thread would do something.

Perhaps, she thought, it will stir in a little while.

Patience.

But nothing happened for the longest time.

She sat.

She watched.

She waited.

Except...

She pondered.

There is something happening to me.

It’s infinitesimal.

Almost nothing.

But I feel it.

She picked up the thread again.

Holding it carefully in her hands,
she closed her eyes and noticed

the changing tide of her low mood.

Ebbing.

Slowly, oh-so-slowly,

she felt the distant pull.

This story was shy.

Little Voice smiled.

It was a reassuring smile,
warm with encouragement.

She took a step further inside herself—
metaphorically speaking—

and waited some more.

There now.

It’s okay.

Take your time.

I’ll wait for you.

Come closer.

A cursor blinked.

A tiny Morse signal waiting for an answer.

Suddenly,

the observer became observed.

Who are you?

Little Voice wondered.

I can almost see you.

Who would you like me to be?

A voice.

Not her own,

but another.

It was soft.

Distant.

Almost incomprehensible.

A vague sigh,

like a soft breeze on a summer’s day.

It held mystery within it,

as if it were unsure.

Even of itself.

The thread warmed ever so slightly.

A deluge of images rained down,

and suddenly, Little Voice could see the tortured soul of this story.

It,

for she could not discern it any other way,

was hiding.

Megalithic stones soared upwards

and somewhere far behind them,

etched into the background,

indistinct,

crouched the protagonist of this thread’s story.

Little Voice felt an overwhelming wave of sadness consume her.

This story was ancient.

It was hide and seek.

This story was separate and alone.

Fearful of being found.

Desperate in its longing to connect.

Childlike and innocent,

yet somehow aged and withered,

it looked back at Little Voice

and repeated...

Who would you like me to be?

No one but yourself.

Little Voice sat

and sent the welcoming response.

Like a kiss on the wind,

it crossed the darkness

straight and true.

Reaching its mark,

Little Voice felt the thread tug a little.

Then release.

Time stood still.

The wait seemed endless.

A stand-off

where the story considered its options

and came up wanting.

I don’t know what to tell you then.

I lost my way so long ago,

and with that,

I also lost myself.

There is no story here.

I’m one of the lost.

There are others.

Not just me.

But we are all hidden.

No one wants to see.

And we don’t want to be seen.

A flourish of words filled with pain

hit Little Voice hard.

A slap.

Bitterness and misery

stung her cheek.

A defensive blow.

But the thread was now taut in her hand.

A passion tightening it.

It wanted release.

The Human Abstract
William Blake

My hand reaches out.

Without realising it,
my nose is in my phone.

I’ve entered a new realm.

No longer am I in the space
where my body resides.

I am elsewhere.

With phone in hand,
my finger points to new directions.

I scroll.

Time passes.

What was I doing before?

Was it important?

Should I buy that new blouse
that appeared on my screen?

Or that book
that keeps tracking me?

I notice.

I put my phone down.

And take a glorious breath in

and out.

I’m back.

Sorry, I was on mute.

A blank slate.
A white page.
A void.

But there is something.

A tightness inside.

Upper torso.
Lower back.

I turn my neck slowly and hear the grind.
Tiny pockets popping like bubble wrap.

Usually, I ignore it.

But in this perceived nothingness,
it becomes something.

A faint agitation.
A discomfort.
The urge to move away.

But what would that achieve?

…

Loneliness lands.

Not belonging.
Not being seen.

The big figures move around with purpose,
while I remain irrelevant.
An unnecessary addition.
Tolerated.

…

“Pull yourself together.”

The body learns.

Hold it in.
Keep quiet.
Stay safe.
This will pass.

…

I am small.

I sit beside the toy cupboard pretending to play,
while life happens somewhere else.

An only child with older siblings, full of movement.

A tag on.
An irritation.
Someone to ignore.

And then they’re gone.

Cinders remains in the corner,
legs paralysed,
because she wasn’t invited.

Cinders eventually got to go to the ball.

I didn’t.

…

Always outside.
Always watching.

A spectator on the perimeter of life.

Loved in her way,
but never inside the hub of things.

…

Now there is an ache.

Because I can see the walls.

I can feel the tightening.

And sleep would be an escape.

Shush, Chil’. There’s no race.

But why is everyone going so fast then?

Oh, I don’t know. Foolishness, I guess.

Why is it foolish to go fast?

Why, Chil’, if you go too fast, you don’t have time for seeing the flowers along the way. See.

Oh, Momma, they’re bootiful! What are they called?

Those ones are daisies, Chil’. Pretty, aren’t they? When I was about your age, I’d pick them and bind them together to make daisy chains. Would you like to do that?

Are we allowed to pick them, Momma? Won’t we get in trouble?

Trouble? Why would we get in trouble, Chil’? I don’t see no trouble to get in. Do you?

Um… no. But I thought if we pick the flowers we might.

Then tell me what trouble looks like.

Maybe it looks like a monster.

A monster, you say. And how do we get in this monster you call Trouble?

That’s silly! I can’t get in a monster. Eek!

But you asked if we’d get in trouble. So if Trouble’s a monster, I want to know how we get into it. That matters, don’t it? The how.

I saw a monster eating me!

Oh, Chil’. Come here. No monster’s gonna eat you up while I’m here with you.

…Momma?

Mm?

I still feel him a bit.

I know. Stay here with me a moment.

They sit quietly. After a time, Momma sings.

I’m a little daisy, tall and slim.
Here are my petals. Here is my stem.
When the sun comes up and the rain comes down,
I grow, grow, grow up from the ground.

With the last word, Momma plucks a small daisy, hugging her child all the while.

Momma, you picked a daisy!

I did. I picked it for you.

But what about the monster?

What monster, Chil’? I can’t see no monsters here.
What can you see?

The daisies. And you.

Mm.

…He’s gone quiet.

Mm.

Do you feel safe?

Yes, Momma.

Good. Wanna know what comes next?

Yes.

This.
And this.
And this.

Hehehe! Momma, stop!

I can’t. I’m having too much fun.

Okay… please stop!

Alright, sweet chil’.

Hehehe!

Then shall we make a daisy chain?

Yes, please!

Good.
If we’d been going fast, fast, fast… we might’ve missed all this.
The daisies. And the fun.

Mm.

With that, mother and child sat together and slowly made the longest and prettiest daisy chain ever.